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THE KING. IN BREATHLESS AMAZEMENT. SANK BACK IN HIS CHAIR. p, 18. 




FREDERICK THE GREAT 


AND HIS CO I^, T . 




' % . 

AN HIStl^RIGAL ROMANb^. \ 






A 

V 


BY 


L. MliHLBACH, 


irmOB OF “ /OMEPa U, and his OODET,” “ MABIA ANTOINE'rrB AND HEB BON,’* THB 
KHPBESS JOSEPHINB,” “ ANDEEA8 HOFEE,” ZTO., BW. 




TRANSLATED FBOM THE GBEMAN, BT 

ims. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS. 


Xllu$tt|ated by ^aston i^ay. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 

1890. 


V < . V# 




Enuiiued, according, to Act of Congress, In the year 1367, by 
D. APPLETON & CO., 

In the Clerk’s Ollioe of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District irf 

New Tori. 


By Transfer 

MAR 30 1917 





/. J ... 


? I 






OOlSTTEIirTS 


BOOK. I. 

PASS 

Map. I.— The Queen Sophia Dorothea, . 6 

n.--Frederick William I., . . 8 

in.— The Tobacco Club, . . 11 

rV.— Air-Castles, ... 16 

V.— Father and Son, , . .18 

VI. — The White Saloon, . . 22 

VIL — The Maid of Honor and the Gar- 
dener, .... 26 

VUI.— V on Manteuffel, the Diplomat, . . 28 

EX. — ^Frederick, the Prince Royal, . 84 

X. — The Prince Royal and the Jew, . 38 

XL — ^The Princess Royal Elizabeth 

Christine, ... 42 

Xn.— The Poem, . . . .46 

XITT.— The Banquet, . s . 49 

XrV. — Le Roi est Mort. Vive le Roi I 56 

XV. — We are King, . . .60 

XVI.— Royal Grace and Royal Displeas- 
ure, .... 64 


BOOK II. 

Chap. I.— The Garden of Monbijou, . 70 

n.— The Queen’s Maid of Honor, 76 
m.— Prince Augustus William, . 80 

TV.— The King and the Son, . . 82 

V.— The Queen’s Tailor, . . 88 

VI.— The Rlustrious Ancestors of a 

Tailor, , . . . .91 

Vn.— Soffri e Taci, ... 94 

Vin.— The Coronation, * . .101 

IX.— Dorris Ritter, . . .106 

X.— Old and New Suffering, . . 110 

XI. — The Proposal of Marriage, . 115 

xn.— The Queen as a Matrimonial 

Agent, . . . .118 

Xni.— Proposal of Marriage, . . 123 

XTV.- The Misunderstanding, . . 127 

XV.— Soiree of the Queen-Dowager, 131 

XVI.— Under the Lindens, . . 140 


PAGE 

XVn. — The Politician and the French 


Tailor, . , . 

• 

145 

XVnL — The Double Rendezvous, 

• 

150 

BOOK III. 



Chap. I.— The Intriguing Courtiers, 


1.55 

n.- The King and the Secretary of 


the Treasury, . 


159 

in.— The Undeceived Courtier, 


164 

IV.— The Bridal Pair, 


167 

V.— The French and German Tailors, 


or the Montagues and Capulets 


of Berlin, . 

• 

172 

VI. — In Rheinsberg, . 

• 

177 

vn. — The King and his Friend, 

• 

182 

Vin. — The Farewell Audience of Mar- 


quis von Botta, the Austrian 

. 

Ambassador, . 

• 

• 185 

IX. — The Masquerade, , 


188 

X.— The Maskers, . 

• 

192 

XI.— Reward and Punishment, 

• 

196 

xn. — The Return, 

• 

202 

Xni. — ^The Death of the Old Time, 

• 

207 

XrV. — The Discovery, . 

• 

210 

XV.— The Countermine, . , 

• 

217 

XVE. — The Surprise, . 

• 

224 

XVn. — The Resignation of Baron 

von 


POllnitz. 

• 

229 

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND 

HIS 

COACHMAN. 


PAOK 

Chap. I.— On the Road, 

• 

233 

n. — The Overturned Carriage, 

• 

240 

ni.— The Proposal, 

• 

244 

rV. — The Meeting, . 

• 

246 

V. — The Audience, . , 

* . 

254 

VI.— The Conjuration, , 

• 

270 


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FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


BOOK I . 


CHAPTER I. 

THE QUEEN SOPHIA DOROTHEA. 

The palace glittered with light and 
splendor; the servants ran here and 
there, arranging the sofas and chairs; 
the court gardener cast a searching 
glance at the groups of flowers which 
he had placed in the saloons ; and the 
major-domo superintended the tables 
in the picture-gallery. The guests of 
the queen will enjoy to-night a rich 
and costly feast. Every thing wore 
the gay and festive appearance which, 
in the good old times, the king’s pal- 
ace in Berlin had been wont to exhibit. 
Jesting and merry-making were the 
order of the day, and even the busy 
servants were good-humored and smil- 
ing, knowing that this evening there 
was no danger of blows and kicks, of 
fierce threats and trembling terror. 
Happily the king could not appear at 
this ball, -whiclv he had commanded 
Sophia to give to the court and nobili- 
ty of Berlin. 

The king was ill, the gout chained 
him to his chamber, and, during the 
last few sleepless nights, a presentiment 
weighed upon the spirit of the ruler of 
Prussia. He felt that the reign of 
Frederick the First would soon be at 


an end; that the doors of his royal 
vault would soon open to receive a 
kingly corpse, and a new king would 
mount the throne of Prussia. 

This last thought filled the heart of 
the king with rage and bitterness. 
Frederick William would not die I he 
would not that his son should reign 
in his stead; that this weak, riotous 
youth, this dreamer, surrounded in 
Rheinsberg with poets and musicians, 
sowing flowers and composing ballads, 
should take the place which Frederick 
the First had filled so many years with 
glory and great results. 

Prussia had no need of this senti- 
mental boy, this hero of fashion, who 
adorned himself like a French fop, and 
preferred the life of a sybarite, in his 
romantic castle, to the battle-field and 
the night-parade ; who found the tones 
of his flute sweeter than the sounds of 
trumpets and drums; who declared 
that there were not only kings by “ the 
grace of God, but kings by the power 
of genius and intellect, and that Vol- 
taire was as great a king — ^yes, greater 
than all the kings anointed by the 
Pope I” What use has Prussia for 
such a sovereign ? No, Frederick Wil- 
liam would not, could not die I His 
son should not reign in Prussia, de- 
stroying what his father had built up I 


6 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Never should Prussia fall into the 
hands of a dreaming poet ! The king 
was resolved, therefore, that no one 
should know he was ill ; no one should 
believe that he had any disease but 
gout ; this was insignificant, — never 
fatal. A man can Uve to be eighty 
years old with the gout; it is like a 
faithful wife, who lives with us even 
to old age, and with whom we can 
celebrate a golden wedding. The 
king confessed to himself that he was 
once more clasped in her tender em- 
braces, but the people and the prince 
should not hope that his life was 
threatened. 

For this reason should Sophia give 
a ball, and the world should see that 
the queen and her daughters were gay 
and happy. 

The queen was indeed really gay to- 
day ; she was free. It seemed as if the 
chains which bound her had fallen 
apart, and the yoke to which she had 
bowed her royal neck was removed. 
To-day she was at liberty to raise her 
head proudly, like a queen, to adorn 
herself with royal apparel. Away, for 
to-day at least, with sober robes and 
simple coiffure ! The king was fastened 
to his arm-chair, and Sophia dared 
once more to make a glittering and 
queenly toilet. With a smile of proud 
satisfaction, she arrayed herself in a 
silken robe, embroidered in silver, 
which she had secretly ordered frr the 
ball from her native Hanover. Her 
eyes beamed with joy, as she at last 
opened the silver-bound casket, and 
released from their imprisonment for a 
few hours these costly brilliants, which 
for many years had not seen the light. 
With a smiling glance her eyes rested 
upon the glittering stones, which 
sparkled and flamed like falling stars, 
and her heart beat high with delight. 
For a queen is still a woman, and 
Sophia Dorothea had so often suffered 
the pains and sorrows of woman, that 


she longed once more to experience 
the proud happiness of a queen. She 
resolved to wear all her jewels; fas- 
tened, herself, the sparkling diadem 
upon her brow, clasped upon her neck 
and arms the splendid brilliants, and 
adorned her ears with the long pen- 
dants; then stepping to the Venetian 
mirror, she examined herself critically. 
Yes, Sophia had reason to be pleased; 
hers was a queenly toilet. She looked 
in the glass, and thought on bygone 
days, on buried hopes and vanished 
dreams. These diamonds her exalted 
father had given when she was be- 
trothed to Frederick William. Thia 
diadem had adorned her brow when 
she married. The necklace her brother 
had sent at the birth of her first child ' 
the bracelet her husband had claspet’ 
upon her arm when at last, after lone 
waiting, and many prayers. Prince 
Frederick was born. Each of these 
jewels was a proud memento of the 
past, a star of her youth. Alas, tht 
diamonds had retained their brilliancy 
they were still stars, but all else was 
vanished or dead — ^her youth and her 
dreams, her hopes and her love 1 So- 
phia had so often trembled before her 
husband, that she no longer loved him. 
With her, “ perfect love ” had not “ cost 
out fear.” Fear had extinguished love. 
How could she love a man who had 
been only a tyrant and a despot to hei 
and to her children ? who had broken 
their wills, cut off their hopes, and 
trodden under foot, not only the queen, 
but the mother ? As Sophia looked at 
the superb bracelet, the same age of 
her darling, she thought how unlike 
the glitter and splendor of these gems 
his life had been ; how dark and sad 
his youth; how colorless and full of 
tears. She kissed the bracelet, and 
wafted her greeting to her absent soa 
Suddenly the door opened, and the 
Princefjses Ulrica and Amelia entered. 

The queen turned to them, and the 


1 

THE QUEEN SOPHIA DOFOTHEA, 


sad expression vanislied from her fea- 
tures as her eyes rested upon the lovely 
and loving faces of her daughters. 

“Oh, how splendid you look, gra- 
cious mamma I ” exclaimed the Princess 
Amelia, as she danced gayly around 
her mother. “Heaven, with all its 
stars, has fallen around you, but your 
sweet face shines out amongst them 
like the sun in his glory.” 

“ Flatterer,” said the queen, “ if your 
father heard you, he would scold fear- 
fully. If you compare me to the sun, 
how can you describe him ? ” 

“ WeU, he is Phoebus, who harnesses 
the sun and points out his path.” 

“True, indeed,” said the queen, “he 
appoints his path. Poor sun I — poor 
queen ! — she has not the right to send 
one ray where she will ! ” 

“ Who, notwithstanding, assumes the 
right, gracious mamma,” said Amelia, 
smiling, and pointing to the diadem, 
■“for I imagine that our most royal 
king and father has not commanded 
you to appear in those splendid jewels.” 

“ Commanded,” said the queen, 
trembling; “if he could see me he 
would expire with rage and scorn. 
You know he despises expense and 
ornament.” 

“He would immediately calculate,” 
said Amelia, “that he could build an 
entire street with this diadem, and 
that at least ten giants could be pur- 
chased for the Guard with this neck- 
lace.” She turned to her sister, who 
had withdrawn, and said : 

“Ulrica, you say nothing. Has the 
splendor of our mother bewildered 
you ? Have you lost your speech, or 
are you thinking whom you will com- 
mand to dance with you at the ball 
this evening ? ” 

“Not so,” replied the little Ulrica, 

“ I was thinking that when I am to be 
a queen, I will make it a condition 
with my husband that I shall be en- 
tirely free to choose my toilet, and I 


will never be forbidden to wear dia- 
monds! When I am a queen I will 
wear diamonds every day ; they belong 
to majesty, and our royal mother was 
never more a queen than to-day ! ” 

“Listen,” said Amelia, “to this 
proud and all- conquering little prin- 
cess, who speaks of being a queen, as 
if it were all arranged, and not a doubt 
remained! Know you that the king, 
our father, intends you for a queen? 
Perhaps he has already selected for 
you a little margrave, or some un- 
known and salaried prince, such as our 
poor sister of Baireuth has wedded.” 

“ I would not give my hand to such 
a one ! ” said the princess, hastily. 

“You would be forced to yield, if 
your father commanded it,” said the 
queen. 

“Ho,” said Ulrica, “I would rather 
die ! ” 

“ Die I ” said Sopliia ; “ man sighs 
often for Death, but he comes not ; our 
sighs have not the power to bring him, 
and our hands are too weak to clasp 
him to our hearts! No, Ulrica, you 
must bow your will to your father, as 
we have all done — as even the prince, 
your brother, was forced to do.” 

“ Poor brother,” said Amelia, “ bound 
to a wife whom he loves not — how 
wretched he must be ! ” 

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders. “ la 
not that the fate of all princes and 
princesses ; are we not all born to be 
handled like a piece of goods, and 
knocked down to the highest bidder ? 
I, for my part, will sell myself as dear- 
ly as possible; and, as I cannot be a 
happy shepherdess, I will be a power- 
ful queen.” 

“ And I,” said Amelia, “ would rather 
wed the poorest and most obscure man, 
if I loved him, than the richest and 
greatest king’s son, to whom I was in- 
different.” 

“Foolish children,” said the^ueen, 
“it is well for you that your father 


' ir'^1 GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


does not hear you; he would crush 
you in his rage, and even to-day he 
would choose a king for you, Amelia ; 
and for you, little Ulrica, he would 
seek a small margrave I — Hark, ladies ! 

I hear the voice of the major - dof^lo ; 
he comes to announce that the guests 
are assembled. Put on a cheertul 
countenance. The king commands us 
to be joyous and merry ! but remem- 
ber that Frederick has his spies every- 
where. When you speak with P611- 
nitz. never forget that he repeats every 
word to your father ; be friendly with 
him, and above all things when he 
leads the conversation to the prince 
royal, speak of him with the most un- 
embarrassed indifference; show as lit- 
tle interest and love for him as possi- 
ble, and rather ridicule his romantic 
life in Rheinsberg. That is the way to 
the heart of the king; and now, my 
daughters, come.” 

At this moment the grand chamber- 
lain, Pollnitz, threw open the doors 
and announced that the company was 
«wfcjsembled. The queen and princesses 
followed the master of ceremonies 
through the room, giving here and 
there a smile or a gracious word, which 
seemed a shower of gold to the ob- 
sequious, admiring crowd of courtiers. 
Pride swelled the heart of Sophia, as 
she stepped, to the sound of soft music, 
into the throne saloon, and saw all 
those cavaliers, covered with stars and 
orders — all those beautiful and richly- 
dressed women bowing humbly before 
her. She knew that her will was more 
powerful than the will of all assembled 
there ; that her smiles were more dear- 
ly prized than those of the most-be- 
loved bride; that her glance gave 
warmth and gladness like the sun. 
While all bowed before hqr, there was 
Qo one to whom she must bend the 
knee. The king was not near to-night ; 
she was not bound by his presence and 
his rude violence. To-night she was 


no trembling, subjected wife, but a 
proud queen; while Frederick was a 
poor, gouty, trembling, teeth-gnashing 
man — nothing more. 


CHAPTER II. 

FKEDEEICK WILLIAM I. 

Mirth and gayety reigned m one 
wing of the palace, while in the other, 
and that occupied by the king himself, 
all was silent and solitary; in one 
might be heard joyous strains of music, 
in the other no sound reached the ear 
but a monotonous hammering, which 
seemed to come immediately from the 
room of the king. 

Frederick William, when in health, 
had accustomed himself to use his 
crutch as a rod of correction ; he would 
shower down his blows, careless whether 
they fell on the backs of his lackeys, 
his ministers of state, or his wife. 
Wlien ill, he was contented to vent his 
wrath upon more senseless objects, and 
to flourish a hammer instead of his 
crutch. Under the influence of the 
gout, this proud and haughty monarch 
became an humble carpenter ; when 
chained to one spot by his disease,'and 
unable to direct the affairs of state, 
he attempted to banish thought and 
suffering, by working with his tools. 
Often in passing near the palace at a 
late hour of the night, you might hear 
the heavy blows of a hammer, and 
consider them a bulletin of the king’s 
health. If he worked at night, the 
good people of Berlin knew their king 
to be sleepless and suffering, and that 
it would be dangerous to meet him in 
his walk on the following day, for some 
thoughtless word, or careless look, or 
even the cut of a coat, would bring 
down on the offender a stinging blow 
or a severe reprimand. Only a few 
days had passed since the king had 


FREDERICK WILLIAM 1. 


taused the arrest of two young ladies, 
and sent them to the fortress of Span- 
dau, because, in walking through the 
park at Schonhausen, he overheard 
them declare the royal garden to be 
“ charmant I charm ant I ” One French 
word was sufficient to condemn these 
young girls in the eyes of the king; 
and it was only after long pleading 
that they were released from confine- 
ment. The men were fearful of being 
seized by the king, and held as recruits 
for some regiment ; and the youths 
trembled if they were caught lounging 
about the streets. As soon, therefore, 
as the king left the proud castle of his 
ancestors, all who could fled from the 
streets into some house or by-way, that 
they might avoid him. 

But now they had nothing to fear. 
His queen dared to wear her jewels; 
his subjects walked unmolested through 
the streets, for the king was suffering, 
chained to his chair, and occupying 
himself with his tools. This employ- 
ment had a beneficial effect; it not 
only caused the king to forget his suf- 
ferings, but was often the means of re- 
lief. The constant and rapid motion 
of his hands and arms imparted a salu- 
tary warmth to his whole body, excited 
a gentle perspiration, which quieted 
his nervous system, and soothed him in 
some of his most fearful attacks. 

To-day the king was once more freed 
from his enemy, the gout; this evil 
spirit had been Exorcised by honest la- 
bor, and its victim could hope for a 
few painless hours. 

The king raised himself from his 
chair, and with a loud cry of delight 
extended his arms, as if he would 
gladly embrace the universe. He com- 
manded the servant, who was waiting 
in the adjoining room, to call together 
the gentlemen who composed the To- 
bacco Club, and to arrange every thing 
for a meeting of that august body. 

“ But those gentlemen are at the 


9 

queen’s ball,” said the astonished ser 
vant. 

“ Go there for them, then,” said the 
king; “happily there are no dancers 
among them ; their limbs are stiff, and 
the ladies would be alarmed at their ca- 
pers if they attempted to dance. Bring 
them quickly. Pollnitz must come, 
and Eckert, and Baron von Goltz, and 
Hacke, the Duke of Holstein, and Gen- 
eral Schwerin. Quick, quick ! In ten 
minutes they must all be here, but let 
no one know why he is sent for. Whis- 
per to each one that he must come to 
me, and that he must tell no one where 
he is going. I will not have the queen’s 
ball disturbed. Quick, now, and if 
these gentlemen are not all here in ten 
minutes, I will give a ball upon your 
back, and your own howls will be the 
most appropriate music.” 

This was a threat which lent wings 
to the feet of the servant, who flew like 
a whirlwind through the halls, ordered, 
with breathless haste, two servants to 
carry the tobacco, the pipes, and the 
beer-mugs into the king’s chamber^ 
and then hurried to the other wing of 
the palace, where the ball of the queen 
was held. 

Fortune favored the poor servant. 
In ten minutes the six gentlemen stood 
in the king’s anteroom, asking each 
other, with pale faces, what could be 
the occasion of this singular and unex- 
pected summons. 

The servant shrugged his shoulders, 
and silently entered the king’s room. 
His majesty, dressed in the full uniform 
of his beloved Guard, sat at the round 
table, on which the pipes, and the 
mugs, filled with foaming beer, were 
already placed. He had condescended 
to fill a pipe with his own hands, and 
was on the point of lighting it at the 
smoking tallow candle which stood 
near him. 

“ Sire,” said the servant, “ the geiv- 
tleraen are waiting in the next room.” 


10 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“Do they koow why I have sent for 
them ? ” said the king, blowing a cloud 
of smoke from his mouth. 

“Your majesty forbade me to tell 
them.” 

“ Well, go now, and tell them I am 
more furiously angry to-day than you 
have ever seen me ; that I am standing 
by the door with my crutch, and I 
command them to come singly into my 
presence.” 

The servant hurried out to the gen- 
tlemen, who, as the door was opened, 
perceived the king standing in a threat- 
ening attitude near the door, with his 
crutch raised in his hand. 

“What is the matter? Why is the 
king so furious ? What orders do you 
bring us from his majesty ? ” asked the 
gentlemen anxiously and hurriedly. 

The servant assumed a terrified ex- 
pression, and said : 

“His majesty is outrageous to-day. 
Woe unto him over whom the cloud 
bursts I He commanded me to say that 
each of you must enter the room alone. 
Go now, for Heaven’s sake, and do not 
keep the king waiting 1 ” 

The gentlemen glanced into each 
other’s pale and hesitating counte- 
nances. They had all seen the threat- 
ening appearance of the king, as he 
stood by the door with his raised 
crutch, and no one wished to be the 
first to pass under the yoke. 

“Your grace has the precedence,” 
said the grand-chamberlain, bowing to 
the Duke of Holstein. 

“No,” he replied, “you are weU 
aware that his majesty does not regard 
etiquette, and would be most indignant 
if we paid any attention to it. Go first 
yourself, my dear friend.” 

“Not I, your grace, I would not 
dare to take precedence of you all. If 
you decline the honor, it is due to 
General Schwerin. He should lead on 
the battle.” 

“There is no question of a battle,” 


said General Schwerin, “but a most 
probable beating, and Baron von P611- 
nitz understands that better than I 
do.” 

“Gentlemen,” said the servant, “hia 
majesty wiU become impatient, and 
then woe unto all of us ! ” 

“ But, my God 1 ” said Count von 
Goltz, “ who will dare go forward ? ” 

“ I will,” said Councillor Eckert ; “ I 
owe every thing to his majesty, there- 
fore I will place my back or even my 
life at his service.” 

He approached the door with a firm 
step, and opened it quickly. 

The others saw the flashing eyes of 
the king, as he raised his stick still 
higher. They saw Eckert enter, with 
his head bowed down, and then the 
door was closed, and nothing more 
was heard. 

“Against which of us is the anger 
of the king directed?” faltered Poll- 
nitz. 

“ Against one and all,” said the ser- 
vant, with a most malicious expression. 

“ Who will go now ? ” the gentlemen 
asked each other, and, after a long 
struggle, the grand chamberlain. Von 
Pollnitz, concluded to take the bitter 
step. Once more, as the door opened, 
the king was seen waiting, crutch in 
hand, but the door closed, and nothing 
more was seen. Four times was this 
scene repeated; four times was the 
king seen in this threatening attitude. 
But as General Schwerin, the last of 
the six gentlemen, entered the room, 
the king no longer stood near the door, 
but lay in his arm-cbair, laughmg un- 
til the tears stood in his eyes, and 
Baron von Pollnitz stood before him, 
giving a most humorous account of the 
scene which had just taken place in 
the anteroom, imitating the voices of 
the difierent gentlemen, and relating 
their conversation. 

“ You all believed in my rage,** said 
the king, almost breathless with laugh 


THE TOBACCO CLUB. 


11 


mg, “ The joke succeeded to perfec- 
tion. Yours also, Schwerin. Do you 
at last know what it is to be afraid, 
you who never experienced the feeling 
on the field of battle ? ” 

“Yes, sire, a shot is a small thing in 
comparison with the flashing of your 
eye. When the cannon thunders my 
heart is joy fill, but it is very heavy 
under the thunder of your voice. I do 
not fear death, but I do fear the anger 
and displeasure of my sovereign.” 

“ Oh, you are a brave fellow,” said 
the king, warmly giving the general 
nis hand. “ And now, gentlemen, 
away with all constraint and etiquette. 
We will suppose the king to be at the 
ball. I am only your ‘ companion, 
Frederick William, and will now pro- 
ceed to the opening of the Tobacco 
Club.” 

He once more lighted his pipe, and 
threw himself into one of the chairs, 
which were placed round the table; 
the other gentlemen followed his ex- 
ample, and the Tobacco Club was now 
in session. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE TOBACCO CLUB. 

There was a short interval of si- 
lence. Each one busied himself with 
pipe and tobacco. The dense clouds 
of smoke which rolled from the lips 
of all had soon enveloped the room 
with a veil of bluish vapor, from the 
midst of which the tallow candle 
emitted a faint, sickly light. 

The king ordered the man in wait- 
ing to light several additional candles. 
“To-day our Tobacco Club must also 
present a festive appearance, that the 
contrast between it and the ball may 
not be too great. Tell me, Pollnitz, 
how are matters progressing over there ? 
Is the assemblage a handsome one? 
Are they enjoying themselves ? Is the 


queen gay? and the princes^s, are 
they dancing merrily ? ” 

“ Sire,” said Pollnitz, “ a more mag- 
nificent festival than to - day’s I have 
never witnessed. Her majesty was 
never more beautiful, more radiant, or 
gayer than to - day. She shone like 
a sun in the midst of the handsomely 
dressed and adorned ladies of th€ 
court.” 

“ Indeed ! she was then magnificently 
attired ? ” said the king, and his coun- 
tenance darkened. 

“ Sire, I had no idea the queen pos 
sessed so princely a treasure in jewels.” 

“She has put on her jewels, then, 
has she ? It seems they are taking ad- 
vantage of my absence. They are 
merry and of good cheer, while I am 
writhing on a bed of pain,” exclaimed 
the king, who, in his easily excited ir* 
ritability, never once remembered that 
he himself had appointed this festival, 
and had demanded of his wife that 
she should lay aside care, and be cheer- 
ful and happy. 

“Happily, however, your majesty is 
not ill, and not on a bed of pain. The 
queen has, therefore, good reason to 
be happy.” 

The king made no reply, but raised 
his mug to his lips, and took a long 
draught of beer, and let fall its lid 
with an angry movement. 

“ I should not be surprised if Fred- 
erick had clandestinely come over to 
this ball,” murmured the king. “ They 
dare any thing when not apprehensive 
of my taking them by surprise.” 

“ But taking by surprise is your ma- 
jesty’s exclaimed Count Hacke, 

endeavoring to give the conversation 
another direction. “Never before in 
my life did I feel my heart beat as it 
did when I crossed the threshold of 
this chamber to-day.” 

The king, who was easily soothed, 
laughed heartily. “And never before 
did I see such pale faces as yours 


12 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Really, if tlie gout had not made my 
fingers so stiff and unwieldy, I would 
paint you a picture of this scene that 
would make a magnificent counterpart 
to my representation of the Tobacco 
Club, and I would call it ‘The Six 
Tailor Apprentices who are afraid of 
Blue Monday.’ See I we will now de- 
vote ourselves to poetry and the arts, 
and our learned and fantastic son will 
soon have no advantage over us what- 
ever. If he plays the flute, we paint. 
While he writes sentimental, we will 
write satirical poems; and while he 
sings to sun, moon, and stars, we will 
do as the gods, and, like Jupiter, en- 
velop ourselves in a cloud. Let it be 
well understood, however, not for the 
purpose of deluding a Semele or any 
other woman, at all times, and in all 
circumstances, we have been true to 
our wives, and in this particular the 
prince royal might well take his father 
as an example.” 

“ Sire, he could do that in all things,” 
exclaimed Count von Goltz, blowing a 
cloud of smoke from his lips. 

“He thinks at some future day to 
govern the kingdom with his book- 
learning and his poems,” said the king, 
laughing. “ Instead of occupying him- 
self with useful things, drilling re- 
cruits, drawing plans, and studying the 
art of war, he devotes his time to the 
acquirement of useless and superficial 
knowledge, which benefits no one, and 
is most injurious to himself. A dream- 
ing scholar can never be a good king ; 
and he who, instead of sword and scep- 
tre, wields the pen and fiddle-bow, will 
never be a good general.” 

“Nevertheless, no regiment made a 
finer appearance, or was better drilled, 
at the last review, than that of the 
prince royal,” said the Duke of Hol- 
stein. 

The king cast a distrustful look at 
him, and muttered a few words which 
no one understood. He was never I 


pleased to hear any defence of the 
prince royal, and suspected every one 
who praised him. 

“Your majesty forgets that this is a 
sitting of the Tobacco Club and not 
of the State Council,” said Pollnitz, in 
a fawning voice. “ If your majesty de- 
signed to he angry, it was not neces- 
sary to light the pipes and fill the beer- 
mugs ; for while you are neither smo- 
king, nor drinking, the pipe goes out. 
and the beer becomes stale.” 

“True,” replied the king, and rais- 
ing his glass he continued : “ I drink 
this to the health of him who first 
overcame his timid heart and dared to 
enter my chamber. Who was it? I 
have forgotten.” 

“It was the privy councillor Von 
Eckert, sire,” said Count Hacke, with 
an ironical smile. Eckert bowed. 

“ He entered the chamber as if going 
to battle,” exclaimed Von Pollnitz, 
laughing. “ In the spirit he took leave 
of all the fine breweries, and artfully 
constructed never -smoking chimneys 
which he had built ; he also took leave 
of the city exchanges, which he had 
not yet provided with royal commis- 
sioners, destined to despoil them of 
their riches ; he bade adieu to his dec- 
oration and to his money-bags, and ex- 
claiming, ‘ To the king I owe all that I 
am, it is therefore but proper that my 
back as well as my life should be at 
his service,’ marched courageously into 
the royal presence.” 

“Did he really do that? Did he 
say that ? ” exclaimed the king. “ Eck- 
ert, I am pleased with you for that, 
and will reward you. It is true that I 
have elevated you from a lowly condi- 
tion ; that I have made a gentleman of 
the chimney-sweep ; but gratitude is a 
rare virtue, men seldom remember the 
benefits they have received ; your doing 
so, is an evidence that you have a no- 
ble heart, one which I know how to 
appreciate. The new house which 1 


THE TOBACCO CLUB. 


13 


am building lu Jager Street shall be 
yours ; and I will not present you with 
the naked walls, but it shall be hand- 
somely furnished and fitted up at my 
expense.” 

“Your majesty is the most gracious, 
the best of monarchs I ” exclaimed 
Eckert, hastening to the king and 
pressing his hand to his lips. “ Yes, 
your majesty is right in saying that 
you have elevated me from the dust, 
but my heart, at least, was always 
pure, and I will endeavor to preserve 
it so. You have rescued me from the 
scum of the people. As the ancient 
Homans gave freedom to those slaves 
who had rendered themselves worthy 
of it by good and noble deeds, so has 
my king also delivered me from the 
bondage of poverty and lowliness, and 
given me freedom, and I also will 
strive to render myself worthy of this 
great boon by good and noble ac- 
tions.” 

“ And Berlin offers you the best op- 
portunities of doing so. There are 
still many smoking chimneys and in- 
different beer breweries. Privy Coun- 
cillor Von Eckert 'can, therefore, still 
execute many glorious deeds before he 
is gathered to his forefathers,” ex- 
claimed Von Pollnitz. 

All were amused at this, and the 
king himself could not refrain from 
smiling. Von Eckert’s countenance 
had become pale and lowering, and 
casting an angry look at Vou Pollnitz, 
he said, with a forced laugh : 

“ Really, your wit to-day is dazzling, 
and I am so charmed with your pleas- 
antries, that should your wine-mer- 
chant refuse to supply you with any 
more wine until your old accounts 
have been settled, I shall be perfectly 
willing to send you a few bottles from 
my own cellar, that your grace may be 
able to drink my health.” 

“ That I will gladly do,” said Poll- 
nitz, affably. “Yes, I will drink to 


your long and lasting health, for the 
longer you live the more time your an- 
cestors will have to increase and to 
multiply themselves. And, as it seems 
that you are not destined to become 
the father of a coming generation, yoi 
should, at least, endeavor to become 
the progenitor of your ancestors and 
the father of your fathers. Ancestors 
are born to you as children are to oth- 
ers, and, if I am not mistaken, you are 
already the possessor of three. For a 
gentleman of wealth and quality, this 
is, however, too few. I will, therefore, 
drink to your health, that you may 
still be able to create many ancestors. 
And I propose to your majesty to give 
him an ancestor for every chimney 
which he frees from smoke.” 

“Silence, Pollnitz!” exclaimed the 
king, laughing. “No more of this 
raillery. Listen to what I have to say. 
I have given Eckert the new house, 
and as I have invested him with a title 
of nobility, it is but proper that a no- 
ble coat-of-arms should be placed over 
his door. Gentlemen, let us consider 
what the escutcheon of Eckert shall 
be. Each of you, in his turn, shall 
give me his opinion. You, duke, com- 
mence.” 

With grave and sober mien the gen 
tlemen began to confer with each other 
in regard to Von Eckert’s escutcheon ; 
and each one considering the favor in 
which the former stood with the king, 
took pains to propose the most mag- 
nificent coat-of-arms imaginable. But 
the king was not pleased with the 
grave and learned devices which were 
proposed. He disliked giving the 
newly -made baron a coat-of-arms 
worthy of any house of old and estab- 
lished nobility, which would have 
placed him on an equality with the 
oldest counts and barons of the king- 
dom. 

“When I build a house,” said the 
king, “ I wish every one to see that il 


14 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


is a new one ; I therefore give it a nice 
white coat of paint, and not an old 
graystone color to make it look like a 
robber castle. Eckert should, there- 
fore, have a fresh touch of paint for his 
new dignity, a spick and span new 
coat-of-arms.” 

“ I am entirely of your majesty’s 
opinion,” exclaimed Von Pbllnitz, 
solemnly ; “ and as every noble family 
bears on its coat-of-arms some emblem 
and reminiscence of the deeds and 
events through which it became great, 
so should also the escutcheon of the 
noble house of Eckert contain some 
such reminiscence. I propose to quar- 
ter this shield. The first field shall 
show on a silver ground a black chim- 
ney, in which we will also have indi- 
cated the Prussian colors. The second 
field is blue, with a golden vat in the 
centre, having reference to Eckert’s 
great ability as a beer-brewer. The 
third field is green, with a golden 
pheasant in the middle, suggestive of 
Eckert’s earlier occupation as game- 
keeper in Brunswick ; and the fourth 
field shows on a red ground a cock and 
a knife, a reminiscence of the good old 
times when Privy Councillor Von Eck- 
ert fed and dressed fowls in Baireuth.” 

A peal of laughter from the entire 
club rewarded Von Pollnitz for his 
proposition. The king was also so 
well pleased, that he, in all gravity, 
determined to accept it, and to have a 
coat-of-arms with the above designated 
emblems adjusted over the door of the 
new house in Jager Street. 

The merriment of the gentlemen of 
the Tobacco Club was now becoming 
energetic, and jests and jokes were con- 
tributed by all. The grand-chamber- 
lain, Von Pollnitz, was, however, the 
gayest of the gay. Amd if the pleas- 
antries which bubbled from his lips 
like water from a fountain at any time 
threatened to flag, a glance at the 
pale face of Von Eckert, who fairly 


trembled with suppressed vage, was 
sufficient to renew his merriment. 

While the king was conversing with 
Von Eckert on the subject of his new 
house, Polluitz turned to his neighbor 
and asked if he had not made ample 
amends for his awkwardness in the 
first instance. 

“By my thoughtless repetition of 
that hypocritical man’s words, I pro- 
cured him the new house, but I have 
also given him a coat-of-arms; and I 
wager the privy councillor would will- 
ingly relinquish the former, if he 
could thereby get rid of the latter.” 

“Pollnitz, why are you looking so 
grave?” asked the king at this mo- 
ment. “I wager you are in a bad 
humor, because the handsome house in 
Jager Street was not given to you.” 

“By no means, your majesty; as 
handsome as the house is, it would not 
suit me at all.” 

“Ah, yes, you are right; it would 
be much too large a one for you I” 
said Frederick William, laughing. 

“No, your majesty, it would be 
much too small for me. When a cava- 
lier of my quality once determines to 
build a house, it should be arranged in 
accordance with his rank and standing, 
and that costs a great deal of money, 
much more than I ever possessed. It 
is true that my father left me a fortune 
of about two hundred thousand dol- 
lars, but what is such a trifle to a 
nobleman? It was not enough for a 
decent support, and it was too much to 
go begging on. I calculated how long 
this sum might be made to last, and 
finding that, with considerable econ- 
omy, it would perhaps do for four 
years, I lived like a noble and generous 
cavalier for that time ; and during that 
X>eriod I was fortunate enough to have 
the most devoted friends and the truest 
sweethearts, who never deserted me 
imtil the last dollar of my fortune was 
expended I ” 


THE TOBACCO CLUB. 


15 


“ Do I understand y( a to say that 
you expended two hundred thousand 
dollars in four years ? ” asked the king. 

‘‘Yes, your majesty; and I assure 
you that I was obliged to practise the 
most rigorous economy.” 

Frederick William regarded him 
with surprise, almost with admiration. 
To the king there was something in 
this man’s nature which was imposing. 
It was perhaps the great contrast be- 
tween the unlimited extravagance of 
the baron and his own frugality, which 
exerted so great an influence on the 
king, excited his astonishment, and 
enlisted his admiration in behalf of this 
ready, witty, and ever-merry courtier. 

“An income of fifty thousand dol- 
lars is, therefore, not sufficient for a 
decent support ? ” asked the king. 

“ Your majesty, if one attempted to 
live in a style befitting a nobleman, on 
that sum, he might die of hunger.” 

“ Ah, explain that. What sum 
would you consider necessary to enable 
you to live in a style befitting a noble- 
man ? ” 

Pollnitz remained lost in thought 
for a moment, and then replied : 

“Your majesty, in order to live 
somewhat respectably, I should require 
four hundred thousand dollars yearly.” 

“ That is not true, not possible I ” ex- 
claimed the king. 

“ That is so very possible, sire, that 
I hardly know whether it would suffice 
or not.” 

“Gentlemen, do you believe that?” 
asked the king. 

“ I, for my part, have not the fourth 
part of this income,” said the Duke of 
Holstein, smiling. 

“ I not the tenth ! ” said Count von 
der Goltz. 

“ And I not the twentieth ! ” ex- 
claimed General von Schwerin and 
Count Hacke at the same time. 

“And yet,” said the king, “you all 
•ire as respected cavaliers, as esteemed 


gentlemen of my court. Let us hear 
how Pollnitz would manage to spend 
so much money. Quick, Jochen, 
quick, give us a sheet of paper and a 
pencil.” 

The valet hastily executed this com- 
mission, and handed the king paper 
and pencil. 

“Fill the glasses, Jochen,” ordered 
the Mng, “and then seat yourself at 
the foot of the table, and pay attention 
to what Von Pollnitz is about to ex- 
plain. It is worth the trouble to learn 
how an income of four hundred thou- 
sand dollars can be spent in a respect- 
able manner. You shall dictate, and I 
will be your secretary. Woe to you, 
however, if you do not keep your 
word, if you expend less! For every 
thousand which you fail to account 
for, you shall drink ten glasses of beer, 
and smoke a pipe of the strong Ha- 
vana tobacco recently sent me by the 
Stadtholder of Holland.” 

“ But what shall I receive for every 
thousand which I expend over and 
above that sum ? ” asked Von Pollnitz, 
laughing. 

“Oh, it is impossible that a noble- 
man should need more, that is, pro- 
vided he does not expend it in a fool- 
ish manner, like a madman.” 

“ And if, in order to live in a stylo 
befitting a nobleman, I should never- 
theless need more, what am I to re- 
ceive for every thousand ? ” 

“Well, then, for every thousand, I 
will pay a hundred of your oldest 
debts,” said the king. “ But com- 
mence. And you, gentlemen, drink 
and smoke, and pay attention to what 
he has to say.” 


16 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AIR-CASTLES. 

“ I WILL begin,” said PoUnitz. 
“ First of all, I shall need a respecta- 
ble house, to receive my guests in, to 
exhibit my collections, and entertain 
my friends; to pursue my studies, 
without being disturbed by the slight- 
est noise; a house, in which my wife 
must have her separate apartments, and 
as I shall wish to have my friends 
with me, every now and then, to 
smoke, my wife’s reception-rooms must 
be entirely separated from mine.” 

“But,” exclaimed the king, “your 
wife w’ill certainly allow you to smoke 
in her rooms ! ” 

“And if she permitted it, your ma- 
jesty, I would not do so; it becomes 
not a cavalier to smoke in a lady’s 
room.” 

The king reddened a little, and car- 
ried the mug to his lips, to hide his 
embarrassment; he remembered how 
often he had smoked in the queen’s 
rooms, notwithstanding her sighs. 

Pollnitz continued quietly : “ I must 
then have several different reception- 
rooms, and as my wife and myself will 
frequently be at variance with each 
other, two different and widely-sepa- 
rated staircases will be necessary, that 
we may not meet, unless we wish it I ” 

“ Oh ! you mean to lead a wretched 
life with your wife; to quarrel with 
her every now and then, do you ? ” 

“ No, sire, we will never quarrel ; it 
ill becomes a cavalier to have a contest 
with his wife.” 

The king reddened again, this time 
from anger. This exposition of a cav- 
alier began to offend him; it seemed 
to be a satire upon himself; for un- 
happily the king not only smoked in 
the queen’s rooms, but the world knew 
that his wife and children were often 
the objects of his violent temper, and 


that the queen had more than once 
been terribly frightened by his thun- 
dering reproaches and unbearable 
threats. 

“Your highness sees that my house 
must be large, and as it is so, a host of 
servants and a large income will be 
necessary. But of this hereafter. Let 
us speak of my houses, for it is easily 
understood that I must have a country 
residence.” 

“Yes, that is a reasonable demand,” 
said the king, in adding the country 
house to his list. 

“ But, as I do not go to the country 
to live as I do in the city, but to enjoy 
the beauties of nature and scenery, I 
must have a garden, with vineyards, 
and beautiful walks, and, for their cul- 
tivation, many servants. And, as I 
cannot ask my friends to visit me sim- 
ply to pluck my flowers, and eat my 
fruits, I must procure for them other 
and rarer pleasures. I must have a 
park for hunting, and a lake for fish- 
ing.” 

“ Yes, that is well argued and true,” 
said the king, noting the park and lake 
on his paper. 

“Now we are coming to the most 
important points — the kitchen and 
wdne-cellar. On these two I must be- 
stow most particular care. It would 
be most unworthy a cavalier to present 
such dishes to his friends as they can 
enjoy every day at home. No, if I in- 
vite my friends, they must be certain 
of having such luxuries as they cannot 
procure elsewhere — such rare and costly 
viands as mil recall the wonders of 
fairy land I ” 

“ I am quite of your opinion,” cried 
the king, and his face brightened at 
the thought of the delightful and costly 
dishes that the rich Pollnitz would set 
before his friends. “ Listen : from time 
to time you can prepare for me the de- 
lightful bacon-pie that I once tasted at 
Grumbkou’s. Oh, that was really 


AIR CASTLES. 


11 


splendid, and reminded one, as you 
say, of the wonders of fairy-land 1 
My cook obtained the receipt imme- 
diately ; but what do you think ? three 
bottles of champagne and three bottles 
of burgundy, were necessary to stew 
the meat. I had to give up the inten- 
tion of having such a pie, but I told 
Grumpkou that when I felt like eating 
such an expensive dish, I would be his 
guest.” 

“ I will obey your commands, your 
highness,” said Pollnitz, earnestly, and 
bowing low to the king. “ Let us con- 
tinue to furnish my, house; after that 
we will speak of the pie. As hunting 
is decided upon, we must now consider 
the horses, for I cannot ask my friends 
to hunt on foot, or walk to the lake. I 
must have beautiful and noble steeds, 
and as horses and carriages do not take 
care of themselves, I must have a num- 
ber of servants to attend to them.” 

“ That is true,” said the king, add- 
ing the carriages and horses to his 
list. “That is true; but I find that 
you think a great deal of your friends 
and very little of yourself. Your whole 
demand, so far, is for the benefit of 
your friends.” 

“ Sire, hospitality is one of the no- 
Diest virtues of a cavalier, for which 
one can never do too much, but easily 
too little.” 

The king frowned and looked threat- 
eningly before him ; the rest of the 
club gazed at Pollnitz with increasing 
astonishment, surj^rised at his daring 
to show the king in this manner his 
faults and weaknesses, 

Pollnitz alone remained gay and un- 
embarrassed. “Now, as I have at- 
tended sufficiently to the pleasure and 
comfort of my friends, it is time I should 
think a little of myself. I therefore beg 
your highness to name the sum you 
deem necessary for my yearly expenses 
for charities and presents for my sweet- 
heart.” 


“ Your wife is your sweetheart. You 
intend to be a very tender husband, 
notwithstanding the two staircases.” 

“ Sire, it would not become a cava- 
lier to possess a wife and sweetheart in 
the same person. Your wife represents 
your family, your sweetheart amuseo 
yon. You give your wife name and 
rank, your sweetheart your love and 
whole heart. A true cavalier does not 
love his wife, but he demands that the 
world shall honor her as the lady that 
bears his name.” 

“Pollnitz, Pollnitz,” said the king, 
shaking his hand threateningly at him, 
“ take care that I never see your cava- 
lier in my house, and no one that is 
like him ; I would have no pity with 
him, but crush him with my kingly 
anger I ” 

Pollnitz was frightened, and covered 
himself in a cloud of smoke, that the 
king might not see his perplexity. 

“ Continue,” said Frederick William, 
after a short pause. “ I have set asids 
a certain amount for every single arti- 
cle you have mentioned, but I truly 
hope you have concluded; and that 
the demon that dwells in you, and 
masters you, will make no further sug- 
gestions to your luxurious and insane 
fancies.” 

“Yes, your highness; and I beg you 
will calculate the sum total necessary 
for these different articles.” 

The king calculated, his guests 
smoked and drank in silence, and Poll- 
nitz listened attentively to the souna 
of voices, and noise of horses in the 
court. 

The king suddenly uttered an oath, 
and brought his fist heavily down on 
the paper. “As truly as God lives, 
Pollnitz is right ! Four hundred 
thousand dollars are not sufficient to 
support a cavalier of his pretensions. 
The sum here amounts to four hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars.” 

“Your highness confesses that I have 


2 


18 


FEEDEEICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


demanded nothing superfluous or ex- 
aggerated ? ” 

“ Yes, I confess it.” 

“ Consequently, your highness will 
be kind enough to pay me five thousand 
dollars.” 

“ The devil ! How can I understand 
that?” 

“ Your majesty forgets that you 
promised me one hundred dollars for 
every thousand over and above the 
sum of four hundred thousand.” 

“ Did I say that ? ” said the king ; 
and as all present confirmed it, he 
laughed aloud, saying, “I see that 
none of you understand Pollnitz. That 
was not my meaning. I did not say I 
would pay Pollnitz the gold ; but for 
every thousand above his four hundred 
thousand I would pay a hundred of his 
oldest debts, and that is quite a difier- 
ent aflfair. You know well, if I gave 
him the gold, his creditors would never 
receive a cent of it. But what I have 
promised I will do ; bring me, to-mor- 
row, a list of your oldest debts, and 
'I will pay five thousand dollars upon 
' them.” 

“Your highness, my account is not 
yet finished. I have only mentioned 
the most pressing and necessary arti- 
cles, and much has been forgotten. I 
•must have a forester to chase the poach- 
ers from my park, and a night watch 
to guard my country house, to feed the 
^fish in my pond, to strike upon the wa- 
ter in order to silence the frogs, that 
-my sleep and that of my friends may 
nqt be disturbed.” 

“ Enough, enough of your castles in 
the air, fool that you are I ” cried the 
'king, half angry, half amused. “ Seek 
another sovereign, who is rich enough 
to provide'Tor your follies.” 

“ Sire,” said Pollnitz, “ I will seek 
nothing elsewhere. I am too happy 
to have found so noble and gracious a 
monarch. I only wished to prove to 
your majesty, .and these gentlemen that 


do me the honor to consider me a 
spendthrift, that a great fortune can be 
easily spent without extravagance and 
folly, and you will now understand 
that I have given a worthy proof of 
economy in fixing my yearly income at 
four hundred thousand dollars, when I 
could easily dispose of that sum in six 
months.” 

The king laughed, and, raising the 
beer-pot aloft, commanded the gentle- 
men to drink to the health of the miser 
Pollnitz. 

The beer-pots were raised, and were 
jingling merrily, when suddenly it 
seemed as if an electric shock had 
struck them all simultaneously — al] 
with the exception of the king. The 
six cavaliers placed their beer-pots 
upon the table, and, rising with breath- 
less haste from their chairs, bowed 
lowly and humbly. 


CHAPTER V. 

FATHER AND SON. 

The king, in speechless amazement, 
sank back in his chair. He could not 
yet conceive what spell had taken hold 
of these gentlemen, that made them 
rise from their seats in spite of the 
rules of the Tobacco Club. Th| king 
did not see that, behind him, the door 
had opened, and, in the midst of the 
smoke that filled the whole room, a 
young man was visible, whose appear- 
ance had produced this astounding 
impression upon the six cavaliers. 
And, certainly, there was something 
exalted and imposing in this youth. 
A wondrous combination of beauty, 
nobility of soul, youth, royalty, and 
melancholy was expressed in this face, 
whose sharp and marked lines spoke 
of severe pain and bitter experience, 
while so fresh and youthful a smile 
played upon a soft red lip, you could 


FATHER AND SON. 


19 


Dut suppose the heart young, confiding, 
and impressible. But the eyes were in 
wonderful contrast to these beautiful 
lips ; they shone like great, mysterious, 
unfathomable stars — one moment spark- 
dug with youthful superciliousness, the 
next with the firm, steady, piercing 
glance of an observing sage. The 
lofty, somewhat retreating forehead, 
and the straight, finely-pointed nose, 
formed a profile indicating command- 
ing elevation of character. And the 
soul imprisoned behind these temples 
was powerfully agitated, seeking ever 
for freedom of thought and expression. 
It was the eye, the head of a hero; 
and, had his form corresponded with 
the giant strength of his glance, he 
would have been a Titan, and might 
have crushed the world like a toy in 
his hand. But his slender, symmetri- 
cal, and graceful form was more weak 
than powerful, more maidenly than he- 
roic. 

You felt, however, that this head 
might lend strength to the body, and 
if the Titan could not overcome by 
physical strength, he could rule and 
conquer by the commanding power of 
his genius.* 

This was the unexpected apparition 
that shocked the gentlemen of the To- 
bacco Club, and forced them hastily 
from their seats I The king sat speech- 
less anti amazed in his chair, while the 
youth stood close behind him. 

“Allow me to wish your majesty 
good-evening,” said the prince, with 
his fill!, clear-ringing voice. 

The king was greatly agitated, and 
the blood rushed to his face. “ Fritz ! ” 
said he, in a light tone. “ Fritz ! ” re- 


• A French traveller, by the name of Birr6, who 
went from Paris to Berlin to see Frederick, de- 
scribes him in this manner: “Buste admirable et 
vralment royal, mais pauvre et miserable piedestal. 
6a tete et sa poltrine sont au-dessus des 61oge8, le 
train d'en bas au-dessous de la critique .” — (^See 
Thiehalt, 


2)eated he more sternly, and already 
the sound of a coming storm was per- 
ceptible in his voice. 

“I come from Ruppin,” said the 
prince, in a quiet, kindly voice, “ where 
I was reviewing my regiment, and I 
beg pardon for my unexpected appear- 
ance.” 

The king made no reply; his mis- 
trust was scornfully exhibited. lie 
thought that the queen believed him 
to be suffering and confined to his 
room. He did not doubt for a mo- 
ment that she had sent for the prince, 
and Frederick was there to see if the 
life of the king was not in danger ; if 
the throne of Prussia would not soon 
be empty, and ready for its successor. 

These dark suspicions excited the 
king’s ire, and filled his heart with 
bitter distrust. With a hasty move- 
ment he dashed back the hand of the 
prince royal, and arose from his chair. 
His scornful eye took in at a glance the 
whole circle, still standing in awe-struck 
silence around the table. 

“Why have you arisen from your 
chairs?” cried the king, with trem- 
bling voice. “ How dare you aiise 
contrary to my command, and thus set 
yourselves in opposition to my kingly 
power? Do you no longer know the 
laws of the Tobacco Club? Do you 
not know that these laws positively 
forbid you to arise from your seats to 
greet any one ? You are all silent, mis- 
erable cowai’ds that you are, who do 
not attempt to defend yomselves, who 
go always with wind and tide, and de- 
ceive and flatter in every direction. 
Answer me, Pollnitz, did you not know 
the law of the Tobacco Club, forbid- 
ding you to arise from your seat ? ” 

“I know it, sire, but thought I 
might be allowed to make an exce2> 
tion of the prince royal.” 

“So thought we all,” said General 
Schwerin, in a steady voice. 

I The king struck with doubled fisl 


20 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


ou the table, and the pitchers and 
beer-mugs trembled. 

“You thought that,” said the king, 
“ and yet knew that no exception was 
ever made for me I But certainly the 
prince royal is of more consequence 
than the king. The prince royal is the 
future sovereign, the rising sun ! What 
the king was not able to give, the 
prince royal may bestow. From the 
king there is nothing left to hope, 
nothing to fear; for this reason you 
turn to the prince royal ; for this rea- 
son you ridicule the laws of the father 
to flatter the son. The son is a flne 
French cavalier, who loves ornament 
and courtesy, to whom the question of 
etiquette is important. You stand up 
also when the prince royal enters, al- 
though you know in this room all are 
equal, and here you have often forgot- 
ten that I am king. Yes, the king can 
be forgotten — ^the prince royal never; 
he may soon be king I ” 

“ God grant your majesty a long and 
liappy life,” said the prince royal. 

During this passionate speech of the 
king, he had stood silent and immova- 
able behind his chair. 

“Wlio spoke to you? Who told 
you to speak until you were ques- 
tioned?” said the king, whose whole 
torm trembled with rage. “ You, the 
slave of etiquette, should know that 
no man speaks to the king until he is 
spoKen to. Truly you think the king 
does not understand etiquette. He is 
an old-fashioned man, and knows not 
how a true cavalier should conduct 
himself. Now, Pollnitz, you see there 
a cavalier after your own lieart, a veri- 
table model. Ah, you thought per- 
haps I did not see the face lurking be- 
hind your pictures, you suppose I did 
not recognize the cavalier you painted 
in such glowing colors, in order to 
prove that he must have four hundred 
thousand dollars yearly, or be forced 
to make debts. Patience I patience ! 


My eyes are at last opened ! Woe, woe 
to you all when I see that you dare 
brave me, in order to please the prince 
royal ! I will prove to you that I yet 
live, and am your master. The To- 
bacco Club is closed, and you may all 
go to the devil ! ” 

“As I don’t know the way there, 
will your majesty allow me to return 
to Rheinsberg ! I now take my leave,” 
said the prince royal, bowing respect- 
fully to the king. 

Frederick William turned his head- 
and said but one word — “ Go ! ” 

The prince bowed again ; then, turn 
ing to the cavaliers, he said : 

“Good -evening, gentlemen. I sin- 
cerely regret to have been the cause of 
the king’s anger. Against you this 
displeasure is however just, for a com- 
mand of the king should never be dis- 
obeyed, not even with a kind and mag- 
nanimous intent.” 

The prince had with these words 
put himself beyond the reach of the 
king’s rage, and at the same time done 
justice to all : to the king in acknowl- 
edging the justice of his anger ; to the 
cavaliers in praising their good inten- 
tions. He was evidently master of the 
situation. 

With a firm, steady tread he left the 
room, while the king, in spite of his 
anger, could not help feeling that he 
had again failed in kindness to the 
prince royal. But this consciousness 
only made him the more passionate. 
He muttered a deep curse, and looked 
threateningly at the pale, trembling 
cavaliers. 

“Hypocrites and eye - servants are 
you all,” muttered he, as he slowly 
passed by them. “ Give me your arm, 
Hacke, and lead me into the other room. 
I cannot look at these men any longer.” 

Count Hacke rushed forward, and, 
leaning on his arm, the king tottered 
into the adjoining room. 

When the door closed behind them 


FATHER AXD SOX. 


21 


tlie cavaliers seemed to awaken from 
tlieir torpidity. They raised their 
heads, and looked at one another with 
a half-confused, half-angry gaze. They 
iiad been scolded like children, and 
felt that they were men. Their honor 
had received a sensitive wound, but 
their awe of the king kept them from 
demanding satisfaction. 

When the count returned to order 
the gentlemen in the king’s name to 
leave the palace, they did not have the 
courage to obey this command, but 
sent the count as their ambassador to 
the king to ask in the humblest manner 
for forgiveness and pardon, and to as- 
sure him that their behavior to the 
prince royal was but the consequence 
of involuntary thoughtlessness. 

The count, after much trembling, 
left the room to deliver this message 
to the king; the cavaliers waited in 
anxious silence for his return. At 
length the door opened, and the count 
appeared. 

“Well, what says the king? Has 
he forgiven us ? Will he take us into 
his favor again ? Is he convinced that 
we are his true, humble, and obedient 
servants ? ” 

All these questions the count an- 
swered by a slight motion of the hand. 
It was a moment of anxious expecta- 
tion; all were eagerly looking at the 
count, who was to pronounce for them 
the words of forgiveness or condemna- 
tion. 

“ Gentlemen,” at length said the 
count, and his voice sounded to the 
trembling courtiers hollow and awful 
as that of an angel of death, “gentle- 
men, the king says if you do not leave 
here at once, he will easily find means 
to compel you to do so ! ” 

This was a menace that gave strength 
to the trembling limbs of the courtiers. 
Silently, with sad, troubled looks, they 
hastened away, and not until the great 
portals of the palace had closed upon 


them did they feel safe from the feai 
of imprisonment, and the king’s crutch. 

The king had not yet subdued his 
anger. He thirsted for another victim. 
The servants wisely remained at a dis- 
tance beyond the reach of the royal 
crutch ; the king’s ungovernable anger 
had even banished Count Hacke from 
the room. 

The king was alone, entirely alone 
in this dark, empty room, and its com- 
fortless silence filled him with anxiety. 
He sank into his arm-chair, and looked 
with a sad glance around this large 
room, which, because of his parsimony, 
was but badly lighted with four tallow 
candles. Nothing broke the silence 
but from time to time the gay music 
of the dance, which was heard from 
the other wing of the castle. Mirth 
still reigned in the saloons of the 
queen. The king sighed; his heart 
was filled with melancholy and rage. 
The queen was gay while her husband 
suffered. The court was joyful, while 
he sat alone and neglected, gnashing 
his teeth in this dark and joyless room. 
And yet he was the king, the all-power- 
ful ruler of millions of subjects, who 
trembled before him, and yet not one 
of them loved him. 

All eyes were fixed upon the rising 
sun, upon Frederick, so unlike his fa- 
ther, and so little the son of his father’s 
heart. As the king thought of this, 
deep grief and a foreboding melan- 
choly overcame him. In the anguish 
of his heart he turned to God and 
prayed. He silenced the voice of self- 
accusation and remorse, now whisper- 
ing in his breast, by prayer. 

The king prayed. Exhausted with 
rage, he fancied that he had given him- 
self up to pious contrition and world- 
despising godliness. 

As the tones of the music were again 
heard, he experienced a pious exasper- 
ation over this unholy levity, a peace- 
ful self-content; he belonged not to the 


i2 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IHS COURT. 


ungodlj’’, ■who gave themselves up to 
worldliuess and vanity, but alone and 
deserted he prayed to his Father in 
heaven. How small, how pitiful, how 
contemptible did the gay dancers ap- 
pear to him I how pleased he was with 
himself, his holy walk and conversa- 
tion ! At this moment the anxious 
face of his valet appeared at the door. 

“Your majesty commanded me to 
tell you so soon as the coffins wffiich 
came yesterday w^ere uni3acked and 
placed in the white saloon : this is 
done, and the coffins can be seen.” 

‘‘ Ah 1 My coffin is ready ! ” said 
the king, involuntarily shuddering. 
“ My coffin, and that of the queen 1 
And Sophia gives a ball, and perhaps 
dances, in place of bowing her soul in 
contrition before God. I will awaken 
her from these soul-destroying vanities ; 
“ the arrival of the coffins now was an 
especial providence of God. The 
queen shall see them ! ” 

He called his two valets, commanded 
one to lead him to the ball-room, the 
other to illuminate the white saloon in 
which the coffins were i^laced. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE WHITE SALOON. 

The queen had no suspicion of all 
that had happened in the chambers of 
the king ;*she had not observed the ab- 
sence of the Tobacco Club, and after 
ha-ving made the grand tour of the sa- 
loons, she seated herself at the card- 
table. 

Her majesty had no idea that her 
husband was free from pain, and had 
left his arm-chair; she was, therefore, 
gay and careless, filled with a sense of 
freedom and power. The cruel eye of 
Frederick William was not bent upon 
her to look her down, and cast a veil 
of humility over the sparkling dia- 


monds which adorned her brow; no, 
she was to-night entirely herself — every 
inch a queen ! proud and happy, smil • 
ing and majestic. Rejoicing in her 
own greatness and glory, she was still 
amiable and obliging to this great 
crowd of devoted, submissive, flatter- 
ing, smiling men, who surrounded her ; 
never had she been so gracious, never 
so queenly. As we have said, she had 
seated herself at the card-table, and 
the Margravine Maria Dorothea and the 
English and French ambassadors were 
her partners; behind her chair stood 
her two maids of honor, to whom she 
now and then addressed a word, or 
sent them to look after the young prin- 
cesses, who were dancing in the adjoin- 
ing room, and giving themselves up 
merrily to the pleasures of the evening. 
Suddenly the music ceased, and a 
strange, unaccustomed silence reigned 
throughout the rooms. 

The queen was arranging her cards, 
and turned smilingly to one of her 
maids of honor, commanding her as 
soon as the dance was ended to lead 
the princesses to her side; she then 
gave her attention to the game, when 
suddenly the Princess Amelia, pale and 
terrified, rushed hastily to her mother, 
and whispered a few words in her 
ear. 

Sophia Dorothea uttered a low cry 
of terror, and exclaimed : “ The kinjr ! 
my God, the kingl he seems very an- 
gry 1” said the princess: “do not let 
him see your diamonds.” The partners 
of the queen sat mpespectful silence, 
waiting for her she dashed her 

cards upon the table, removed her 
necklace and bracelets hastily, and 
thrust the glitteiing heap into her 
dress pocket. * 

“Remove my long ear-rings,” she 
whispered to Amelia, and while the 
princess obeyed the command, the 


♦ See Th16bault 


THE WHITE SALOON. 


23 


'lueen took her cards from the table. 
The glory was departed ; the diamonds 
were hiding timidly in her pocket, and 
the fire of her eye was quenched. 

The king was there ; Sophia Doro- 
thea was no longer a royal queen, but 
a trembling, dependent woman, cower- 
ing before the rage of her husband. 
The partners of the queen sat quietly 
with downcast eyes, and did not ap- 
pear to see the rash change in the toi- 
let of her majesty, still seemingly wait- 
ing for the play of the queen. Sophia 
played a queen. Lord Hastings played 
the king. 

“ Lost I ” said her majesty, “ so must 
the queen ever lose when the king 
comes; but it is always a comfort,” 
she said, with a bitter smile, “to be 
overcome only by a king.” She played 
on quietly, though she knew that the 
king was already at the door of the 
room and watching her closely. 

As the king stepped forward and 
called her name, she rose and advanced 
toward him with an expression of joy- 
ful surprise. 

“Ah, my husband, what a great 
pleasure you have prepared for us ! ” 
she said, smiling ; “ it is most amiable 
of your majesty to glorify this feast 
with your presence.” 

“I come, however,” said the king, 
in a rude, harsh voice, and thrusting 
the queen’s arm in his own, “ to cast 
gloom upon this fUe ; it is good and 
necessary in the midst of tumultuous 
earthly pleasures to be reminded of the 
fleeting vanity of all sublunary things; 
and to still the voluptuous music with 
prayer, I am come to administer this 
medicine to your vain and sin-sick 
soul. — Come with me, you there I ” 
said the king, turning his head back- 
ward to the courtiers, who were gath- 
ered in silent and frightened groups. 
— “ You there, follow us I ” He 
dragged the queen forward; silently 
the procession of richly-adorned guests 


followed the royal pair, no one knew 
where. 

The queen had in vain implored the 
king to make known his purpose. 
This long procession, adorned with 
flowers, diamonds, uniforms, and or- 
ders, had a gay and festal appearance ; 
you might well suppose them wedding 
guests on their way to church. The 
principal actors on this occasion, how- 
ever, did not promise to be a happy 
pair. 

The king looked steadily, with a 
frowning brow and tightly-compressed 
lips, right before him ; the queen, wan 
and trembling, turned her eyes anx- 
iously from side to side, seeking every- 
where some new danger, some new ter- 
ror prepared for her. The procession 
stepped silently and earnestly through 
the dressing-rooms, odorous with flow- 
ers ; through the illuminated ante- 
chamber ; further on through the corri- 
dors and up the wide stair steps ; on- 
ward still through .ong passages till 
they reached the great doors of the 
White Saloon, which Frederick had 
built and adorned. 

“We have arrived,” said the king, 
opening the door and leading in the 
queen. Suddenly Sophia Dorothea 
uttered a cry of horror, and fell back- 
ward ; behind her stood the curious, 
astonished, and shocked courtiers, 
pressing themselves hastily through 
the door of the saloon. 

“ Two coffins ! ” murmured the queen, 
with horror; her timid glance rested 
first upon the solemn coffins, then wan- 
dered anxiously to the lofty, imposing 
marble statues of the prince-electors, 
who, in solemn rest, in this chamber of 
the dead, seemed to hold a watch over 
the coffins of the living. 

“ Yes, two coffins,” said the king — 
“ our coffins, Sophia ; and I resolved in 
this hour to show them to you and the 
assembled court, that this solemn warn- 
ing might arouse you all from your un- 


24 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


aoly and sinful lusts. Death must 
strike at your heart to awaken it from 
voluptuous sleep and cause you to look 
within. In these coffins we will soon 
rest, and all earthly vanity and glory 
will bo at an end. No one will fear 
my glance or my crutch ; no one will 
compliment the beautiful toilet of the 
queen, or admire her diamonds; dust 
will return to dust, and the king and 
the queen be nothing more than food 
for worms I ” 

“ Not so,” said Sophia, whose noble 
and proud heart felt humbled by this 
pious grovelling of her husband ; “ not 
so, we will be more than dust and food 
for worms. The dust of common mor- 
tals will be scattered in every direction 
by the hand of Time, and over their 
graves will History walk with destroy- 
ing feet ; but she will remain with us 
and will gather our dust, and build 
therewith a monument to our memory ; 
when our bodies of flesh and blood are 
placed in the vault of our ancestors, 
our forms will arise again with limbs 
of marble and bosoms without hearts. 
Look, my husband, at these statues of 
your exalted ancestors ; they have also 
gone down into the vaults, but their 
marble forms have the best places in 
our splendid rooms ; perhaps they listen 
to our words and behold our deeds.” 

While the queen sj^oke, her counte- 
nance w^as illuminated with royal en- 
ergy and beauty ; she was now, indeed, 
truly imperial, without the aid of dia- 
mond coronets. The queen was her- 
self again; she had conquered her wo- 
manish fears ; she felt herself not only 
the wife of Frederick, but the sister 
of the King of England, the mother 
of the future king. 

But Frederick, in what he consid- 
ered his holy penitential mood, was 
made angry by her self-possession, her 
proudly-erected head ; he felt that this 
soul had made itself free from his 
heavy yoke, and claimed and enjoyed 


a separate existence; but she should 
acknowledge him again as her lord, 
and be bowed down with humble pen 
itence. The queen should become the 
woman, the obedient wife; had not 
the Bible said, and “ he shall rule over 
thee”? 

‘‘ So, then, let our ancestors behold 
how we try our coffins before them,” 
said the king, placing his hand heavily 
on the shoulder of the queen; “the 
world knows that diamonds become 
you, and that I, in my uniform, am a 
fine-looking fellow ; let us see now how 
our coflhis will clothe us I ” 

“What do you mean, my king?” 
said Sophia, fixing her trembling glance 
upon her husband. 

“ I mean that we will see if we can 
take our places with dignity and wor- 
thily in our coffins ; that we will do to- 
day in sport what we must hereafter 
do in solemn earnest,” 

“This is indeed a cruel jest!” said 
the queen. 

“Oh, yes, to the childi’en of this 
world every thing seems cruel which 
reminds them of death and the fleet- 
ing nature of all earthly joys,” said 
the king, “ but such a warning is good 
and healthy to the soul, and if we 
would accustom ourselves from time to 
time to leave the ballroom and rest 
awhile in our coffins, we W’ould, with- 
out doubt, lead more holy and earnest 
lives. Lay yourself, therefore, in your 
coffin, Sophia ; it will be to your soul’s 
advantage, and my eyes will see a pic- 
ture which, praised be God, you can 
never behold. I shall see you in your 
coffin.” 

“Oh, you are younger than I, my 
husband; you will surely see me bu- 
ried; it is not therefore necessary to 
put me to this trial.” 

“ Conquer your soul, and maKe it 
quiet and humble,” said the king; “we 
have come hither to try our coffins, and 
we will try them 1 ” 


THE WHITE SALOON. 


25 


“ The king has a feverish attack of 
piety to-day. I would not have come 
if I had known the intentions of your 
majesty,” said the queen. 

“ You would have come as I willed 
it I” murmured the king, while his 
cheeks glowed with anger and his eyes 
flashed fire. 

Sophia saw these symptoms of a ris- 
ing storm, and she knew that all re- 
straints would be removed if she re- 
sisted longer. She called with a com- 
manding tone to one of her maids of 
honor, and said proudly ; 

“Reach me your hand, duchess; I 
am weary, and will for awhile rest 
upon this bed, of a new and uncom- 
mon form.” 

With the appearance and nobility of 
a truly royal soul, she raised her robe 
a little, lifted her foot over the edge of 
the coffin, and placed it firmly in the 
bottom. She stood in the coffin proud- 
ly erect, commandiug and majestic to 
behold; then, with inimitable grace, 
she stooped and lay down slowly. — 
The coffin creaked and groaned, and 
amongst the crowd of courtiers a mur- 
mur of horror and disgust was heard. 
The king stood near the coffin, and So- 
phia Dorothea looked at him so stead- 
ily, so piercingly, that he had not the 
courage to meet her glance, and fixed 
his eyes upon the ground. The queen 
stood up quietly. The Countess Hacke 
held out her hand to assist her, but she 
waved her proudly back. 

“ No,” she said, “ kings and queens 
leave their coffins by their own strength 
and greatness, and sustained by the 
hand of History alone.” Sophia then 
stepped over the edge of the coffin, 
and, bowing profoundly to the king, 
she said — 

“ Your majesty, it is now your turn.” 

The king was confused. He cast a 
dark, distrustful glance upon the queen. 
Her simple words had for him a pro- 
phetic meaning, and he shuddered as 


he di’ew near the coffin. With a pow- 
erful efibrt he overcame himself, stepped 
into the coffin, and nodded to some of 
his courtiers to assist him in lying 
down. 

“Ah, I rest well upon this couch,” 
said Frederick. “ Here will I soon sleep 
till it shall please God to wake me at 
the resuri ection ! ” 

“ May that time be far removed, my 
king!” said Sophia, earnestly. “Al- 
low me to assist you.” 

She reached her hand to the king ; 
he seized it with alacrity, and was in 
the act of rising, when a wild and un- 
accustomed sound was heard without 
— a loud, piercing cry, which was many 
times repeated, then the sound of hasty 
steps approaching the room 1 The pal- 
lid and awe-struck courtiers whispered 
to each other. 

“ What is it ? ” cried the king, who 
was still sitting in his coffin. 

No one answered. The courtiers 
whispered confused and wild words, 
but no one dared to answer. 

“ I demand to know what has hap- 
pened I ” said the king, as with much 
difficulty he sought to raise himself up. 

The major-domo stepped forward. 
“Your majesty, two soldiers are with- 
out who held watch in the corridor ; 
they declare that a long, white figure, 
with a veiled face and black gloves, 
passed slowly by them the whole 
length of the corridor, and entered 
this room; they, believing that some 
unseemly mask wished to approach 
your majesty, followed the figure, and 
saw it enter this room. They ran 
hither to seize the maskers, but your 
majesty knows no such person is here.” 

“ The white lady I ” cried the king, 
and sank powerless and as if broken to 
pieces in the coffin. “ The white lady I 
veiled and with black gloves! That 
signifies my death ! ” 

“The white lady!” murmured the 
courtiers, withdrawing involuntarily 


26 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT, 


from the door through which the evil- 
omened white lady should enter. 

The queen alone was silent. She 
looked around with a searching glance 
upon the marble statues of the prince- 
electors, and her soul was far away 
with her beloved son Frederick. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE MAID OF HOITOB, AND THE GAR- 
DENER. 

It was a lovely day in May. The 
lilacs were in bloom; the birds were 
singing their sweetest songs ; the swans 
floating upon the tranquil lake, which, 
bordered with water-lilies and other 
fragrant plants, was one of the chief 
ornaments in the garden of the prince 
royal at Rheinsberg. It was still early ; 
the residents of the palace, which was 
surrounded by this beautiful garden, 
were sleeping ; the windows were 
closed and curtained, and you heard 
none of the sounds which usually arose 
from this gay and charming palace. 
No music fell on the ear but the melt- 
^ing tones of the nightingale and the 
morning song of the lark. 

The prince royal himself was still 
asleep, for his flute was silent, and 
that was a sure sign to all who lived 
in the palace, that the lord of the house 
was not awake, or at least that he had 
not yet begun the day. 

The music of his flute was the morn- 
ing sacrifice with which the young 
prince greeted the day; it, like the 
pillar of Memnon, which gave forth a 
sound when touched by the rays of the 
sun, announced to his flattering cour- 
tiers that their sun had arisen. 

But the flute was silent ; the sun had 
therefore not arisen, although its beams 
liad long been flooding the park in 
golden light, and drinking from every 


flower the dew that had fallci» during 
the past sultry night. 

Fritz Wendel, the gardener, was al- 
ready busy with his watering-pot, and 
was at the same time anxiously select- 
ing and gathering the most beautiful 
flowers, and concealing them carefully 
under the various plants and bushes: 
perhaps to protect them from the heat 
of the sun, perhaps to secure them from 
the curious eyes of some observer. 
Such eyes were already observing him, 
and resting upon him with an expres- 
sion so tender and smiling, that you 
could see that the young girl to whom 
they belonged had a special interest in 
the tall, handsome gardener, who, in 
his modest, simple dress, and his great 
and imposing beauty, appeared to real- 
ize the truth of the old fables, of the 
gods who visited the earth in dis- 
guise, He might have been Apollo 
charmed by some Daphne, and taking 
this rude dress to approach the shep- 
herdess he loved. Perhaps this charm- 
ing young girl thought thus, and on 
that account looked at him so smiling- 
ly from behind the lilacs, or perhaps 
she believed him to be a prince, and 
waited anxiously for the moment when 
he would throw oif his disguise and 
declare himself her equal. For she 
was, although not a princess, maid of 
honor to one, and of noble birth. 

But youth is indifierent to such 
things as a genealogical tree, or a coat- 
of-arms, and what cared this child of 
thirteen summers whether Fritz Wen- 
del was the son of a prince or a peas- 
ant ? He pleased her because he was 
young and handsome, and he had one 
other great charm, he was her fii’st 
lover. Every one else called Made- 
moiselle von Schwerin a child, and 
jested with little Louise. The princess 
royal had begged her from her mother, 
as a sort of plaything with which to 
amuse her lonely hours, and the title 
“maid of honor” was only a jest, 


THE MAID OF HONOR, AND THE GARDENER. 


whicTi served merely to secure the en- 
trance of the young lady to her royal 
mistress at any time. 

But Louise was only a child in years ; 
she possessed already the heart, the 
feelings, and the desires of a woman; 
nothing, therefore, hurt her pride so 
much as being called a child, and she 
was never happier than when her 
beauty and talent caused her youth to 
be forgotten. 

Fritz Wendel, the young gardener, 
knew nothing of her age. For him 
she was Mademoiselle von Schwerin, a 
young lady, the goddess at whose shrine 
he worshipped, the fairy under whose 
glance his flowers bloomed, and his 
heart beat high. For her alone he 
tended the flowers and the fruits; for 
her alone had God created the earth ; 
was she not its queen, and was it not 
natural that Fritz Wendel lay at her 
feet, and called her the star of his ex- 
istence ? 

The young lady having watched her 
silent, dreaming “flrst lover” long 
enough, and tired of this unnatural 
silence, walked forward from her place 
of concealment, and bade Fritz Wen- 
del good-moming, just as he was gath- 
ering a beautiful narcissus. 

Poor Fritz trembled, and a deep 
blush overspread his face; he was so 
embarrassed that he forgot to return 
the young girl’s greeting, and only 
bent still lower over the flower which 
he held in his hand. 

“For whom are your flowers in- 
tended ? ” said Louise, “ and why have 
you hidden the most beautiful ones? 
Will you not place them in the bou- 
quet which you arrange every morning 
for the princess ? ” she continued, in an 
earnest tone. 

“ 1 have never been ordered to gather 
the most beautiful flowers for the prin- 
cess,” said Fritz Wendel, who had not 
yet dared to glance at the young lady. 
“The prince royal commanded me to 


21 

place fresh flowers in the vases every 
morning ; that is all.” 

“ But it seems to me that is not all,” 
said Louise, laughing, “for you were 
gathering other flowers ; for whom are 
they intended, if not for the princess 
royal ? ” 

Fritz Wendel at length dared to 
raise his eyes, and glance timidly at 
the smiling face of the young girl who 
stood near him. 

“ They are also intended for a prin- 
cess,” he said, in a low voice — “for 
my princess.” 

“ Oh I then you have a special prin- 
cess for whom you gather flowers ? ” 

“Yes, I have my princess, whom I 
serve, and for whom I would willingly 
sacrifice my life,” cried the impetuous 
young man, with all the energy of his 
passionate and untamed nature. 

Mademoiselle von Schwerin played 
carelessly with the branch of lilac 
which she held in her hand. She 
plucked 03“ the small blossoms, and 
throwing them in the air, blew them 
about, as she danced here and there 
on tiptoe. 

“I would like to know how it is 
that I find a magnificent bouquet in 
my room every morning, and who it is 
that dares to gather more beautiful 
flowers for me than any to be found in 
the vases of the princess royal ? ” 

“It must be some one who adores 
you,” said the young gardener, with 
his eyes on the ground, and blushing 
deeply at his own temerity. 

“Then it is a nobleman, perhaps 
one of the court gentlemen,” she said, 
casting a teasing glance on her em- 
barrassed lover. “Who else would 
dare to adore me, or to send me flow- 
ers ? ” 

“Yes, you are right, who would 
dare ? ” murmured Fritz Wendel ; “ per- 
haps some poor, deluded mortal, led 
by a wild insanity to forget his humble 
condition, and consider himself your 


28 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


equal. There have been maniacs who 
imagined themselves great among 
earth’s greatest men, and equal to the 
very God in heaven.” 

How pale you are ! ” cried Louise, 
looking at the young man with undis- 
sembled tenderness. “ Why do you 
weep, Fritz ? ” 

She took his hand, and gazed into 
his eyes with a most singular expres- 
sion, half curious, half questioning. 

Fritz Wendel trembled with delight 
at her touch, but withdrew his hand 
almost with violence. 

“I weep because I am a miserable 
gardener,” he murmured ; “ I weep be- 
cause I am not great and noble, like 
the gentlemen at court.” 

“Yesterday Baron von Kaiserling 
gave an account of an Austrian gen- 
eral, who was the son of a peasant, 
and had been a cowherd. Now he is 
a general, and is married to the daugh- 
ter of a count.” 

The countenance of Fritz Wendel 
beamed with energy and courage. 

“ Oh 1 why is there not a war ? ” he 
cried, enthusiastically. “I could not 
fail to become a general, for I should 
fight like a lion.” 

“ You would like to become a gen- 
eral, in order to marry the daughter of 
a count ? ” 

“Not the daughter of a count, but — ” 

“ Fritz Wendel I Fritz Wendel ! ” 
called a voice in the distance. 

“ It is the head gardener,” said poor 
Fritz, sadly. “ Farewell, farewell ; be 
kind and gracious, and come again to- 
morrow to the garden.” 

He took his basket of flowers, and 
hurried down the avenue. 

Mademoiselle von Schwerin fallowed 
Iiim, with an angry glance. “ Once 
more no declaration of love,” she mur- 
mured, stamping on the ground with 
the spitefulness of a child. “ He shall 
make me a declaration. Madame von 
Moricn says there is nothing more 


I heavenly than to hear for the first tims 
that you are beloved. She also says it 
is wisest not to choose your lovers 
among your equals, but either above 
or beneath you, for then you may be 
sure that you will not be betrayed. 
She told me yesterday that she was 
never so worshipi^ed as by a young 
huntsman who served her fiither when 
she was just my age, and that no other 
man had ever adored her as he had 
done. Now Fritz Wendel loves me 
also, and he shall make me a declara- 
tion, for I must know what this charm- 
ing sensation is. He shall do it to- 
morrow. I will be so kind and gentle 
that he will tell me of his love. But 
now I must return to the palace. I 
dare not be found here,” and the young 
girl fl.eW away lightly as a gazelle. 


CHAPTER YHI. 

YON MANTEtJFFEL, THE DIPLOMAT. 

The garden was again solitary. 
Nothing was heard but the chattering 
of birds, as they flitted from limb to 
limb, and the whispering of the wind 
among the trees ; all else was tranquil 
and still. But this did not last long. 
The noise of advancing footstejis gave 
evidence of the approach of some one. 
whose figure was soon visible at th^ 
entrance of the grand avenue. 

This person was again a lady, who, 
if not so beautiful as Mademoiselle von 
Schwerin, was still pretty enough to be 
called one of the fair sex. She was 
dressed in a charming and tasteful 
morning robe, which was eminently 
adapted to display to advantage the 
beautiful contour of her tall and stately 
figure. 

Nor had she come into the garden 
merely to breathe the fresh morning 
air, and enjoy the delightful fragrance 
of flowers; these were scarcely ob- 


VON MANTEUFFEL. THE DIPLOMAT. 


29 


served, as she hurriedly swept past 
them. She stood still for a moment at 
the enjd (.»f the long avenue, and looked 
cautiously around in all directions. 
Seeing that no one was near, that she 
was alone and unobserved, she turned 
aside into the bushes, and, following a 
narrow, overgrown path, at last arrived 
at the garden wall, where she remained 
standing before a small door for a mo- 
ment, listening with suppressed breath- 
ing. Hearing nothing, she clapped her 
hands three times, and listened again. 
And now a repetition of her signal 
could be heard from the other side, 
and she cried in clear and silvery tones, 
“ Good-morning, good-morning I ” A 
deep, manly voice returned her greet- 
ing from the other side of the wall. 

“ It is he I” murmured the lady, and 
quickly drawing a key from her pock- 
et, she opened the door. 

The man who had been standing 
outside sprang forward through the 
open gate, and, bowing low to the 
lady, pressed her proffered hand to his 
lips. 

“ Good-moming, Count Manteuffel,” 
said she, smiling. “ Really you are as 
punctual as if coming to a rendezvous 
with your lady-love.” 

“ Tempi passati ! ” sighed the count. 
“ I am married.” 

“So am I,” said the lady, laughing; 
“ that is, however, no reason why — ” 

“You should not still have ardent 
and devoted admirers,” said the count, 
interrupting her. “But you are still 
young and beautiful, while I have 
grown old. Tell me, kind lady, by 
what art jou have preserved the charm- 
ing freshness of youth, and those bright 
and sparkling eyes by which I was so 
completely enslaved when I still had a 
heart ? ” 

The lady gave him a penetrating, 
mocking look. “Count Manteuffel,” 
said she, “ you are so friendly, and 
your adoration is of so profound a na- 


ture, that you undoubtedly have some 
very particular favor to solicit at my 
hands. But come, let us enter that lit- 
tle pavilion; there we will find com- 
fortable seats, and be secure from all 
interruption.” 

They passed silently along the wall 
to the pavilion, to which the same key 
gave access which had before opened 
the garden door. 

“Here we are safe,” said the lady, 
throwing back the lace veil which had 
concealed her face. “ Come, count, let 
us be seated; and now tell me why 
you desired this meeting, and why it 
is that your valet was not sent as usual 
to deliver your letters and to receive 
mine ? ” 

“ I had an irresistible longing to see 
you, to behold once more your lovely 
countenance,” said the count, with a 
deep sigh. 

“ But just now you said you had no 
heart,” said the lady, laughing. 

“You are the enchantress who recalls 
it to life. Really you do credit to your 
name, and, thanks to Madame Brandt, 
my heart is again in flames.” 

“ Count, it is very evident that you 
are now playing a part to which you 
are not accustomed,” exclaimed Ma- 
dame Brandt, laughing. “When you 
attempt to act the lover you become 
insipid, while you are known and 
acknowledged to be one of the shrewd- 
est and most ingenious of diplomatists. 
But no diplomatic subterfuges with 
me, I pray. Let us waste no time on 
the shell, but to the kernel at once I 
What do you require of me ? In my 
last letter I gave you an accurate ac- 
count of the state of affairs at court, 
and also of the state of my finances, 
which is precisely that of the prince 
royal’s; that is, his purse is as empty 
as mine.” 

“ And both of you have an empress 
who is only too happy to have the 
privilege of supplying this deficiency,” 


30 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COHRT. 


said Count Manteuffel, drawing forth a 
well-filled purse, through the silken 
meshes of which gold glittered, and 
presenting it to the lady. “ I am only 
sorry to say there are several empresses 
who have the inestimable privilege of 
assisting the prince royal and Madame 
Brandt.” 

“ What do you mean, count ? We 
no longer understand each other, and I 
beg of you not to speak in riddles, 
which I am not prepared to solve.” 

“I mean to say that the prince royal, 
inhis moneyed embarrassments, no long- 
er addresses himself to the Empress 
of Austria, although she, as his nearest 
relative, as the aunt of the princess 
royal, has undoubtedly the fii’st claim 
to his confidence.” 

“ But perhaps the purse of the Em- 
press of Austria is insuflicient to meet 
his demands,” said Madame von Brandt. 

“ He should first have tested the 
purse of the empress, as he frequently 
did in former times — in times when 
not only the prince royal, but also his 
sister of Baireuth, experienced the gen- 
erosity of their imperial aunt. But 
the prince royal readily forgets the 
benefits which he has received.” 

“ That he does,” sighed Madame von 
Brandt. “We poor wmmen are the 
greatest sufferers. He has loved us all, 
and forgotten us all.” 

“ All ? ” asked Count Manteuffel. 

“ All, count I We are nothing more 
to him than the plaything of an hour ; 
he then wearies of us, and throws us 
aside. There is but one whom he loves 
truly and constantly.” 

And this lady’s name ? ” 

“ The flute, count I Ah, you looked 
sadly crestfallen. True, this lady can- 
not be bribed, either with Austrian 
gold or with the flattery of the skilful 
Count Manteuffel; she is always dis- 
creet, always mysterious ; she never be- 
trays her lover. Ah, count, we might 
both learn something from this noble 


flute. Yes, believe me, I would try to 
be like her, if, unfortunately, I did not 
need so many things for which a flute 
has no use, and if the glitter of Aus- 
trian gold were not so alluring. But 
you. Count Manteuffel, why are you not 
like the flute? Why have you spies 
and eavesdroppers at all places ? Why 
are you an Austrian spy at the court 
of Prussia — you who have wealth, rank, 
and standing which should place you 
above such paltry considerations ? ” 

Count Manteuffel’s brow darkened, 
and he compressed his lips angrily. 
But he quickly subdued this momen- 
tary irritation, and was once more the 
affable, easy, and attentive diplomat. 

“ I serve the Austrian court from in- 
clination,” said he, “from preference, 
and certainly with honest intentions. 
I serve that court, because I am deeply 
convinced that upon Austria devolves 
the privilege and duty of dethroning 
all other German princes, and uniting 
all Germany under one government, of 
converting Austria into Germany. — 
Prussia must then cease to exist in Aus- 
tria, and must bend the knee as a vas- 
sal. That is my political conviction, 
and I act in accordance with it.” 

“And for this political conviction 
you receive Austrian gold and Austrian 
decorations,” observed Madame von 
Brandt, laughing. “ For the sake of 
your political conviction you have 
spies at all points, at the court of Pots- 
dam, at the court of Dresden, and even 
here at the little court at Rheinsberg. 
Not satisfied with having bought over 
the prince royal’s cook, and induced 
him to keep a diary for your inspec- 
tion,* you have also succeeded in se- 
curing the services of that humble and 
modest little person, Madame von 
Brandt, who well knows that all this 
costs your grace a considerable amount 


♦ “ Youth of Frederick the Great,” by Prcuaa 
page 132. 


VON IIANTEUFFEL, THE DIPLOMAT. 


ot money. And now you wish to make 
me believe that you do these things on 
account of your political conviction. 
Softly, my dear count! I, too, am a 
little diplomat, and have my convic- 
tions, and one of these is, that Count 
Manteuflfel has but one passion, and 
that is, to play a political role^ and to 
make as much money in that way as 
he possibly can. And to the good 
Count Manteufifel it is a matter of per- 
fect indifference whether this money 
comes from Prussian or from Austrian 
sources.” 

“And why these amiable pleasant- 
ries?” said the count, with a forced 
smile. 

“They mean, my dear count, that 
this miserable acting should cease ; that 
we should lay aside our masks, and 
deal with each other truly and sin- 
cerely, when alone, as we are at pres- 
ent. I serve you because I am paid for 
it ; you serve Austria, because you are 
paid for it. If, in time of need, you 
were not at hand with a well-filled 
purse, I would cease to serve you ; and 
you would no longer be enthusiastic 
on the subject of Austrian dominion, 
if Austria’s money should cease to flow 
into your coffers. And now, my dear 
count, I believe we understand each 
other; and, without further circumlo- 
cution, what do you require of me — 
what have you to communicate ? ” 

“ I must speak with you on matters 
of very grave importance.” ^ 

“ I knew it ! your flattery betrayed 
you,” said Madame Brandt. “Well, 
begin.” 

“ First of all, my dear baroness, you 
must know that the prince royal will 
in a few days be king.” 

“Not so, count; a courier arrived 
yesterday evening with the intelligence 
that his majesty was much better. The 
prince royal is so rejoiced that he has 
determined to give a fete in honor of 
Madame von Mcrien to-day.” 


31 

“ Does the prince royal still love this 
lady ? ” 

“ I told you before that he loved his 
flute alone,” said Madame Brandt. 

“ Does he not, then, love the princess 
royal ? ” 

• “ No I And perhaps he would not 
love her even if she were changed into 
a flute. He would probably say to 
Quantz, ‘ It is not made of good wood, 
and has a bad tone,’ and would lay it 
aside.” 

“ And do you believe he would do 
that with the princess? although she 
is no flute, do you believe he would 
cast her aside ? ” 

“ The princess dreads it.” 

“ And so does the empress 1 ” 

“ But why was a woman, who not 
only knows nothing about music, but 
has a hoarse and discordant voice, and 
and who articulates so indistinctly that 
the prince royal could not understand 
her were she to say the wittiest things 
imaginable, why should such a woman 
have been given as a wife to a prince 
of such remarkable musical proclivi- 
ties? One does not marry a woman 
merely to look at her.” 

“ Then you believe the prince royal 
will separate himself from his wife as 
soon as he obtains his freedom, that is, 
when he becomes king ? ” observed 
Count Manteuffel, thoughtfully. 

“ Of that I know nothing, count. 
The prince never speaks of his wife, 
^even to his most intimate friends; and 
in his tenderest moments Madame 
Morien herself endeavors in vain to 
obtain some information on this sub- 
ject.” 

“The prince is very discreet and 
very suspicious. Madame Morien must 
therefore be bought over,” murmured 
the count. 

“ That will be a difficult task,” said 
Madame Brandt. “ She is unfortu- 
nately very rich, and attaches but little 
importance to money. I know of but 


32 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


one means. Procure for her a lover 
who is handsomer, more ardent, and 
more passionate than the prince royal, 
and she can be won ! For it is well 
known that Madame Morien has a very 
susceptible heart.” 

“ Baroness, no jesting, if you please ; 
the matters under discussion are of the 
gravest importance, and our time is 
limited. Madame Morien must be won 
over. She alone can influence the 
prince through his heart, and her influ- 
ence must be exerted to prevent a sep- 
aration of the prince royal from his 
wife. You, my dear baroness, must 
induce Madame Morien to do this ; you, 
with your bewitching eloquence, must 
make Madame Morien comprehend that 
this is the only means of doing pen- 
ance for her sinful life, and that her 
only chance of reconciliation with 
Heaven depends upon her restoration 
of the faithless husband to the arms 
of his noble wife. She could, perhaps, 
save the princess royal and the impe- 
rial court the disgrace of a separation. 
The princess must remain the wife of 
the king. This is the only tie which 
can bind the king to Austria. The 
prince is surrounded by the enemies of 
Austria, of wdiom Suhm is the most 
dangerous.” 

“Well, he, at least, is not near the 
prince. You know that he is the am- 
bassador of Saxony at the court of St. 
Petersburg.” 

“ Therein lies the main difficulty ! 
The prince royal places unlimited con-' 
fidence in him, they correspond in 
characters which we have vainly en- 
deavored to decipher; and the result 
of this correspondence is, that Suhm 
has already procured the prince royal 
a loan of ten thousand dollars from 
the Duke of Courland, and that he has 
now secured him the annual sum of 
twenty-four thousand dollars from the 
Empress Anne. These payments will 
continue until the prince ascends the 


throne; the first has just been re- 
ceived.” * 

“That is a fable,” exclaimed Ma- 
dame Brandt, laughing. “The prince 
is as poor as Job, and for some time 
past has been literally besieged by his 
creditors ! ” 

“And it can be no other than Kussia 
who assists him in these difficulties ! ” 
exclaimed Count Manteuffel, in despair. 
“We must leave nothing undone to 
lessen the influence of this dangerous 
enemy, and to win Prussia to Austrian 
interests. Germany wishes for peace, 
and Prussia and Austria must be on 
good terms. If Prussia and Austria 
were to take up arms against each 
other, the balance of power in Europe 
would be destroyed, and a war would 
be inaugurated which, perhaps, for 
years would deluge Germany with 
blood and tears! Austria will do all 
that lies in her power to avoid this; 
and we, my dear friend, will be Aus- 
tria’s allies, and will assist her to the 
best of our ability. Russia has given 
Prussia money, it is true, but an in- 
debtedness of this kind ceases the mo- 
ment the money is returned. When 
the prince royal ascends the throne, he 
will pay to Russia what he owes her, 
and with that all obligations will be 
at an end. Then another tie must be 
found to bind Austria more firmly to 
Prussia. And you must help to weave 
this tie. The prince royal must never 
be separated from his wife! The fu- 
ture Queen of Prussia will then be the 
niece of the empress. The duties of a 
nephew will consequently devolve on 
the king. To unite the two houses 
more closely, another marriage must 
be brought about. The Prince Augus- 
tus William, the presumptive heir of 
the prince royal, must, like the latter, 
espouse a pnneess of the house of 


♦ “ (Euvres de Fr6deric le Grand,” rol. xvi., pp 
340 , 856 , 360 , 884 . 


VON MANTEUFFEL, THE DIPLOMAT. 


Brunswick — a sister of the princess 
royal.” 

“ That is impossible I ” exclaimed 
Madame Brandt, with vivacity. 

“ Impossible I Why impossible ? ” 

“Because the heart of the Prince 
Augustus William is already filled 
with a deep and passionate love — a 
love which would even touch you, 
that is, if you are susceptible to pity.” 

“ My dear madame, we are speaking 
of aflfairs^of state, and you discourse of 
love ! What have politics to do with 
love ! The prince may love whom he 
will, provided he marries the Princess 
of Brunswick.” 

“ But his is a great and noble, a real 
love, count — a love over which we 
have no power, in which the devil had 
no hand; a love as pure as Heaven, 
and deserving of Heaven’s blessing I 
You must give this plan up, count; 
the Prince Augustus William will 
never marry the Princess of Brunswick. 
He is far too noble to give his hand 
without his heart, and that is devoted 
to the beautiful Laura von Panne- 
witz.” 

“ A prince of the blood who loves 
a little maid of honor, and wishes to 
marry her?” exclaimed Von Man- 
teuffel, laughing loudly. “ How ro- 
mantic! how sublime! what excellent 
materials for a sentimental romance ! 
My dear baroness, I congratulate you ! 
This discovery does all honor to your 
poetical temperament.” 

“ Mock me, if you will, count ; but I 
repeat, nevertheless, that Prince Au- 
gustus William will not marry the 
Princess of Brunswick, for he loves the 
beautiful maid of honor of the queen, 
and is determined to make her his 
wife.” 

“We will know how to break this 
determination,” said Count Manteuffel. 
“The prince royal will assist us, de- 
pend upon it. He is not an enthusi- 
astic lover like Augustus William, and 
3 


33 

will never consent to his brother’s 
making a misalliance.” 

“And I tell you, the prince would 
rather die than give up the beautiful 
Laura.” 

“Well, then she must give him up,” 
said Count Mauteuffel, with cruel com- 
posure. 

“ Poor Laura,” said Madame Brandt, 
with a sigh, “ she loves him so dearly ! 
it will break her heart to lose him.” 

“ Pshaw ! the heart of every woman 
is broken one or more times, but it al- 
ways heals again, and when warmed 
by a new love, the old scars disappear 
entirely. You, dear baroness, have ex- 
perienced this in yourself. Have you 
no recollection of the days of our ar- 
dent and passionate love? Did we 
not expect to die when we were sepa- 
rated ? Did we not wring our hands, 
and pray for death as a relief? And 
are we not still living, to smile pitying- 
ly at the pangs we then endured, and 
to remember how often we have ex- 
perienced delight, how often love has 
since triumphed in our hearts ? ” 

“ It is true,” sighed Madame Brandt, 

“ we outlive our sorrows ; the heart of 
wmmen resembles the worm — it still 
lives and quivers, although cut in 
pieces.” 

“Well,” said Count Manteuffel, 
laughing, “the heart of Laura von 
Pannewitz is merely a worm, and we 
will not hesitate to cut it in pieces, as 
it will still live merrily on. You, my 
dear friend, shall be the knife which 
performs the operation. Are you will- 
ing ? ” 

For a moment Madame Brandt 
looked down sadly, and seemed lost 
in thought. 

“ True,” she murmured, “ we outlive 
it, but the best part of our being is 
destroyed! I should never have be- 
come what I am, if I had not been> 
ruthlessly torn from my first dream of 
love. We shall not kill Laura von 


34 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Pannewitz’s body, but her soul will 
suffer I ” 

“And as it is not our province to 
look after souls, that need give us no 
care ; a political necessity demands that 
Prince Augustus WiUiam shall marry 
the Princess of Brunswick, It de- 
mands, moreover, that the prince royal 
shall not be divorced from his wife, 
but that the niece of the empress shall 
be Queen of Prussia. In both bf these 
affairs we need your assistance. You 
must closely watch the Prince Augus- 
tus William and his lady-love, and, at 
the proper time, bring the affair to 
light. By your eloquence you must 
convince Madame Morien that it is her 
duty to exert her influence with the 
prince royal to prevent his separation 
from his wife. This is your task, and 
a noble task it is. Its objects are — to 
protect the peace of married life; to 
recall two noble hearts to the duties 
which they owe to the world; and 
lastly, to create a new bond of union 
between two mighty German powers. 
The wife of the Emperor Charles VI., 
the noble empress, will not be ungrate- 
ful to her ally, Madame Brandt. On 
the day on which Prince William 
espouses the Princess Louisa Amelia 
of Brunswick, Madame Brandt will re- 
ceive a present of twenty thousand 
dollars from the empress.” 

The countenance of Madame Brandt 
was radiant with pleasure and delight. 

“ The prince shall and will marry 
the Princess Louisa Amelia — my word 
for it ! lam then to be the demon who, 
with his poisonous breath, destroys 
this romantic, this beautiful love; the 
evil genius who drives the fair Laura 
to despair! But why should I pity 
aer ? She suffers the fate of all women 
- -my fate. Who pitied, who saved 
me? No ono listened to my cry of 
anguish, and no one shall heed the 
wailing cry of the fair Laura von Pan- 
newitz. Count, she is condemned! — 


But, hark! Do you not hear faint 
tones of distant music? The prince 
royal has arisen, and is playing the 
flute at his open window. We must 
now separate; the garden will soon 
be full of people, and we are no longer 
safe from intrusion. A boat-ride on 
the lake is in contemplation for the 
early morning hours, and then Chazot 
will read Voltaire’s last drama to the 
assembled court.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

FREDEKICK, THE PRINCE ROYAL. 

jVIadame Brandt was not mistaken : 
the prince royal was awake, and was 
bringing a tribute to beautiful, sunny 
Nature in return for the sweetly-scented 
air that came through his window.. 
There he stood, with the flute at his 
lips, and looked out at God’s lovely, 
laughing world with a sparkling eye 
and joyful countenance. A cheerful 
quiet, a holy peace shone in his beau- 
tiful face; his whole being seemed 
bathed in perfect harmony and content- 
ment, and the soft, melting tones of his 
flute but echoed his thoughts. Sud- 
denly he ceased playing, and slightly 
bowed his head to catch the sweet, 
dying notes that were still trembling 
in the air. 

“ That was good,” said he, smiling, 
“and I believe I can note it down 
without exciting the anger of Quantz.” 
He took his flute again, and softly re- 
peated the air he had just finished. 
“ I will write it immediately, and play 
it this evening before my critical musi- 
cians.” 

While speaking, Frederick left his 
bedroom, and passed into his library. 
On entering this room, a beautiful 
smile flitted over his face, and he 
bowed his head as if saluting some 
one. It would be impossible to ima- 


FREDERICK, THE PRINCE ROYAT,. 


35 


ginc a mere charming and tasteful apart- 
ment. It had been arranged according 
to the directions of the prince royal, 
and was in a great degree a true por- 
trait of himself, a temple which he had 
erected to art, science, and friendship. 

This room was in the new tower, and 
its circular form gave it a peculiar ap- 
pearance. It was most appropriately 
compared to a temple. High glass 
cases around the walls contained the 
works of Yoltaire, Racine, Molifere, and 
Corneille ; those of Homer, Caesar, Ci- 
cero, and Ovid ; also the Italian poets 
Dante, Petrarch, and Macchiavelli. — 
All that had a good name in the lit- 
erary world found its way into the li- 
brary of the prince royal — all, except- 
ing the works of German authors. 

Between the book -cases, the shelves 
of which were ornamented here and 
there with busts of celebrated writers, 
were alcoves, in which stood small 
satin damask sofas, over which hung, 
in heavily-gilt frames, the portraits of 
Frederick’s friends and contempora- 
ries. 

The largest and most beautiful was 
one of Voltaire. He had received the 
honored place; and when Frederick 
raised his eyes from his work, while 
sitting at his escritoire, they rested 
upon the smiling face of the talented 
French writer, whom the prince royal 
had selected as his favorite, and with 
whom he had for many years corre- 
sponded. 

The piince went with hasty steps to 
iiis table, and, without noticing the 
sealed letters that were lying there, he 
took a piece of lined paper, and began 
to write, humming softly the melody 
he had just composed. He occasion- 
ally threw down his pen, and took the 
flute that was lying at his side, to try, 
before noting them, dificrent accords 
and passages. 

“ It is finished at last,” said the 
prince, laying aside his pen. “ My 


adagio is finished, and 1 think Quantz 
will have no excuse for grumbling to- 
day; he must be contented with his 
pupil. This adagio is good ; I feel it 
—I know it; and if the Bendas as- 
sume their usual artiste airs, I will tell 
them — no, I will tell them nothing,” 
said the prince, smiling. “ It is useless 
to show those gentlemen that I care for 
their approval, or court their applause. 
Ours is a pitiful race, and I see the 
time approaching when I shall despise 
and mistrust the whole world; and 
still my heart is soft, and gives a warm 
approval to all that is great and beau- 
tiful, and it would make me very happy 
to love and trust my fellow-men ; but 
they do not desire it — ^they would not 
appreciate it. Am I not surrounded 
by spies, who watch all my move- 
ments, listen to every word I utter, and 
then pour their poison into the ear of 
the king? But enough of this,” said 
the prince, after a pause. “ This May 
air makes me dreamy. Away with 
these cobwebs! I have not time to 
sigh or dream.” 

He arose, and walked hastily up and 
down his room, then approached the 
escritoire, and took the letters. As his 
eye fell on the first, he smiled proudly. 

“ From Voltaire,” he murmured 
softly, breaking the seal, and hastily 
opening the enclosure, which contained 
two letters and several loose scraps of 
printed matter. The prince uttered a 
cry of joyful astonishment, and scarcely 
noticing the two letters, he gazed with 
a half-tender, half-curious expression 
on the printed papers he held in his 
hand. 

“At last! at last!” exclaimed the 
prince, “ my wish will be accomplished. 
The first step toward fame is taken. I 
shall no longer be unknown, or only 
known as the son of a king, the inher- 
itor of a throne: I shall have a name. 

I shall acquire renown, for I will be a 
poet, an author, and shall claim a place 


36 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


in the republic of genius. I shall not 
need a crown to preserve my name in 
history. The first step is taken. My 
‘ Anti-Macchiavelli’ is in press. I will 
tread under foot this monster of knav- 
ish and diabofic statecraft, and all 
Europe shall see that a German prince 
is the first to break a lance against this 
Macchiavelli, who is making the peo- 
ple the slaves of princes. By his vile 
principles, he is moulding princes into 
such monsters that all mankind must 
curse them.” 

And again looking at the paper, the 
prince read a few lines, his voice trem- 
bling with displeasure : 

“ If it is a crime to destroy the inno- 
cence of a private individual who ex- 
ercises a limited influence, is it not far 
worse to undermine the moral charac- 
ter of princes who should exhibit to 
their subjects an example of goodness, 
greatness, kindness, and love? The 
plagues sent by Heaven are but pass- 
ing, and destroy only in certain locali- 
ties; and, although most disastrous, 
their effects pass away in time. But 
the vices of kings create incurable mis- 
ery; yes, misery enduring for genera- 
tions. How deplorable is the condi- 
tion of nations who have every evil to 
fear from their ruler, their property ex- 
posed to the covetousness of a prince, 
their freedom to his humor, and their 
lives to his cruelty ! ” 

Frederick ceased, and turned over a 
few pages of his “ Anti-Macchiavelli,” 
and then continued to read : 

“Macchiavelli speaks in his ^ Prin- 
yipe ’ of miniature sovereigns, who, hav- 
ing but small states, can send no armies 
to the field. The author advises them 
to fortify their capitals, and in time of 
war to confine themselves and their 
troops to them. 

“ The Italian princes, of whom Mac- 
chiavelli speaks, only play the part of 
men before their servants. Most of the 
smaller princes, and especially those of I 


Germany, ruin themselves by spending 
sums far exceeding their revenues, and 
thus by vanity are led to want. Even 
the youngest scion of the least impor- 
tant salaried prince imagines himself as 
great as Louis. He builds his Vei- 
sailles, and sustains his army. There 
is in reality a certain salaried prince of 
a noble house, who has in his service 
all the varieties of guards that usually 
form the households of great kings, 
but all on so minute a scale that it is 
necessary to employ a microscope to 
distinguish each separate corps, and 
whose army is perhaps strong enough 
to represent a battle on the stage of 
Verona.” 

Prince Frederick laughed aloud. 
“ Well, I think my most worthy cousin, 
Ernest Augustus, of Saxe-Wiemar, will 
understand this allusion, and in grati- 
tude for my giving his name to 2 )osteri- 
ty in my ‘ Anti-Macchiavelli ’ will un- 
ravel the mystery, and inform the 
world how it is possible, with the an- 
nual income of four hundred dollars, to 
keep a retinue of seven hundred men, 
a squadron of one hundred and eighty, 
and a company of cavalry; if he is 
capable of accomplishing this, without 
plunging into debt, he is certainly my 
superior, and I could learn a great deal 
from him. I could learn of him how 
to rid myself of this torment that 1 
endure from day to day, from hour to 
hour. What could be a greater degra- 
dation to an honorable man than to be 
compelled to flatter the base pride of 
these vile usurers to whom I am forced 
to resort for the money I need; this 
money pressed, perhaps, from widows 
and orphans ! To think that I, the in- 
heritor of a kingdom, am in this con- 
dition — that I must lower myself to 
sue and plead before these men, while 
millions are lying in the cellars of my 
father’s palace at Berlin! But what! 
Have I the right to comjfiain? am 1 
the only one who suffers from the 


FREDERICK, THE 

closeness of the king! are not the 
people of Berlin crying for bread, 
while the royal larder is filled to over- 
flowing? But patience! the day will 
come when the keys will be in my 
hands — on that day I will give the 
people what rightly belongs to them, 
bread. I will unlock the treasury and 
set free the imprisoned millions. — But 
what noise is this?” said the prince, 
approaching the door. 

Loud and angry noises were heard 
from without. “ I tell you I must and 
will speak with the prince royal,” cried 
a threatening voice; “I have waited 
in vain for two months, in vain ad- 
dressed to him the most modest and 
respectful letters ; I have not even been 
deemed worthy to receive an answer. 
Now I have come to receive it in person, 
and I swear I will not leave this spot 
without an explanation with the prince 
oyal!” 

“It is Ephraim,” muttered Fred- 
erick, with a deep frown. 

“ Well, you can stand here until you 
become a pillar of salt, like your great- 
grandmother of old,” cried another 
voice. 

“This is Knobelsdorf,” said Fred- 
erick. 

“The idea is good,” said the first 
voice, “ yet it is not I who will become 
a pillar of salt, but others will from 
fright and terror, when I come with 
my avenging sword; for justice I will 
have, and if I do not obtain it here, I 
shall immediately go and demand it 
of the king.” 

“ From the king ! You do not know, 
then, that his majesty is dying ? ” 

“ Not so, not so ! if that were so, I 
would not be here; I would have 
waited quietly for that justice from the 
new king which I demanded in vain 
from the prince royal. The king is 
recovering; I saw him in his arm- 
chair in the garden ; for this reason I 
insist on speaking to the prince.” 


PRINCE ROYAL. 37 

“But if I tell you his royal highness 
is still asleep ? ” 

“I would not believe you, for I 
heard him playing on his flute.” 

“ That was Quantz.” 

“ Quantz ! He is not capable of 
playing such an adagio; no, no, it 
could only have been the prince royal.” 

“ Ah ! this man wishes to bribe me 
with his flattery,” said the prince, smil- 
ing, “and make me believe I am an 
Orpheus. Orpheus tamed lions and 
tigers with his music, but my flute is 
not even capable of taming a creditor.” 

“ But I say it was Quantz,” cried the 
poor, frightened Knobelsdorf; “the 
prince still sleeps, or is in bed, for he 
is not well, and gave orders to admit 
no one.” 

“ Ah ! I know all about that ; noble 
gentlemen are always ill if they have 
to breathe the same air with their cred- 
itors,” said Ephraim, with a mocking 
smile ; “ but I tell you I will stay here 
until I have spoken to the prince, until 
he returns me four thousand dollars 
that I lent to him, more than a year 
ago, without interest or security. I 
must and will have my money, or I 
shall be ruined myself! The prince 
cannot wish that; he will not punish 
me so severely for the kindness and 
pity I showed to him in his greatest 
need.” 

“This is really too much,” cried 
Knobelsdorf, “you are shameless; do 
you dare to speak of pity for the 
prince royal ? do you dare to boast of 
having lent him money, while you only 
did it knowing he could and would 
repay you with interest ? ” 

“ If Ephraim knows that, he is 
cleverer than I am,” said Frederick, 
smiling sadly ; “ although I am a 

prince, I do not know how to get the 
miserable sum of four thousand dollars. 
But 1 must leave poor Knobelsdorf no 
longer in this condition ; I must quiet 
this uproar.” And he hastened toward 


88 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


the door, as the noise without became 
louder and louder. 


CHAPTER X. 

FHE PRINCE ROYAL AND THE JEW. 

At this moment, while Knobelsdorf 
was threatening the Jew and calling 
the servants to thrust him out, the 
prince royal opened the door and 
showed his smiling face to the two 
combatants. 

“Come in,” said the prince; “I 
grant you the audience you so importu- 
nately demand.” 

Frederick stepped back quietly in 
his room, while Ephraim, confused 
and humiliated by the calm dignity of 
the prince, advanced with bowed head 
and downcast eyes. 

“ Dear Knobelsdorf,” said Frederick, 
turning to his gasping secretary, who 
stood amazed behind the Jew, “I i^ray 
you to assemble all the ladies and gen- 
tlemen in the garden; we are going 
yachting; I will be with you in five 
minutes.” 

“Five minutes,” said Ephraim to 
himself, as Knobelsdorf withdrew, 
“ only one minute’s audience for every 
thousand dollars I This is a proud 
debtor ; I would have done better not 
to place myself in his power. But I 
will not be frightened, I will stand up 
boldly for my rights ! ” 

“ And now, what have you to say to 
me ? ” said the prmce, fixing his angry 
eyes upon Ephraim. 

“ What have I to say to your high- 
ness!” replied Ephraim, astonished. 
“More than a year ago I lent your 
highness four thousand dollars ! I 
have as yet received neither principal 
nor interest.” 

“ Well, what more ? ” 

“ What more I ” said Ephraim. 

Ye^ what more? It is impossible 


that you have come from Berlin tc 
Rheinsberg to tell me what I have 
known for a year as well as yourself.” 

“I thought your highness had for- 
gotten,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes 
upon the prince, but casting them sud- 
denly to the floor, as he met the flash- 
ing glance of Frederick. 

“ Forgotten,” said he, shrugging his 
shoulders; “I have a good memory 
for every act of kindness, and also for 
every oflence against the respect and 
reverence due to the son of a king.” 

His voice was so harsh and threaten- 
ing, that EiDhraim trembled in his in- 
most heart, and stammered some words 
of apology. 

“ My piince,” said he, “ I am a Jew, 
that is to say a despised, reviled, and 
persecuted man 1 no — ^not a man, but a 
creature — kicked like a dog when poor 
and suffering, and even when the pos- 
sessor of gold and treasures, scarcely 
allowed human rights. It is better for 
the dogs than for the Jews in Prussia ! 
A dog dare have its young, and rejoice 
over them, but the Jews dare not re- 
joice over their children ! The law 
of the land hangs like a sword over 
them, and it may happen that a Jewess 
may be driven out of Prussia because a 
child is born to her, only a specified 
number of Jews being allowed in this 
enlightened land I Perhaps the father 
is not rich enough to pay the thousand 
dollars with which he must buy the 
right to be a father every time a child is 
bom to him ! For this reason is gold, 
and again gold, the only wall of pro- 
tection which a Jew can build up 
between himself and wretchedness I 
Gold is our honor, our rank, our des- 
tiny, our family, our home. We are 
nothing without gold, and even when 
we extend a golden hand, there is no 
hand advanced to meet it that does 
not feel itself contaminated by the 
touch of a Jew I Judge, then, youi 
roval highness, how much we love 


TUE PRINCE ROYAL AND THE JEW. 


39 


how liighly we prize one to whom we 
give a part of our haj^piness, a part of 
our honor, I have done for you, my 
prince, what I have done for no other 
man. I have given you four thousand 
dollars, without security and without 
interest. I lent to Knobelsdorf, for the 
prince royal, upon his mere word, my 
honest gold, and what have I received ? 
My letters, in which I humbly solicit 
payment, remain unanswered. I am 
mocked and reviled — the door con- 
temptuously shut in my face, which 
door, however, was most graciously 
opened to me when I brought my gold. 
Such conduct is neither right nor wise ; 
and as the worm turns when it is trod- 
den upon, so is there also a limit to the 
endurance of the Jew. He remembers 
at last that he is also one of God’s 
creatures, and that God Himself has 
given him the passion of revenge as 
well as the passion of love. The Jew, 
when too long mishandled, revenges 
himself upon his torturers, and that 
will I also do, if I do not receive jus- 
tice at your hands. That will I also 
do, if you refuse me my gold to-day.” 

“You have made a lengthy and im- 
pertinent speech ! ” replied Frederick. 
“ You have threatened me I But I wdll 
forgive you, because you are a Jew; 
because the tongue is the only weapon 
a Jew has, and knows how to use. I 
now advise you to put your sword in 
its sheath, and listen calmly to me. It 
is true, you have lent me four thousand 
dollars without secm’ity and without 
interest. You need not extol yourself 
for this, for you well know it is not the 
wish or the intention of the prince 
royal to oppress even the most pitiful 
of his subjects, or to withhold the 
smallest of their rights. You knew 
this ; then why were you not satisfied 
to wait until I sent for you ? ” 

“I can wait no longer, your high- 
ness,” cried Ephraim, passionately. 
“ My honor and credit are at stake. 


Count Knobelsdorf gave me his sacred 
promise that at the end of six months 
my money with interest should be re- 
turned. I believed him, because he 
spoke in the name of the prince royal. 
I now need this money for my business. 
I can no longer do without it. I must 
have it to-day.” 

“ You must ? I say you shall not re- 
ceive one penny of it to-day, nor to- 
morrow, nor for weeks ! ” 

“If your highness is in earnest, I 
must go elsewhere and seek redress.” 

“ That means you will go to the 
king.” 

“ Yes, your highness, I will ! ” 

“Are you ignorant of the law by 
which all are forbidden to lend money 
to the princes of the royal house ? ” 

“ I am not ignorant of that law ; but 
I know that the king will make an ex- 
ception — that he will pay the money I 
lent to his successor. It is possible I 
may feel his crutch upon my back, but 
blows will not degrade me. The Jew 
is accustomed to blows and kicks — to 
be daily trodden under foot. Even if 
the king beats me, he will give me 
back my honor, for he will give me 
back my gold.” 

“ Suppose that he also refuses you ? ” 
“ Then I will raise my voice until it 
is heard over the whole earth,” cried 
Ephraim, passionately. 

“Well, then, raise your voice and 
cry out. I can give you no gold to- 
day.” 

“ No gold ! ” said Ephraim. “ Am I 
again to be paid with cunning smiles 
and scornful words ? You will with- 
hold my gold from me ? Because you 
are great and powerful, you think you 
can oppress and mistreat a poor Jew 
with impunity, but there is a God for 
the just and unjust, and He — ” 

He stopped. Before him stood Fred- 
erick, blazing with anger. His lips 
were pallid and trembling, his arm up- 
lifted. 


iO 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“ Strike, your highness 1 — strike ! ” 
cried Ephraim, fiercely. “ I deserve to 
be beaten, for I was a fool, and allowed 
myself to be dazzled with the glory of 
lending ray gold to an unhappy but 
noble prince I Strike on, your high- 
ness ! I see now that this prince is but 
a man like the rest; he scorns and 
loathes the poor Jew, but he will bor- 
row his money, and defraud him of his 
rights.” 

Frederick’s arm had fallen, and a 
soft smile played about his lips. 

“ No,” said he, “ you shall see that 
Frederick is not a man like other men. 
This day you shall have payment of 
your debt in full. I cannot pay you 
in money, but I will give you jewels, 
and horses from the stud that the king 
lately gave me.” 

“ Then your highness has really no 
money?” said Ephraim, thoughtfully. 
“ It was not then to frighten and tor- 
ment the poor Jew that my gold was 
denied me. Can it be possible that the 
great Prince Frederick, on whom the 
hopes of the people rest, and who is 
already dearly loved by his future sub- 
jects, can be without money ? Is it 
possible that he suffers like other men? 
My God ! how dare we poor Jews 
complain when the heir to a throne is 
harassed for money, and must endure 
privations I ” 

The prince was not listening to 
Ephraim ; he had opened a closet, and 
taken from it a silver-bound casket, 
and was gazing intently at its contents. 
He drew forth a large diamond cross 
and some solitaires^ and approached the 
Jew. 

“ Here are some jewels, I think, well 
worth your four thousand dollars ; sell 
them and pay yourself,” said the prince, 
handing him the sparkling stones. 

Ephraim pushed the prince’s hand 
gently back. “ I lent gold, and gold 
only will I accept in payment.” 

The prince stamped impatiently upon 


the ground. “I told you I had no 
gold ! ” 

“Then I cannot receive any,” said 
Ephraim, passively. “ The poor Jew 
will wait still longer ; he will give to 
the prince royal the gold which he . 
needs, and of which the poor Jew still 
has a little. I humbly ask your high- 
ness if you would not like to borrow 
another thousand, which I will gladly 
lend upon one condition.” 

“ Well, and this condition ? ” 

“Your highness is to pay me u23ou 
the spot the interest upon the four 
thousand in ready money ? Does your 
highness understand ? Just now you 
wished to pay my capital with dia- 
monds and horses. Will you give me 
as interest a few costly pearls — pearls 
which lie hidden in that flute, and 
which appear at your magical touch ? 

I will count this as ready money ! ” 

Frederick came nearer to Ephraim, 
and eying him sternly, he said : 

“ Are you mocking me ? Would you 
make of the prince royal a travelling 
musician, who must play before the Jew, 
in order to soften his heart ? — ^would 
you — ? Ah, Fredersdorf,” said he, in- 
terrupting himself, as his valet ap- 
proached him in a dusty travelling-suit, 

“ have you just arrived from Berlin ? ” 

“Yes, your highness; and as I was 
told who was importuning your high- 
ness, I came in without changing my 
dress. The banker gave me this pack- 
age for you. I believe it is from St. 
Petersburg.” 

“ From Suhm,” said the prince, with 
a happy smile, and hastily breaking 
the seal, he drew from the package a 
letter and several books. Casting a 
loving glance at the letter, he laid it 
on his writing-table; then turning 
away, so as not to be seen by Ephraim, 
he took up the two books, and looked 
carefully at their heavily-gilded covers. 
Frederick smiled, and, taking a pen- 
knife, he hastily cut off the back of the 


THE PRINCE ROYAL AND THE JEW. 


nooks, and took out a number of folded 
papers. As the prince saw them, a look 
of triumph passed over his expressive 
face. 

“ Ten thousand dollars I ” said he to 
himself. “ The empress and the Duke 
Biron have fulfilled their promise ! ” 

Frederick took some of the papers 
in his hand, and walked toward 
Ephraim. 

“ Here are your four thousand dol- 
lars, and one hundred interest. Are 
you satisfied ? ” 

“ No, your royal highness, I am not 
satisfied I I am not satisfied with my- 
self When I came to Kheinsberg I 
thought I had been wronged. It now 
seems to me that I have wronged your 
highness ! ” 

“ Let that pass,” said Frederick. 
“ A prince must always be the scajje- 
goat for the sin-ofiering of the people. 
They make us answerable for all their 
sufferings, but have no sympathy for us 
in our griefs. I owe you nothing more 
•^you can go.” 

Ephraim bowed silently, and turned 
slowly toward the door. The eyes of 
the prince followed him with a kindly 
expression. He stepped to the table, 
and took up his flute. Ephraim had 
reached the door of the antechamber, 
but when he heard the soft melting 
tones of the flute, he stopped, and re- 
mained listening breathlessly at the 
outer door. The piercing glance of 
the prince rested on him ; but he con- 
tinued to play, and drew from his flute 
such touching and melancholy tones 
that the poor Jew seemed completely 
overcome. He folded his hands, as 
though engaged in fervent prayer ; and 
even Fredersdorf, although a daily 
hearer of the prince’s musical perform- 
ances, listened in breathless silence to 
those sweet sounds. 

When the adagio was ended, the 
prince laid down his flute, and signed 
U) Fredersdorf to close the door ; he 


41 

wished to give Ephraim an opportu- 
nity of slipping away unobserved. 

“Did your highness know that the 
Jew was listening ? ” said Fredersdorf. 

“Yes, I knew it; but I owed the 
poor devil something; he offered to 
lend me still another thousand dollars ! 
I will remember this. And now, Fre- 
dersdorf, tell me quickly how goes it 
in Berlin ? How is the king ? ” 

“Better, your highness. He set oat 
for Potsdam a few days since, and the 
pure fresh air has done him good. He 
shows himself daily upon the balcony, 
in full uniform. The physicians, it is 
true, look very thoughtful ; but the rest 
of the world believe the king is rapidly 
improving.” 

“ God grant that the physicians may 
be again mistaken ! ” said the prince. 
“ May the king reign many long and 
happy years ! If he allow me to live 
as I wish, I would willingly give an 
arm if I could thereby lengthen his 
life. Well, now for mirth and song I 
We will be gay, and thus celebrate the 
king’s improvement. Make, therefore, 
all liberal arrangements. Give the 
cook his orders, and tell the ladies and 
gentlemen assembled in the garden that 
I will be with them immediately.” 

The prince was now alone; he opened 
the letter he had received with the 
gold ; his eye rested lovingly upon the 
handwriting of his distant friend, and 
his heart glowed as he read the words 
of friendship, admiration, and love 
from Suhm. 

“ Truly,” he said, raising his eyes de- 
voutly to heaven, “ a faithful friend is 
worth more than a king’s crown. In 
spite of all my brilliant prospects in 
the future, what would have become 
of me if Suhm had not stood by me 
for the second time and borrowed this 
money for me in Russia — ^this paltry 
sum, which I have in vain sought to 
obtain in my own land ? My heart 
tells me to write a few lines at once to 


42 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Sulim, exjiressing my unshaken friend- 
Bhip, my enduring love.” 

Frederick seated himself, and wrote 
one of those soul-inspiring letters for 
which he was so celebrated, and which 
ended thus: “In a short time my fate 
will be decided ! You can well ima- 
gine that I am not at ease in my present 
condition. I have little leisure, but my 
heart is young and fresh, and I can as- 
sure you that I was never more a phi- 
losopher than now. I look with abso- 
lute indifference upon the future. My 
heart is not agitated by hope or fear ; 
it is full of pity for those who suffer, 
of consideration for all honest men, 
and of tenderness and sympathy for 
my friends. Y on, whom I dare proudly 
count among the latter, may be more 
and more convinced that you will ever 
find in me what Orestes was to his Py- 
lades, and that it is not possible for any 
one to esteem and love you more than 
your devoted Frederick.” 

“ Now,” said the piince, as he arose, 
“ away with the burdens, the gravities 
and cares of life I Come, now, spirit 
of love 1 spirit of bliss ! We will cele- 
brate a feast this day in thy honor, 
thou goddess of youth and hope! — 
Come, lovely Venus, and bring with 
thee thy son Cupid 1 We will worship 
you both. To you belongs this day, 
this night. You, goddess of love, 
have sent me the little Morien, that 
fluttering, light gazelle, that imperious, 
laughing fairy — that ‘ Tourbillon ’ of 
caprice and passion. Here is the poem 
I composed for her. Madame Brandt 
dhaU hand it to her, and shall lead the 
‘ Tourbillon ’ into the temple of love. 
Away with earnest faces, dull eyes, and 
the wisdom of fools I Come over me, 
spirit of love, and grant me one hour 
of blessed forgetfulness.” 

The prince rang for his valet, and 
commanded him to lay out his latest 
French suit; he entered his boudoir, 
and with a comic earnestness, and the 


eager haste of a rash, impatient lovei 
he gave himself to the duties and arts 
of a royal toilet. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE mmCESS ROYAL ELIZABETH 
CHRISTINE. 

The princess royal had not yet left 
her rooms ; she still waited for the 
prince, whose custom it was to give her 
his arm every morning and lead her to 
the saloon. On these occasions only 
did the Princess Elizabeth ever see her 
husband alone, then only did he address 
one word to her, touch her hand, or al- 
low her to lean upon his arm. A sweet 
and sad happiness for this young wife, 
who lived only in the light of her hus- 
band’s countenance ; who had no other 
wish, no other prayer, no other hojie 
than to please him. She felt that the 
eye of Frederick never rested upon her 
with any other expression than that of 
cold ftiendship or absolute indifference. 
The reason for this she could never 
fathom. Elizabeth would have given 
her heart’s blood to be beloved by him 
for one single day, yes, for one short, 
blessed hour ; to be clasped to his heart, 
not for form or etiquette, but as a lov- 
ing and beloved wife, to receive in her 
ear the sweet whispers of his tenderness 
and his fondness. She would have giv- 
en years of her life to have bought this 
man, whom she so passionately loved ; 
he was her earthly god, the ideal o f 
her maiden dreams. This man was 
her husband ; he belonged to her ; he 
was bound to her by the holiest ties, 
and yet there was an impassable gulf 
between them, which her unbounded 
love, her prayers, her sighs, could not 
bridge over. The prince loved'* her 
not; the slightest pulse of his heart 
had never belonged to her! He en 


THE PRINCESS ROYAL ELIZABETH CHRISTINE. 


43 


dured her, only endured her by his 
Bide, as the poor prisoner, sighing for 
fresh air, permits the presence of the 
jailer, when he can only thus buy a 
brief enjoyment of God’s gay and 
sunny world. The prince royal was a 
piisoner, her prisoner. Not love, but 
force, had placed that golden ring 
upon his hand, that first link in the 
long, invisible heavy chain, which from 
that weary hour had bound his feet, 
yes, his soul ; from which even his 
thoughts were never free. Elizabeth 
knew that she was an ever-present, 
bitter memento of his sad, crushed, 
tortured, and humbled youth — a con- 
stant reminder of the noble friend of 
his early years, whose blood had been 
shed for him, and to whose last wild 
death-cry his tortured heart had been 
compelled to listen. Her presence 
must ever recall the scorn, the hatred, 
the oiiposition of his stem father ; the 
hardships, the abuse, the humiliations, 
yes, even the blows, all of which had 
at last bowed the noble mind of the 
prince and led him to take upon him- 
self the slavery of this hated marriage, 
in order to be free from the scorn and 
cruelty of his father. To escape from 
his dreary prison in Ruppin, he rushed 
into the bonds of wedlock. How 
could he ever forgive, how could he 
ever love, this woman forced upon him, 
like drops of wormwood, and swal- 
lowed only with the hope of thereby 
escaping the tortiu-ous pains and last 
struggle with death ? 

Elizabeth had been ignorant of all 
these bitter truths. The prince had 
been ever considerate and kind, though 
cold, when they met ; she had had one 
single confidential interview with him, 
and in that hour he had disclosed to 
her what had forced them together, 
and at the same time forever separated 
them. Never could he love the wife 
associated in his mind, though inno- 
cently, with such cruelties and horrors; 


he was fully convinced that she, also, 
could not love a husband thus forced 
upon her; could entertain no feeling 
for him but that of respectful consider- 
ation and cold indifference. 

Frederick did not know with what 
deadly wounds these words had pierced 
the princess; she had the strength to 
veil her passion and her shame with 
smiles, and in her modest maidenly 
pride she buried both in her heart. 
Since that interview years had gone 
by, and every year the love of the 
princess royal for her husband became 
more ardent; his eyes were the sun 
which warmed and strengthened this 
fiower of love, and her tears were the 
dew which nourished and gave it vital- 
ity. 

Elizabeth hoped stUl to conquer the 
heart of her husband; she yet believed 
that her resigned, modest, but proud 
and great love, might subdue his cold- 
ness ; and yet, in spite of this hope, in 
spite of this future trust, Elizabeth 
trembled and feared more than former- 
ly. She knew that the hour of deci- 
sion was drawing nigh ; she felt, with 
the instinct of true love that a new 
storm was rising on the ever-clouded 
horizon of her marriage, and that the 
lightning might soon destroy her. 

Frederick had been forced by the 
power of the king, his father, to marry 
her ; how would it be when this power 
should cease, when her husband shoulrt 
be king? by no one held back; by no 
one controlled; free himself, and free 
to give laws to a realm; to acknowl- 
edge no man as his judge; to be re- 
strained by nothing but his conscience ! 
Might not even his conscience counsel 
him to dissolve this unnatural mar- 
riage, which had wiihin itself no spark 
of God’s truth, no ray of God’s bless- 
ing? might not her husband cast her 
off and take this English princess for 
his wife ? had she not been the choice 
of his heart ? had not King George, al- 


44 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


though too late, declared his willing- 
ness for the betrothal? had they not 
loved each other with the enthusiasm 
of youth, although they had never met ? 
did not Sophia Amelia’s portrait hang 
in the library of the crown prince ? did 
not the English princess wear his pic- 
tiue constantly near her heart? had 
she not sworn never to be the wite of 
another man ? 

As Elizabeth thought of these things 
she trembled, and it seemed to her that 
her whole life would go out in one 
great cry of anguish and horror. 

“No,” she said, “I cannot live with- 
out him! I will never consent! he 
can kill me, but he cannot force me to 
break the solemn oath I have sworn 
on God’s holy altar. He shall not cast 
me out into the wild wilderness, as 
Abraham did ITagar, and choose an- 
other wife ! ” 

He could not force her to leave him, 
but he could beseech her, and Eliza- 
beth knew full well there was nothing 
in the world she could refuse to her hus- 
band, which he would condescend so 
far as to entreat ; for one loving, grate- 
ful word from his lips, she would give 
him her heart’s blood, drop by drop; 
for one tender embrace, one passionate 
kiss, she would lay down her life joy- 
fully. But she would not believe in 
this separation; she would yet escape 
this unblessed fate — would find a way 
to his love, his sympathy, at least to 
his pity. 

It was a struggle for life, for happi- 
ness, for her future, yes, even for honor ; 
for a divorced wife, even a princess, 
bears ever a stain upon her fair name, 
and walks, lonely, unpitied, ever de- 
spised, through the world. 

For these reasons the i)oor princess 
of late redoubled her efforts to please 
her husband; she entered more fre- 
quently into the gayeties of the court 
circle, and sometimes even took a part 
in the frivolous and rather free jests of 


her husband’s evening parties; some- 
times she was rewar<led by a smile 
and a glance of applause from Fred- 
erick. This was for Elizabeth the 
noblest jewel in her martyr crown of 
love — more costly, more precious, than 
all her pearls and diamonds. 

To-day one of these joyous and unre- 
strained circles was to meet. The 
prince loved i\\ese fetes ; he was more 
charming, witty, talented, and unre- 
strained, than any of his guests. Prin- 
cess Elizabeth resolved to be no quiet, 
silent member of this circle to-day; 
she would force her husband to look 
upon her and admire her; she would 
be more beautiful than all the other 
ladies of the court; more lovely than 
the gay and talented coquette, Madame 
Brandt ; more entrancing than the 
genial “ Tourbillon,” Madame Morien; 
yes, even the youthful Schwerin, with 
her glancing eye and glowing cheek, 
should not excel her. 

She was also young and charming, 
might be admired, loved — yes, adored, 
not only as a princess, not only as the 
wife of the handsome and genial prince 
royal, but for her own lovely self. She 
had dismissed her maid, her toilet was 
completed, and she waited for the 
prince royal to lead her into the saloon. 
The princess stepped to the glass and 
surveyed herself, not admiringly, but 
curiously, searchingly. This figure in 
the mirror should be to her as that of 
a stranger to be remarked upon, and 
criticised coldly, even harshly; she 
must know if this woman might ever 
hope to enchain the handsome prince 
royal. “Yes,” whispered she to her- 
self, “this form is slender and not 
without grace; this white satin robe 
falls m full voluptuous folds from the 
slender waist over the well-made form; 
it contrasts well with these shoulders, 
of which my maids have often said 
‘they were white as alabaster;’ with 
this throat, of which liladame Morien 




WHY DOES NOT THE PRINCE LOVE ME? 


p. 48. 




THE PRINCESS ROYAL ELIZABETH CHRISTINE. 


45 


uays ‘it is white and graceful as the 
swan’s.’ This foot, which peeps out 
from the silken hem of my robe, is 
small and slender; this hand is fair 
and small, and well formed. I was 
constrained yesterday to promise the 
painter Pesne to allow him to paint it 
for his goddess Aurora ; and this face I 
is it ugly to look upon ? No, this face 
is not ugly ; here is a high, clear fore- 
head; the eyebrows well formed and 
well placed, the eyes are large and 
bright, the nose is small but nobly 
formed, the mouth good, the lips soft 
and red : yes, this face is handsome. 
O my God ! why can I not please my 
husband ? — why will he never look 
upon me with admiration ? ” 

Her head sank upon her breast, and 
she was lost in sad and melancholy 
dreams; a few cold tears dropping 
slowly upon her cheeks aroused her; 
with a rash movement she raised her 
head, and shook the tears from her 
eyes ; then looked again in the glass. 
“ Why does not the prince love me ? ” 
whispered she again to herself with 
trembling lips. “ I see it, I know it ! 
It is written in unmistakable lines in 
this poor face. I know why he loves 
me not. These great blue eyes have 
no fire, no soul; this mouth has no 
magical, alluring smile. Y'es, alas ! 
yes, that is a lovely form ; but the 
soul fails ! — a fine nature, but the 
power of intellect is wanting. My Fa- 
ther, my heavenly Father, I sleep ; my 
soul lies dead and stiffened in the coffin 
with my secret sorrows ; the prince 
could awaken it with his 'kisses, could 
breathe a new life into it by a glance.” 

The princess raised her arms implor- 
ingly on high, and her trembling lips 
wQispered, “Pygmalion, why come you 
not to awaken your Galatea ? Why 
will you not change this marble statue 
into a woman of flesh and blood, with 
heart and soul ? These lips are ready 
to smile, to utter a cry of rapture and 


delight, and behind the veil of my eyes 
lies a soul, which one touch of yours 
will arouse ! 0 Frederick ! Frederick ' 
why do you torture me ? Do you not 
know that your wife worships, loves, 
adores you ; that you are her salvation, 
her god? Oh, I know these are un- 
holy, sinful words ! what then ? I am 
a sinner I I am ready to give my soul 
in exchange for you, Frederick. Why 
do you not hear me? — why have not 
my sighs, my tears, the power to bring 
you to my side ? ” 

The poor, young wife sank powerless 
into her chair, and covering her face 
with her hands, wept bitterly. Gay 
voices and loud laughter, sounding 
from beneath her window, aroused her 
from this trance of grief. 

“That is Madame Brandt and the 
Duke of Brunswick,” said Elizabeth, 
hastening to the window, and peeping 
from behind the curtains into the gar- 
den. 

Yes, there stood the duke in lively 
conversation with Jordan, Kaiserling^ 
Chazot, and the newly-arrived Bielfeld ; 
but the ladies were nowhere to be seen, 
and the princess concluded they were 
already in the anteroom, and that the 
prince would soon join her. 

“ He must not see that I have wept ; 
no one must see that.” She breathed 
upon her handkerchief, and pressed 
its damp folds upon her eyes. “No, I 
will smile and be gay, like Madame 
Brandt and Morien. I will laugh and 
jest, and no one shall guess that my 
heart is bleeding and dying with in- 
explicable grief. Yes, gay will I be, 
and smiling ; so only can I please my 
husband.” She gave a sad, heart- 
breaking laugh, which was echoed 
loudly and joyously in the anteroom. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


i6 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE POEM. 

The ladies of the court, and those who 
were guests at the palace of Rheina- 
berg, were assembled, and w^aiting in 
the anteroom, as the princess royal had 
supposed. A few of them had with- 
drawn to one of the windows with 
Madame von Katch, the first lady of 
honor, and were conversing in low 
voices, while Madame von Brandt and 
Madame von Morien held an earnest 
but low-toned conversation in another 
part of the room. 

Madame von Morien listened anx- 
iously to her friend, and the varying 
emotions of her soul were clearly mir- 
rored on her speaking countenance. 
At one moment a happy smile over- 
spread her lovely features, but the next 
a cloud lay on that pure, fair brow, 
and darkened those black and glorious 
eyes. 

“As I told you,” whispered Madame 
von Brandt, “ the empress desires you 
to understand that, if you will assist in 
carrying out her wishes, you may de- 
pend upon her gratitude. You must 
employ all your eloquence and influ- 
ence to induce the prince royal to dis- 
miss from his mind the idea of divor- 
cing his wife at the death of the king;” 

“ I do not blame. the empress,” said 
Madame von Morien, with a roguish 
smile. “ It remains to be seen, how- 
ever, whether the wishes of the prince 
royal and those of the empress coincide. 
You are well aware that Prince Fred- 
erick is not the man to be led by the 
will of others.” 

‘‘Hot by the will of fne empress, 
dearest, but by yours.” 

“ Well, how does this good empress 
expect to bribe me? for I hope she 
does not think me so silly and childish 
as to consider her words commands, 
’nerely because they fall from the lips 


of an empress I Ho, the little Morien 
is at this moment a more important 
person to the empress than the empress 
is to me, and it is, therefore, very nat- 
ural that I should make my condi 
tions.” 

“ Only name them, my dear friend, 
and I assure you in advance that they 
will be fulfilled, unless you should de- 
mand the moon and stars ; these the 
empress cannot obtain for you.” 

“Ah, you have divined my condi- 
tion,” said Madame von Morien, smiling. 
“ I demand a star — one that is brighter 
and more beautiful than those in the 
sky — one that the empress can give.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said her 
astonished friend. 

“You will soon understand — only 
listen. Have you not heard that the 
Austrian empress intends to establish a 
new order — an order of virtue and 
modesty ? ” 

Madame von Brandt burst into a 
clear, silvery laugh. “And do you 
wish to belong to this order ? ” 

“Yes; and if the empress will not 
present me with the star of this order, 

I shall enter into no further arrange- 
ments.” 

Madame von Brandt, still laughing, 
replied : “ This is a most edifying idea. 
Le Tourbillon desires to become a mem- 
ber of the ‘ Order of Virtue.’ The 
beautiful Morien, whose greatest pride 
was to despise the prudish, and to snap 
her fingers at morality, now washes to 
be in the train of modesty.” 

“ Dear friend,” said Madame von 
Morien, with a bewitching smile, which 
displayed two rows of the most exqui- 
sitely white teeth, “ dear friend, you 
should always leave open a way of re- 
treat ; even as ^sop in descending 
the mountain was not happy in the 
easy and delightful path, but already 
sighed over the difficulties of the next 
ascent, so should women never be con- 
tented with the joys of the present mo- 


THE POEM. 


ment, but prepare themselves for the 
sorrows which most probably await 
them in the future. A day must come 
when we shall be cut off by advancing 
years from the flowery paths of love 
and pleasure, and be compelled to fol- 
low in the tiresome footsteps of virtue. 
It is wise, therefore, to be- prepared for 
that which must come as certainly as 
old age, and, if possible, to smooth 
away the difficulties from this rough 
path. To-day I am Le Tourbillon, and 
will remain so a few years ; but when 
the roses and lilies of my cheek are 
faded, I will place the cross of the ‘ Or- 
der of Virtue ’ on my withered bosom, 
and become the defender of the God- 
fearing and the virtuous.” 

The two ladies laughed, and their 
laughter was as gay and silveiy, as clear 
and innocent, as the tones of the lark, 
or the songs of children. Le Tourbil- 
lon, however, quickly assumed an ear- 
nest and pathetic expression, and said, 
in a snuffling, preaching voice : “ Do I 
not deserve to be decorated with the 
star of the ‘ Order of Virtue ? ’ Am I 
not destined to reunite with my weak 
but beautiful hands two hearts which 
God Himself has joined together ? I 
tell you, therefore, procure this decora- 
tion for me, or I refuse the role that 
you offer me.” 

“ I promise that your caprice shall 
be gratified, and that yc a will obtain 
the star,” said Madame von Brandt, 
earnestly. 

“Excuse me, my dear, that is not 
sufficient. I demand the assurance, in 
the handwriting of the Empress of 
Austria, the exalted aunt of our prin- 
cess royal, that this order shall be es- 
tablished, and that I shall become a 
member. It would do no harm for the 
empress to add a few words of tender- 
ness and esteem.” 

“ I shall inform the empress of your 
conditions immediately, and she will 
without doubt fulfil them, for the dan- 


47 

ger is pressing, and you are a most 
powerful ally.” 

“ Good I thus far we are agreed, and 
nothing fails now but the most impor- 
tant part,” said Madame von Morien, 
with a mischievous smile ; “ that is, to 
discover whether I can accomplish your 
wishes — whether the prince royal con- 
siders me any thing more than ‘Le 
Tourbillon,’ ‘ the pretty Morien,’ or the 
Turkish music to which he listens 
when he is gay. Nothing is wanting 
but that the prince royal should really 
love me. It is true that he makes love 
to me; he secretly presses my hand; 
he occasionally whispers a few loving, 
tender words in my ear; and yester- 
day, when I met him accidentally in 
the dark corridor, he embraced me so 
passionately, and covered my lips with 
such glowing, stormy kisses, that I was 
almost stifled. But that is all — ^that is 
the entire history of my love.” 

“No, that is not all. This history 
has a sequel,” said Madame von Brandt, 
triumphantly, as she drew a sealed let- 
ter from her bosom, and gave it to her 
companion. “Take this, it is a new 
chapter in your romance.” 

“This letter has no address,” re- 
turned Madame von Morien, smiling. 

“ It is intended for you.” 

“ No, it is mine,” suddenly cried a 
voice behind them, and a small hand 
darted forward, and tore the sealed 
paper from Madame von Morien. 

“ Mine, this letter is mine ! ” said 
Louise von Schwerin, the little maid 
of honor, who, without being remarked, 
had approached the two ladies, and 
seized the letter at this decisive mo- 
ment. “The letter belongs to me; it 
is mine,” repeated the presumptuous 
young girl, as she danced laughingly 
before the two pale and terrified ladies. 
“Who dares afflrm that this letter, 
which has no address, is not intended 
for me ? ” 

“Louise, give me the letter,’ im 


48 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


plored Madame von Morien, in a trem- 
bling voice. But Louise found a pleas- 
ure in terrifying her beautiful friend, 
v^ho invariably laughed at her, and 
called her a child when she spoke of 
her heart, and hinted at a secret and 
unhappy passion. Louise wished to 
revenge herself by claiming the privi- 
leges of a child. 

“ Take the letter if you can,” cried 
the young girl, as she flew through the 
room as lightly as a gazelle, waving 
her prize back aiid forth like a banner, 
‘‘ take the letter I ” 

Madame von Morien hurried after 
her, and now began a merry race 
through the saloon, accompanied by 
the laughter of the ladies, who looked 
on with the liveliest interest. And in 
reality it was a charming picture to 
see these beautiful figures, which flew 
through the hall like two Atlantas, 
radiant with eagerness, with glowing 
cheeks and smiling lips, with fluttering 
locks and throbbing breasts. 

The young girl was still in advance ; 
she danced on, singing and laughing, 
far before the beautiful Morien, who 
began already to be wearied. 

“ The letter is mine ! ” sang out this 
impudent little maiden, “ and no one 
shall take it from me.” 

But fear lent wings to Madame von 
Morien, who now made a last despair- 
ing efibrt, and flew like an arrow after 
Louise. Now she was just behind her ; 
Louise felt already her hot, panting 
breath upon her cheek; saw the up- 
raised arm, ready to seize the letter — 
when suddenly the door opened, before 
which Louise stood, and the princess 
royal appeared. The youthful maid 
of honor sank laughing at her feet, 
and said breathlessly, “ Gracious prin- 
cess, protect me ! ” 

Madame von Morien remained mo- 
tionless at the appearance of the prin- 
cess royal, breathless not only from 
her rapid race, but also from fear, 


while Madame von Brandt, concealing, 
with a smile, her own alarm, ap- 
proached her friend, that she might 
not remain without assistance at this 
critical moment. The rest of the com- 
pany stood silent at a respectful dis- 
tance, and looked with curious and in- 
quiring glances at this singular scene. 

“ Well, and from what shall I protect 
you, little Louise ? ” said the princess 
royal, as she bent smilingly over the 
breathless child. 

Louise was silent for one instant. 
She felt that the princess would re- 
prove her for her naughtiness ; she did 
not wish to be again treated as a child 
before the whole court. She hastily 
resolved to insist uj3on the truth of her 
assertion that the letter was hers. 

“ Madame von Morien wished to 
take my letter from me,” said Louise, 
giving the latter a perverse look. 

“ I hope your royal highness knows 
this impudent child well enough not 
to put any faith in her words,” said 
Madame von Morien, evasively, not 
daring to claim the letter as her prop- 
erty. 

“ Child ! She calls me a child ! ” 
murmured Louise, enraged, and now 
determined to revenge herself by com- 
promising Madame von Morien. 

“ Then the letter does not belong to 
Louise ? ” asked the princess royal, 
turning to Madame von Morien. 

“ Yes, your royal highness, it is 
mine,” declared Louise ; “ your royal 
highness can convince yourself of it. 
Here is the letter; will you have the 
kindness to read the address ? ” 

“But this letter has no address,” 
said the astonished princess. 

“ And still Madame von Morien as- 
serts that it is intended for her,” cried 
Louise, wickedly. 

“And Mademoiselle von Schwerin 
declares it belongs to her,” said Ma- 
dame von Morien, casting an angry 
look on Louise. 


THE BANQUET. 


49 


I implore y< of royal highness to be 
the judge,” said Louise. 

“ How can I decide to whom the 
letter belongs, as it bears no name ? ” 
said the princess, smiling. 

“By opening and reading it,” said 
the young girl, with apparent frank- 
ness. “ The letter is from my mother, 
and I do not care to conceal its con- 
tents from your royal highness.” 

“ Are you willing, Madame von Mo- 
rien ? Shall I open this letter ? ” 

But before the amazed and terrified 
young woman found time for a reply, 
Madame von Brandt approached the 
princess with, a smiling countenance. 
She had in this moment of danger con- 
ceived a desperate resolution. The 
prince royal had informed her that 
this paper contained a poem. Why 
might not this poem have been in- 
tended for the princess as well as for 
Madame von Morien ? It contained, 
without a doubt, a declaration of love, 
and such declarations are suitable for 
any woman, and welcome to all. 

“ If your royal highness will permit 
me, I am ready to throw light on this 
mystery,” said Madame von Brandt. 

The princess bowed permission. 

“ This letter belongs neither to Ma- 
dame von Morien nor to Mademoiselle 
von Schwerin,” said Madame von 
Brandt. 

“ You promised to enlighten us,” ex- 
claimed the princess, laughing, “ and 
it appears to me you have made the 
mystery more impenetrable. The let- 
ter belongs neither to Madame von 
Morien nor to little Louise. To whom, 
then, does it belong ? ” 

“ It belongs to your royal highness.” 

“ To me ? ” asked the astonished 
princess, while Madame von Morien 
gazed at her friend with speechless 
horror, and Mademoiselle von Schwerin 
laughed aloud. 

“Yes, this letter belongs to your 
royal highness. The prince royal gave 

4 


it to me, with the command to place 
it upon your table, before you went to 
your dressing-room ; but I was too late, 
and understood that your highness was 
occupied with your toilet. I dared nut 
disturb you, and retained the letter in 
order to hand it to you now. As I 
held it in my hand, and said jestingly 
to Madame von Morien that the prince 
royal had forgotten to write the ad- 
dress, Mademoiselle von Schwerin came 
and tore it from me in a most unlady- 
like manner, and declared it was hers. 
That is the whole history.” 

“And you say that the letter is 
mine ? ” said the princess, thoughtfully. 

“ It is yours, and it contains a poem 
from his royal highness.” 

“ Then I can break the seal ? ” said 
the princess, tearing open the paper. 
“ Ah 1 ” she cried, with a happy smile, 
“ it is a poem from my husband.” 

“ And here comes his royal highness 
to confirm the truth of my statement,” 
cried Madame von Brandt, stepping 
aside. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

THE BANQUET. 

MADAJiiE VON Brandt was right. 
The prince royal, surrounded by the 
cavaliers of his court, entered the sa- 
loon just as the princess had com- 
menced reading the poem. 

On his entrance a murmur of ap- 
plause arose, and the countenance of 
his wife was radiant with pleasure 
and delight on beholding this hand- 
some and engaging young prince, 
whom she, emboldened by the love- 
verses which she held in her hand, joy- 
fully greeted as her husband. On this 
day the prince did not appear as usual 
in the uniform of his regiment, but 
was attired in a French costume of the 
latest fashion. He wore a snuff-colored 
coat of heavy moire -antique, orna- 


10 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


mented at the shoulders with long 
bows of lace, the ends of which were 
bordered with silver fringe. His 
trousers, of the same color and mate- 
rial, reached to his knees, and were 
here ornamented with rich lace, which 
hung far down over his silk stockings. 
On the buckles of his high, red-heeled 
shoes, glittered immense diamonds. 
These gems were, however, eclipsed 
by the jewelled buttons which confined 
his long, silver-brocaded waistcoat.* 

The costume of the cavaliers who 
accompanied the prince was of the 
same style, but less rich. 

As this group of handsome and rich- 
ly-attired gentlemen entered the saloon, 
the bright eyes of the ladies sparkled, 
and their cheeks colored with pleas- 
ure. 

The princess royal’s countenance was 
illuminated with delight; never had 
she seen the prince so handsome, never 
had he looked so loving. And this 
was all for her, the chosen one, whom 
he now blessed with his love. Yes, he 
loved her! She had only read the 
commencement of the poem which he 
had written, but in this she had seen 
words of tender and passionate love. 

While she was gazing on her hus- 
band in silent ecstasy, Madame von 
Brandt approached the prince, and 
gracefully recounting the scene which 
had just occurred, requested him to 
confirm her statement. 

The prince’s quick glance flitted for 
a moment from the beautiful Morien, 
w^ho trembled with consternation and 
terror, to his wife, and, judging by the 
pleased expression of her face, he con- 
cluded that she believed this poem had 
been really addressed to herself. She 
had, therefore, not read it to the end ; 
she had not yet arrived at the verse 
which contained a dfrect appeal to 
the beautiful Tourbillon, the charming 


Leontine. She must no: be permitted 
to read the entire poem. That was 
all! 

The prince approached his wife with 
a smile, to which she was unaccus- 
tomed, and which made her heart beat 
high with delight. 

“ I crave your indulgence,” said he, 
“ for my poor little poem, which reached 
you in so noisy a manner, and is really 
scarcely worth reading. Read it in 
some solitary hour when you are trou- 
bled with ennui; it may then possibly 
amuse you for a moment. We will not 
occupy ourselves with verses and poems 
to-day, but will laugh and be merry : 
that is, if it pleases you, madame.” 

The princess murmured a few low 
and indistinct words. As usual, she 
could find no expression for her 
thoughts, although her heart was full 
of love and delight. This modest 
shyness of the lips, this poverty of 
words, with her rich depth of feeling, 
was the great misfortune of the princess 
royal. It was this that made her ap- 
pear awkward, constrained, and spirit- 
less; it was this that displeased and 
estranged her husband. Her conscious- 
ness of this deficiency made her still 
more timid and constrained, and de- 
prived her of what little power of ex- 
pression she possessed. 

Had she at this moment found cour- 
age to make a ready and witty reply, 
her husband would have been much 
pleased. Her silence, however, excited 
his displeasure, and his brow darkened. 

He oftered her his arm; and, ex- 
changing glances with Madame Morien, 
he conducted his wife to the dining- 
saloon, to the magnificently arranged 
and glittering table. 

“ The gardener of Rheinsberg, Fred- 
erick of Hohenzollern, invites his friends 
to partake of what he has provided. 
For the prince royal is fortunately not 
at home; we can, therefore, be alto- 
gether sam gene^ and follow our incli- 


* Bielfold, voL li., page 82. 


THE BANQUET. 


51 


nations, as the mice do when the cat is 
not at home.” 

He seated himself between his wife 
and Madame Morien, whispering to 
the latter : “ Beautiful Tourbillon, my 
heart is in flames, and I rely upon you 
to quench them. You must save me ! ” 

“ Oh, this heart of yours is a phoenix, 
and arises from its ashes renewed and 
rejuvenated.” 

“But only to destroy itself again,” 
said the prince. Then taking his glass 
and surveying his guests with a rapid 
glance, he exclaimed : “ Our first toast 
shall be youth— youth of which the 
old are envious ! — youth and beauty 
which are so brilliantly represented 
here to-day, that one might well ima- 
gine Venus had sent us all her daugh- 
ters and playmates, as well as all her 
lovers, the deposed and discarded ones 
as well as those whom she still favors, 
and only proposes to discard.” 

The glasses rang out merrily in an- 
swer to this toast, and all betook them- 
selves with evident zest to the costly 
and savory dishes, prepared by the 
master-hand of Duvall the French 
cook, and which the prince seasoned 
with the Attic salt of his ever-ready 
wut. 

They all gave themselves up to gay- 
ety and merriment, and pleasure spar- 
kled in every eye. 

The corpulent Knobelsdorf related 
in a stentorian voice some amusing 
anecdotes of his travels. Chazot read 
portions of Voltaire’s latest work. The 
learned and witty Count Kaiserling 
recited verses from the “ Henriade,” 
and then several of Gellert’s fables, 
which were becoming very popular. 
He conversed with his neighbor, the 
artist Pesne, on the suliject of the 
paintings which his masterly hand had 
executed; and then, turning to Ma- 
demoiselle von Schwerin, he painted in 
glowing colors the future of Berlin — 
the future when they would have a 


French theatre, an Italian opera, and, 
of all things, an Italian ballet-corps. 
For the latter the most celebrated dan- 
cers would be engaged, and it should 
eclipse every thing of the kind that 
had ever been seen or heard of in Ger- 
many. 

At the lower end of the table sat 
the two Vendas, the two Grauns, and 
Quantz, the powerful and much-feared 
virtuoso of the flute and instructor of 
the prince royal, whose rudeness was 
almost imposing, and before whom the 
prince himself was somewhat shy. But 
to-day even Quantz was quiet and 
tractable. His countenance wore the 
half-pleased, half-grumbling expression 
of a bull-dog when stroked by a soft 
and tender hand. He is inclined to be 
angry, but is so much at his ease that 
he finds it absolutely impossible to 
growl. 

In their merriment the gentlemen 
were becoming almost boisterous. The 
cheeks of the ladies glowed with pleas- 
ure, and their lovers were becoming 
tender. 

The princess royal alone was silent ; 
her heart was heavy and sorrowful. 
She had carefully reconsidered the 
scene which had occurred, and the re- 
sult was, she was now convinced that 
the poem which she had received was 
not intended for her, but for some other 
fair lady. She was ashamed of her 
credulity, and blushed for her own 
vanity. For how could it be possible 
that the handsome and brilliant man 
who sat at her side, who was so witty 
and spirited, who was as learned as he 
was intelligent, as noble as he was 
amiable, how could it be possible that 
he should love her ? — she who was only 
young and pretty, who was moreover 
guilty of the great, unpardonable fault 
of being his wife, and a wife who had 
been forced upon him ! 

No, this poem had never been in- 
tended for her. But for whom, then ? 


02 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Who was the happy one to whom the 
prince had given his love ? Her heart 
bled as she thought that another could 
call this bliss her own. She was too 
mild and gentle to be angry. She ar- 
dently desired to know the name of her 
rival, but not that she might revenge 
herself. No, she wished to pray for 
her whom the prince royal loved, to 
whom he perhaps owed a few days of 
happiness, of bliss. 

But who was she? The princess 
royal’s glance rested searchingly on all 
the ladies who were present. She saw 
many beautiful and pleasing faces. 
Many of them had intelligence, viva- 
city, and wit, but none of them were 
worthy of his love. Her husband had 
just turned to his fail’ neighbor, and, 
with a fascinating smile, whispered in 
her ear. Madame Morien blushed, cast 
down her eyes, but, raising them again 
and looking ardently at the prince 
royal, she murmured a few words in so 
low a tone that no one else heard them. 

How ! Could it be this one ? But 
no, that was impossible. This giddy, 
coquettish, and superficial woman could 
by no possibility have captivated the 
noble and high-toned prince ; she could 
not be Elizabeth’s happy rival. 

But who, then ? Alas, if this long 
and weary feast were only at an end ! 
If she could but retire to her chamber 
and read this poem, the riddle would 
then be solved, and she would know 
the name of his lady-love. 

It seemed, however, that the prince 
had divined his wife’s wish, and had 
determined that it should not be grati- 
fied. 

They had taken their seats at table 
at a very late hour to-day, at six o’clock. 
It had now become dark, and candela- 
bras with wax-candles were brought 
in and placed on the table. 

“ The lights are burning,” exclaimed 
the prince ; “ we will not leave the ta- 
ble until these lights are burned out, 


and our heads have become illumLiated 
with champagne.” * 

And amid conversation, laughter, 
and recitations, all went merrily on. 
But the heart of the princess royal 
grew sadder and sadder. 

Suddenly the prince turned to her. 
“ I feel the vanity of an author,” said 
he, “and beg permission to inquire it 
you have no curiosity to hear the poem 
which I had the honor of sending yov 
to-day by Madame Brandt ? ” 

“Indeed I have, my husband,” ex- 
claimed the princess, with vivacity. 
“ I long to become acquainted with its 
contents.” 

“ Then permit me to satisfy this long- 
ing,” said the prince, holding out his 
hand for the poem. The princess hes- 
itated, but when she looked up and 
their eyes met, his glance was so cold 
and imperious, that she felt as if an 
icy hand were at her heart. She drew 
the poem from her bosom and handed 
it silently to her husband. 

“ Now, my little maid of honor, Von 
Schwerin,” said the prince royal, smil- 
ing, “this sagacious, highly respecta- 
ble, and worthy company shall judge 
between you and me, and decide 
whether this paper is a letter from her 
dear mother, as this modest and re- 
tiring child asserts, or a poem, written 
by a certain prince, who is sometimes 
induced by his imaginative fancy to 
make indifferent verses. Listen, there- 
fore, ladies and gentlemen, and judge 
between us. But that no one may im- 
agine that I am reading any thing else, 
and substituting the tender thoughts 
of a lover for the fond words of moth- 
erly affection, Madame Morien shall 
look at the paper I am reading, and 
bear witness to my truth.” 

He read off the first verses as they 
were written, and then, improvising, 


* Bielfeld, vol. i, page 84. The prince s owt 
words. 


THE BANQUET. 


53 


recited a witty and humorous poem, in 
which he did homage to his wife’s 
charms. His poem was greeted with 
rapturous applause. While he was re- 
citing the improvised verses, Madame 
Morien had time to read the poem. 
When she came to the verses which 
contained a passionate declaration of 
love, and in which the prince half- 
humbly, half-imperiously, solicited a 
rendezvous, her breast heaved and her 
heart beat high with delight. After 
the prince had finished he turned to 
his wife with a smile, and asked if the 
poem had pleased her. 

“ So much so,” said she, “ that I pray 
you to return it. I should like to pre- 
serve it as a reminiscence of this hour.” 

“ Preserve it ? By no means I A 
poem is like a flower. It is a thing of 
the present, and is beautiful only when 
fresh. The moment gave it, and the 
moment shall take it. We will sacri- 
fice to the gods, what we owe to the 
gods.” 

Having thus spoken, the prince tore 
the paper into small pieces, which he 
placed in the palm of his hand. 

“ Go ye in all directions and teach 
unto all people that nothing is immor- 
tal, not even the poem of a prince,” 
said he, and blowing the particles of 
paper, he sent them fluttering through 
the air like snowflakes. The ladies 
and gentlemen amused themselves with 
blowing the pieces from place to place. 
Each one made a little bellows of his 
mouth, and endeavored to give some 
strip of paper a particular direction or 
aim — to blow it on to some fair one’s 
white shoulders or into some gentle- 
man’s eye or laughing mouth. 

This caused a great deal of merri- 
ment. The princess was still sad and 
silent. Now and then a scrap fell be- 
fore her ; these she blew no further, but 
mechanically collected and gazed at 
them in a listless and mournful man- 
ner. Suddenly she started and colored 


violently. On ont of these strips of 
paper she had read two words which 
made her heart tremble with anger and 
pain. These words were, “ Bewitching 
Leontine ! ” 

The secret was out. The prince roy- 
al’s poem had been addressed to Leon- 
tine, to a bewitching Leontine, and not 
to Elizabeth ! But who was this Leon- 
tine ? which of the ladies bore that 
name ? She must, she would know ! 
She called all her courage to her assist- 
ance. Suddenly she took part in the 
general merriment, commenced to laugh 
and jest; she entered gayly into a con- 
versation with her husband, with Ma- 
dame Morien, and the young Baron 
Bielfield, who was her vis-d-vis. 

The princess had never been so gay, 
so unconstrained, and so witty. No 
one suspected that these jests, this 
laughter, were only assumed ; that she 
veiled the pain which she suffered with 
a smiling brow. 

The candles had burnt half way 
down, and some of the gentlemen had 
begun to light the flrst tapers of the 
champagne illumination which the 
prince had prophesied. Chazot no 
longer recited, but was singing some 
of the charming little songs which he 
had learned of the merry peasants of 
Normandy, his fatherland. Jordan 
improvised a sermon after the fashion 
of the fanatical and hypocritical priests 
who for some time past had collected 
crowds in the streets of Berlin. Kaiser- 
ling had risen from his seat and thrown 
himself into an attitude, in which he 
had seen the celebrated Lagi^re in the 
ballet of the Syr^ne at Paris. Knobels- 
dorf recounted his interesting adven- 
tures in Italy ; and even Quantz found 
courage to give the prince’s favorite 
dog, which was snuffling at his feet, 
and which he hated as a rival, a hearty 
kick. The prince royal alone had pre- 
served his noble and dignified appear- 
ance. Amid the general excitement he 


54 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


remained calm and dignified. The 
candles were burning low, and the 
champagne illumination was becoming 
intense in the heads of all the gentle- 
men except the prince and the Baron 
Bielfeld. 

“ Bielfeld must also take part in this 
illumination,” said the prince, turning 
to his wife ; and, calling the former, he 
proposed to drink with him the health 
of his fiancee^ whom he had left in 
Hamburg. 

After Bielfeld had Itft his seat and 
was advancing toward' the prince roy- 
al, the princess hurriedly and noise- 
lessly gave her instructions to a servant. 
She had observed that Bielfeld had 
been drinking freely of the cold water 
which had been placed before him in a 
decanter. The servant emptied this 
decanter and filled it with sillery, 
which was as clear and limpid as wa- 
ter. Bielfeld, returning to his seat, 
heated by the toast he had been drink- 
ing, filled his glass to the brim, and 
drank instead of water the fiery sil- 
lery.* 

The princess royal, whose aim was 
to discover which of the ladies was 
the bewitching Leontine, determined 
to strike a decisive blow. With an 
ingratiating smile she turned to Biel- 
feld and said : 

“ The prince royal spoke of your 
Jiancee ; I may, therefore, congratulate 
you.” 

Bielfeld, who did not dare to ac- 
knowledge that he was on the point of 
shamefully deserting this lady, bowed 
in silence. 

“May I know the name of your 
fiancee f ” asked she. 

“Mademoiselle von Randau,” mur- 
mured Bielfeld, drinking another glass 
»f sillery to hide his confusion. 

“ Mademoiselle von Randau ! ” re- 
peated the princess, “how cold, how 


ceremonious that sounds I To imagine 
how a lady looks and what she is like, it 
is necessary to know her Christian name, 
for a given name is to some extent an 
index to character. What is your 
fiancee's name ? ” 

“ Regina, royal highness.” 

“ Regina I That is a beautiful name. 
A prophecy of happiness. Then she will 
always' be queen of your heart. Ah, 1 
understand the meaning of names, and 
at home in my father’s house I was 
called the Sibyl, because my proph- 
ecies were always true, -r- If you will 
give me your first names, I will proph- 
esy your future, ladies. Let us com- 
mence. What is your given name, 
Madame von Katsch ? ” 

While the princess was speaking, 
she played carelessly with the beautiful 
Venetian glass which stood before her. 
The prince royal alone saw what no 
one else observed ; he saw that the 
hand which toyed with the glass trem- 
bled violently; that while she smiled 
her lips quivered, and that her breath- 
ing was hurried and feverish. He 
comprehended what these prophecies 
meant : he was convinced that the 
princess had become acquainted with 
the contents of his poem. 

“ Do not give her your name,” he 
whispered to Madame Morien. He 
then turned to his wife, who had just 
prophesied a long life and a happy old 
age to Madame von Katsch. 

“ And your name. Mademoiselle vou 
Schwerin ? ” said the prince royal. 

“ Louise.” 

“ Ah, Louise ! Well, I prophesy 
that you will be happier than youi 
namesake, the beautiful La Vallifere. 
Your conscience will never reproach 
you on account of your love-affairs, and 
you will never enter a convent.” 

“But then I will probably never 
have the happiness of being loved by a 
king,” said the little maid of honor, 
with a sigh. 


* Bielfeld, vol. i., page 85. 


THE BANQUET. 


66 


This naive observation was greeted 
with a merry peal of laughter. 

The princess continued her prophe- 
cies ; she painted for each one a pleas- 
ant and flattering future. She now 
turned to Madame Morien, still smil- 
ing, still playing with the glass. 

“Well, and your name, my dear 
Madame Morien ? ” said she, looking 
into the glass which she held clasped 
in her fingers. 

“ She is called ‘ Le Tourbillon,’ ” 
exclaimed the prince royal, laughing. 

“Antoinette, Louise, Albertine, are 
my names,” said Madame Morien, hesi- 
tatingly. 

The princess royal breathed free, and 
raised her eyes from the glass to the 
beautiful Morien. 

“ These are too many names to pro- 
phesy by,” said she. “ By what name 
are you called ? ” 

Madame Morien hesitated ; the other 
ladies, better acquainted with the little 
mysteries of Tourbillon than the prim 
cess, divined that this question of the 
princess, and the embarrassment of Ma- 
dame Morien betokened something ex- 
traordinary, and awaited attentively 
the reply of the beautiful woman. A 
momentary pause ensued. Suddenly 
Mademoiselle Schwerin broke out in 
laughter. 

“ Well,” said she, “ have you for- 
gotten your name, Madame Morien? 
Do you not know that you are called 
Leontine ? ” 

“ Leontine ! ” exclaimed the princess, 
and her fingers closed so tightly on 
the glass which she held in her hand, 
that it crushed, and drew from her a 
sharp cry of pain. 

The prince royal saw the astonished 
and inquiring glances of all directed 
to his wife, and felt that he must turn 
their attention in some other direction 
— that he must make a jest of this ac- 
cident. 

“ Elizabeth, you are right 1 ” said he, 


laughing. “The candles are burnt 
down ; the illumination has begun ; the 
festival is at an end. We have already 
sacrificed a poem to the gods, and we 
must now do the same with the glasses, 
out of which we have quaffed a few 
hours of happiness, of merriment, and 
of forgetfulness. I sacrifice this glass to 
the gods ; all of you follow my exam- 
ple.” 

He raised his glass and threw it 
over his shoulder to the floor, where 
it broke with a crash. The others fol- 
lowed the example of the prince and 
his wife with shouts of laughter, and 
in a few minutes nothing was left of 
these beautiful glasses but the glitter- 
ing fragments which covered the floor. 
But the company, now intoxicated 
with wine and delight, were not con- 
tented with this one offering to the 
gods, but thirsted for a continuation ol 
their sport ; and, not satisfied with hav- 
ing broken the glasses, subjected the 
vases and the bowls of crystal to the 
same treatment. In the midst of this 
general confusion tl e door was suddenly 
opened, and Fredersdorf appeared at the 
threshold, holding a letter in his hand. 

His uncalled-for appearance in this 
saloon was something so extraordinary, 
so unprecedented, that it could be only 
justified on the ground of some great 
emergency, something of paramount 
importance. They all felt this, not- 
withstanding their excitement and hi- 
larity. A profound silence ensued. 
Every eye was fixed anxiously upon 
the prince, who had received the letter 
from FredersdorTs hands and broken 
the seal. The prince turned pale, and 
the paper trembled in his hands. He 
hastily arose from his seat. 

“ My friends,” said he, solemnly, 

“ the feast is at an end. I must leave 
for Potsdam immediately. The king 
is dangerously iU. Farewell ! ” 

And offering his arm to his wife, he 
hastily left the saloon. The guests, 


56 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


who but now were so merry, silently 
arose and betook themselves to their 
chambers, and nothing could be heard 
save now and theu a stolen whisper or 
a low and anxious inquiry. Soon a 
deep and ominous silence reigned in 
the castle of Rheinsberg. All slept, 
or at least seemed to sleep. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LE KOI EST MORT. — VTVE LE ROI ! 

King Frederick William’s end 
was approaching. Past were his power 
and greatness, past all his dreams of 
glory. Long did the spirit fight 
against the body ; but now, after 
months of secret pain and torture, he 
had to acknowledge himself over- 
powered by death. The stiff uniform 
is no longer adapted to his fallen figure. 
Etiquette and ceremony had been ban- 
ished by the all-powerful ruler — by 
Death. He is no longer a king, but a 
dying man — nothing more. A father 
•aking leave of his children, a husband 
embracing his wife for the last time; 
pressing his last kisses upon her tearful 
face, and pleading for forgiveness for 
his harshness and cruelty. Frederick 
William has made his peace with God 
and the world ; his proud spirit is 
broken ; his hard heart softened. Long 
he had striven in the haughtiness of 
his heart before acknowledging his 
sins, but the brave and pious Roloff 
approached his couch, and with ac- 
cusations and reproaches awakened his 
slumbering conscience. At first he had 
but one answer to the priest’s accusa- 
tions, and that was proudly given : “ I 
aave ever been true to my wife.” Ro- 
off continued to speak of his extor- 
tions, oppressions, and inhumanity. 
Frederick William was at last con- 
vinced that he must lay down his 
crown, and approach God with deep 


repentance, humbly imploring pardon 
and mercy. 

Now that he had made his peace 
with God, there remained nothing foi 
him to do but to arrange his earthly 
affairs, and take leave of his wife, and 
children, and friends. They were all 
called to his room that he might bid 
them farewell. By the side of thr 
arm-chair, in which the king was re 
dining, wrapped in his wide silk man 
tie, stood his wife and the prince royal 
His hands rested in theirs, and when 
he raised his weary eyes, he al- 
ways met their tear-stained faces, their 
looks of unutterable love. Death, that 
would so soon separate them forever, 
had at last united in love father and 
son. Weeping loudly, Frederick Wil- 
liam folded the pnnce royaf in his 
arms, and with a voice full of tears, 
exclaimed : “ Has not God in His great 
mercy given me a noble son ? ” Prince 
Frederick bowed his head upon his fa- 
ther’s breast, and prayed deeply and 
earnestly that his life might be spared. 

But the end was approaching ; the 
king knew and felt it. He had the 
long coffin, the same in which he had 
laid himself for trial a few months be- 
fore, brought into his room, and look- 
ing at it sadly, said, with a peaceful 
smile : “ In this bed I shall sleep well I ” 
He then called his secretary Eichel, 
and ordered him to read the pro- 
gramme for his funeral, which he had 
himself dictated. 

It was a strange picture to see this 
king, lying by the side of the coffin, 
surrounded by his children and ser- 
vants, his weary head reclining on the 
shoulder of his wife, listening atten- 
tively to this programme, that spoke 
of him, a still living and thinking be- 
ing, as of a cold, dead, senseless mass. 
Not as for a sad festival, but for a 
grand parade, had the long arranged 
it, and it made a fearful, half-comic 
impression upon the auditors, when 


LE ROI EST MORT.— VIVE LE ROI! 


57 


was added, at the especial request of 
the king, that, after his laying out, a 
splendid table should be set in the 
great hall for all who had been present 
at the ceremony, and that none but the 
best wines from his cellar should be 
served. 

After having provided for his corpse, 
Frederick William still wished to leave 
to each of his favorites, the Prince of 
Dessau and Baron Hacke, a horse. He 
ordered the horses to be led from their 
stalls to the court. He then desired 
his chair to be rolled to an open win- 
dow, where he could see the entire 
court, and give a farewell look to each 
of these animals which had so often 
borne him to feasts and parades. Oh 1 
what costly, glorious 'days those were, 
when he could lightly swing himself 
upon these proud steeds, and ride out 
into God’s fresh, free air, to be humbly 
welcomed by his subjects, to be re- 
ceived with the roll of drums and the 
sound of trumpets, and every moment 
of his life be made aware of his great- 
ness and power by the devotion and 
humility of those who surrounded 
him ! And that was all set aside and 
at an end. Never again could he mount 
his horse, never again could he ride 
through the streets of Berlin, and re- 
joice over the beautiful houses and 
stately palaces called into life by his 
royal will. Never again will he receive 
the humble welcome of his subjects ; 
and when on the morrow drums are 
beating and cannon thundering, they 
will not salute the king, but his corpse. 

Oh I and life is so beautiful ; the air 
IS so fresh and balmy ; the heavens of 
80 clear and transparent a blue; and 
he must leave it all, and descend into 
the dark and lonely grave. 

The king brushed a tear from his 
eye, and, turning his gaze from heaven 
and God’s beautiful earth, looked upon 
the horses which a servant was leading 
to and fro in the court. As he did 


this, his countenance brightened, he 
forgot for the moment that death was 
near at hand, and looked with eager 
attention to see which of the horses 
the gentlemen would choose. When 
he saw the selection the Prince of Des- 
sau had made, he smiled, with the pity- 
ing look of a connoisseur. 

“That is a bad horse, my dear 
prince,” he exclaimed ; “ take the other 
one, I will vouch for him.” 

After the prince had chosen the horse 
shown him by the king, and Baron 
Hacke the other, he ordered the most 
magnificent and costly saddles to be 
placed on them; and while this was 
being done, he looked on with eager 
interest. Behind him stood the minis- 
ter Rodewills, and the secretary of 
state, whom the king had summoned 
to his presence to receive his resigna- 
tion, by which he transferred the kingly 
authority to his son the prince royaL 
Behind him stood Frederick and the 
queen, the generals and the priests. 
The king was unconscious of their pres- 
ence ; he had forgotten that he was dy- 
ing; he thought only of his horses, 
and a dark cloud settled on his face as 
the groom buckled a saddle covered 
with blue velvet over the yellow silk 
housing of Prince Anhalt’s horse. 

“Oh, if I were only well, how I 
would beat that stupid boy I” ex- 
claimed the king, Lu a loud, menacing 
voice. “ Hacke, have the kindness to 
beat him for me.” 

The horses pointed their ears and 
neighed loudly, and the servants trem- 
bled at the voice of their master, who 
was speaking to them as angrily as 
ever, but in a deep, sepulchral voice. 

But his anger was of short duration, 
and he sank back into his chair, breath- 
ing heavily and brokenly. He had not 
the strength to sign his resignation, 
and demanded to be taken from bis 
chair and placed upon the bed. 

There he lay motionless, with half 


58 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


closed eyes, groaning and sighing. A 
fearful stillness reigned in the chamber 
of death. All held their breath; all 
wished to hear the last death-sigh of 
the king; all wished to witness the 
mysterious and inscrutable moment 
when the soul, freeing itself from its 
earthly tenement, should ascend to the 
Spring of light and life as an invisible 
but indestructible atom of divinity. 
Pale and trembling, the prince leaned 
over his father; the kneeling queen 
prayed in a low voice. With earnest 
and sorrowful faces the generals and 
cavaliers, physicians and priests, looked 
at this pale and ghost-like being, who 
but a few moments before was a king, 
and was now a clod of the valley. 
But no, Frederick William was not yet 
dead ; the breath that had ceased re- 
turned to his breast. He opened his 
eyes once more, and they were again 
full of intelligence. He ordered a glass 
to be given him, and looked at himself 
long and attentively. 

“ I don’t look as badly as I thought,” 
said he, with the last fluttering emo- 
tion of human vanity. “ Feel my pulse, 
doctor, and tell me how long I have 
still to live.” 

“ Your majesty insists on knowing ? ” 

“ I command you to tell me.” 

“ Well, then, your majesty is about to 
die,” said Ellert, solemnly. 

“ How do you know it ? ” he asked, 
composedly. 

“ By your wavering pulse, sire.” 

The king held his arm aloft, and 
moved his hand to and fro, 

“ Oh, no,” said he, “ if my pulse 
were failing I could not move my 
hand ; if — ” 

Suddenly he ceased speaking, and 
uttered a loud cry, his uplifted arm 
sinking heavily to his side. 

“ Jesus, Jesus I ” murmured the king, 
“ I live and die in Thee. Thou art 
my trust.” 

The last fearful prayer died on his 


lips, the siDirit had flown, and Fred 
erick William was no longer a living, 
thinking being, but senseless, powerless 
clay. 

The prince royal conducted the 
weeping queen from the apartment 
The courtiers remained, but their fea- 
tures were no longer sad and sympa- 
thetic, but grave and thoughtful. The 
tragedy here was at an end, and all 
were anxious to see the drama from 
which the curtain was now to be 
drawn in the apartments of the prince 
royal. Frederick William had breathed 
his last, and was becoming cold and 
stiff ; he was only a corpse, with which 
one had nothing more to do. 

In unseemly haste they all crowded 
through the widely - opened folding- 
doors of the death-chamber, and hast- 
ened into the anteroom that led to the 
young king’s apartments. 

Who will be favored, who receive 
the flrst rays of the rising sun ? They 
all see a sunny future before them. A 
new period begins, a period of splen- 
dor, abundance, and joy ; the king is 
young, and fond of display and gay 
festivities ; he is no soldier-king, but a 
cavalier, a writer, and a learned man. 
Art and science will bloom, gallantry 
and fashion reign ; the corporal’s baton 
is broken, the flute begins her soft, 
melodious reign. 

Thus thought all these waiting cour- 
tiers who were assembled in the young 
king’s antechamber. Thus thought 
the grand-chamberlain Pollnitz, who 
stood next to the door that led to the 
chamber within. Yes, a new period 
must commence for him ; his would be 
a brilliant future, for the prince royal 
had always been loving and gracious 
to him, and the young king must re- 
member that it was Pollnitz who in- 
duced Frederick William to pay the 
prince’s debts. The king must remem- 
ber this, and, for the services he had 
rendered, raise him to honor and dig- 


LE ROI EST MORT.— VIVE LE ROI! 


59 


nity ; "he must be the favorite, the en- 
vied, feared, and powerful favorite, be- 
fore whom all should bend the knee as 
to the king himself. The king was 
young, inexperienced, and easily led ; 
he had a warm heart, a rich imagina- 
tion, and an ardent love of pleasure 
and splendor. These qualities must be 
cultivated in the young king ; by these 
reins he would control him ; and while, 
intoxicated with pleasure and delight, 
he lay on his sweet - scented couch, 
strengthening himself for new follies, 
Pollnitz would reign in his stead, and 
be the real king. 

These were no chimeras, no vain 
dreams, but a well-considered plan, in 
which Pollnitz had a powerful abettor 
in the person of Fredersdorf, chamber- 
lain of the young king, who had prom- 
ised that he should be the first that the 
king should call for. 

For this reason Pollnitz stood near- 
est the door; for this reason he so 
proudly regarded the courtiers who 
were breathlessly awaiting the opening 
of that door. 

There, the door opens, and Freders- 
dorf appears. 

“ Baron Pollnitz ! ” 

“Here I am,” exclaimed Pollnitz, 
casting a triumphant look at his com- 
panions, and following Fredersdorf 
into the royal presence. 

“TVell, have I not kept my prom- 
ise ? ” said Fredersdorf, as they passed 
through the first room. 

“You have kept yours, and I will 
keep mine ; we will reign together.” 

“ Step in — the king is there,” said 
Fredersdorf. 

The young king stood at the window, 
his forehead resting on the sash, sigh- 
ing and breathing heavily, as if op- 
pressed. As he turned, Pollnitz no- 
ticed that his eyes were red with weep- 
ing, and the courtier’s heart misgave 
him. 

A young king, just come into power. 


and not intoxicated by his brilliant 
fortune, but weeping for his father’s 
death ! It augured ill for the courtier’s 
plans. 

“All hail and blessing to your ma 
jesty ! ” exclaimed Pollnitz, bowing 
with apparent enthusiasm to kiss the 
king’s robe. 

The king stepped aside, motioned 
him off, and said, with a slight smile : 
“ Leave these ceremonies until the cor- 
onation. I need you now for other 
things. You shall be master of eti- 
quette and ceremonies at my court, and 
you will commence your duties by 
making the necessary arrangements for 
my father’s funeral. Unhappily, I must 
begin my reign by disobeying my fa- 
ther’s commands. I cannot allow this 
simple and modest funeral to take 
place. The world would not under- 
stand it, and would accuse me of ir- 
reverence. No, he must be interred 
with all the honors due to a king. That 
is my desire ; see that it is accom- 
plished.” 

The grand - chamberlain was dis- 
missed, and passed out of the royal 
chambers lost in contem^fiation of his 
coming greatness, when, suddenly hear- 
ing his name, he turned and perceived 
the king at the door. 

“ One thing more, Pollnitz,” said the 
king, his eye resting with a piercing 
expression on the smiling countenance 
of the courtier; “one thing more — 
above all things, no cheating, no bad 
jokes, no overrating, no accounts writ- 
ten with double chalk. I will never 
forgive any thing of this kind, remem- 
ber that ! ” 

Without awaiting an answer, the 
king turned and reentered his room. 

Baron Pollnitz stared after him with 
widely-distended eyes; he felt as if a 
thunderbolt had destroyed his future. 

This was not the extravagant, volup- 
tuous, and confiding monarch that 
Pollnitz had thought him, but a sober, 


60 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


earnest, and frugal king, who even mis- 
trusted and saw through him, the wily 
old courtier. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WE ARE KING. 

Two days and nights had passed, 
and still no news from the prince royal. 
Edng Frederick William still lived, 
and the little court of Rheinsberg was 
consumed with impatience and expec- 
tation. All means of dissipation were 
exhausted. Time had laid aside his 
wing, and put on shoes of lead. He 
flew no longer, but walked like an aged 
woman. How long an hour seems, 
when you count the seconds! How 
terribly a day stretches out when, with 
wakeful but wearied eyes, you long for 
its close ! 

Kaiserling’s wit and Chazot’s merry 
humor, where are they ? Why is Biel- 
feld’s ringing laugh and the flute of 
Quantz silenced ? All is quiet, all are 
silent and waiting, dreaming of the 
happiness in store for them, of the 
day of splendor, power, and magnifi- 
cence that will dawn for the favorites 
and friends of the prince royal when he 
ascends the throne. 

Is it not a proud and delightful 
thing to be the confidant and com- 
panion of a king — to spend with him 
his treasures and riches, to share with 
him the devotion and applause of the 
people ? 

Until now they had been forced to 
disguise their friendship and devotion 
for the prince royal. They trembled 
for fear of exciting the king’s anger, 
and were in dailv terror of being ban- 
ished by him from the presence of their 
prince. 

When the prince royal ascends the 
throne they will be his powerful and 
influential favorites, and their favor 


will be courted by all. The} ^viIl I e 
his co-regents, and through and with 
him rule the nation. 

It is, therefore, not astonishing that 
they looked forward to his accession 
to the throne with longing and im- 
patience ; npt surprising that they 
cursed these sluggish, slowly-passing 
hours, and would fain have slept on 
until the great and blessed moment 
when they should be awakened with 
the news that their friend Prince Fred- 
erick had ascended the throne of his 
fathers, and was King of Prussia. 

In the midst of this excitement the 
princess royal alone seemed quiet and 
unconstrained. She was calm and com- 
posed; she knew that the events of 
the next few days would determine her 
whole life ; she feared that her happi- 
ness hung on tlje slender thread which 
bound the dying king to life. 

But Elizabeth Christine had a brave 
heart and a noble soul ; she had passed 
the night on her knees weejiing and 
praying, and her heart was full of mis- 
ery. She had at last become quiet and 
composed, and was prepared for any 
thing, even for a separation from her 
husband. If Frederick expressed such 
a wish, she was determined to go. 
AYhere? Anywhere. Far, flir away I 
Whichever route she took, she was cer- 
tain to reach her destination, and this 
destination was the grave. If she 
could not live with him, she would die I 
She knew this, and knowing it she was 
tranquil, even happy. 

“ I invite all the ladies and gentle- 
men of the court to spend the evening 
in my room,” she said, on the second 
day of this painful expectation; “we 
will endeavor to imagine that the 
prince royal is in our midst, and pass 
the hours in the usual manner ; we will 
first go yachting ; afterward we will all 
take tea together, and Baron Biclfeld 
will read us a few chapters from the 
‘ Henriade.’ We will then play cards, 


WE ARE KING. 


61 


and fiuish the evening with a dance. 
Does this programme meet with your 
approbation ? ” All murmured some 
words of assent and thanks, but their 
faces were nevertheless slightly cloud- 
ed. Perceiving this, the princess royal 
said: “It seems that you are not 
pleased — that my suggestion does not 
meet with your approbation. Even the 
face of my little Louise von Schwerin 
is clouded, and the countenance of my 
good Countess Katsch no longer wears 
its pleasant smile. Well, what is it ? 
I must know. — Baron Bielfeld, I ap- 
point you speaker of this discontented 
community. Speak, sir ! ” 

The baron smiled and sighed : “ Y our 
highness spoke a few days since of your 
gVt’t of prophecy, and in fact you are a 
prophetess, and have seen through us. 
It is certainly a great happiness and a 
great honor to spend the evening in 
the apartments of the princess royal. 
But if your highness would allow us to 
ask a favor, it would be that our ex- 
alted mistress would condescend to re- 
ceive us either in the garden-saloon or 
music-room, and not in your private 
apartments ; for these apartments, beau- 
tiful and magnificent as they are, have 
one great, one terrible defect.” 

“ Well,” said the princess, as Bielfeld 
concluded, “I am curious to know what 
this defect is. I believed my rooms tc 
be beautiful and charming; the prince 
royal him.self regulated their arrange- 
ment, and Pesne and Buisson orna- 
mented them with their most beautiful 
paintings. Quick, then, tell me of this 
great defect 1 ” 

“ Your highness, your apartments are 
in the right wing of the castle.” The 
princess looked at him inquiringly, as- 
tonishment depicted in her counte- 
nance, and then laughed. 

“ Ah, now I see — my apartments are 
in the right wing of the castle ; that is, 
from there you cannot watch the great 
oridge, over which all that come from | 


Berlin or Potsdam must pasa You are 
right, this is a great defect. But the 
music-room is in the left wing, and 
from there you can see both the bridge 
and the road. Let us, tlicn, adjourn to 
the music-room for our reading, and 
when it becomes too dark to see, we 
will play cards in my apartments.” 

They all followed the princess to the 
music-room, where by chance or out of 
mischief the princess chose the seat 
farthest from the window, and thus 
compelled the company to assemble 
around her. As they followed her, 
they all looked longingly through the 
window and toward the bridge, over 
which the messenger of happiness 
might at any moment pass. 

Bielfeld took the book selected by 
the princess, and commenced reading. 
But how torturing it was to read, to 
listen to those pathetic and measured 
Alexandrines from the “ Henriade,” 
while perchance in this same hour a 
new Alexander was placing the crown 
upon his young and noble head I In 
fact, but little was heard of these har- 
monious verses. All looked stealthily 
toward the window, and listened 
breathlessly to every sound that came 
from the road. Bielfeld suddenly ceased 
reading, and looked toward the win- 
dow. 

“Wliy do you not read on?” said 
the princess. 

“Excuse me, I thought I saw a 
horse’s head on the bridge I ” 

Forthwith, as if upon a given signal, 
they all flew to the windows ; the prin 
cess herself, in the general commotion, 
hastened to one. 

Yes ! Between the trees something 
was seen moving. There, it is coming 
on the bridge now ! A peal of laugh- 
ter resounded through the rooms. An 
ox I Count Bielfeld’s courier had 
transformed himself into an ox I 

They all stole back to their seats in 
confusion, and the reading was recom- 


62 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


menced. But it did not last long; 
again Bielfeld came to a stop. 

“ Pardon me, your highness, but now 
there is positively a horse on the 
bridge.” 

Again they all rushed anxiously to 
the window. It certainly was a horse, 
but its rider was not a royal messenger, 
only a common peasant. 

“ I see,” said the princess, laughing, 

“ that we must discontinue our read- 
ing. Let us walk in the left wing of 
the garden, and as near the gate as 
possible.” 

“ Will the sun never set ? ” whispered 
Bielfeld to Count Wartensleben, as they 
walked up and down. “ I fear another 
Joshua has arrested its course.” 

But it set at last ; it was now even- 
ing, and still no courier had passed 
the bridge. They accepted the prin- 
cess’s invitation, and hastened to her 
apartments and to the card-tables. — 
And on this occasion, as heretofore, the 
cards exercised a magic influence over 
the inhabitants of Kheinsberg, for they 
were striving to win that, from the 
want of which, not only the prince but 
all his courtiers had so often suffered — 
gold I Count Wartensleben had lately 
arrived and brought with him a well- 
filled purse, which Bielfeld, Kaiserling, 
and Chazot were anxious to lighten. 

The princess played with her maids 
of honor a game called Trisset, in her 
boudoir ; while the rest of the compa- 
ny, seated at several tables in the ad- 
joining room, played their beloved 
game of quadrille. The door suddenly 
opened, and a valet ai3peared. In 
passing the table at which Count 
Wai’tensleben, Bielfeld, and several la- 
dies were playing, he stealthily showed 
them a letter with a black seal, which 
he was about to deliver to the prin- 
cess. 

" The king is then dead I ” murmured 
they, hastily throwing their cards on 
the table. The counters fell together, 


but they looked at them in disdain. 
What cared they for a few lost pennies, 
now that their prince had become 
king ? 

Count Wartensleben arose and said 
in a solemn voice: “I will be the 
first to greet the princess as queen, and 
I will exert every effort to utter the 
word ‘majesty’ in a full, resounding 
tone.” 

“ I will follow you,” said Bielfeld, 
solemnly. 

And both advanced to the open door, 
through which the princess could be 
seen still occupied in reading her letter. 
She seemed unusually gay, and a bright 
smile played upon her lips. Acciden- 
tally looking up, she perceived the two 
cavaliers advancing slowly and sol- 
emnly toward her. 

“Ah, you know, then, that a courier 
has at last crossed that fatal bridge, 
and you come for news of the prince 
royal ? ” 

“Prince royal?” repeated Wartens- 
leben, in amazement. “Is he still the 
prince royal ? ” 

“ You then thought he was king I ” 
exclaimed the princess, “ and came to 
greet me as your queen ? ” 

“Yes, your highness, and the word 
‘ majesty’ was already on my lips.” * 

They all laughed heartily, and jested 
over this mistake, biit were neverthe- 
less thankful when they were at last 
dismissed and were allowed to retire 
to their rooms. When entirely alone, 
the princess drew from her bosom the 
letter she had received, to read it once 
more; she cast a loving and tender 
glance at the characters his hand had 
traced, and as her eyes rested on his 
signature, she raised the paper to her 
lips and kissed it. 

“Frederick,” whispered she, “my 
Frederick, I love you so deeply that I 
envy this paper which has been touched 
by your hand, and upon which your 
glorious eyes have rested. Ko, no,” 


WE ARE KING. 


63 


said she, “ he will not cast me off. Is 
it not written here — ‘ In a few days I 
and the people will greet you as queen ? ’ 
No, he could not be so cruel as to set 
the crown on my head, and then cover 
it with ashes. If he acknowledges me 
as his wife and queen before his peo- 
ple, and before Germany, it must be his 
intention never to disown me, but to 
let me live on by his side. Oh, he 
must surely know how truly I love 
him, although I have never had the 
courage to tell him so. My tears and 
my sighs must have whispered to him 
the secret of my love, and he will have 
compassion upon a poor wife who asks 
but to be permitted to adore and wor- 
ship him. And who knows but that 
he may one day be touched by this 
great love, that he will one day raise 
up the poor woman who now lies trem- 
bling at his feet, and press her to his 
bosom ! Oh, that this may be so, my 
God 1 let it be, and then let me die ! ” 

She sank back on her couch, and, 
pressing the letter to her lips, whis- 
pered softly : “ Good-night, Frederick, 
my Frederick ! ” She smiled sweetly 
as she slept. Perhaps she was dream- 
ing of him. 

A deep silence soon reigned through- 
out the castle. All the lights were ex- 
tinguished. Sleep spread its wings 
over all these impatient and expectant 
hearts, and fanned them into forgetful- 
ness and peaceful rest. 

All slept, and now the long-expected 
courier is at last passing over the 
bridge, which trembled beneath his 
horse’s feet, but none hear him, all are 
sleeping so soundly. His knocks re- 
sound through the entire castle. It is 
the herald of the new era, which sheds 
its first bright 'morning rays over the 
evening of the dark and gloomy past. 

Now all are awake, and running to 
and fro through the halls, each one 
burning with eagerness to proclaim the 
joyful news : “ Frederick is no longer 


prince royal. Frederick is king and 
the ruler of Prussia 1 ” 

Bielfeld is awakened by a loud 
knocking; he springs hastily out of 
bed and opens the door to his friend 
Knobelsdorf. “ Up, up, my friend ! ” 
exclaims the latter. “Dress quickly. 
We must go down and congratulate 
the queen ; we must be ready to ac- 
company her immediately to Berlin. 
Frederick William is dead, and we will 
now reign in Prussia.” 

“ Ah, another fairy tale,” said Biel- 
feld, dressing hastily ; “ a fairy tale, by 
which we have been too often deceived 
to believe in its truth.” 

“ No, no, this time it is true. The 
king is dead, quite dead ! Jordan has 
received orders to embalm the corpse, 
and, once in his hands, it will never 
come to life again.” 

Bielfeld being now ready, the two 
friends hurried to the antechamber 
that led to the princess royal’s apart- 
ments. The entire court of the new 
queen had assembled in this chamber, 
and they were endeavoring to suppress 
their joy and delight, and to look grave 
and earnest in consideration of the so- 
lemnity of the occasion. They conversed 
in whispers, for the bedchamber of the 
princess was next to this room, and she 
still slept. 

“ Yes, the princess royal sleeps, but 
when she awakes she will be a queen I 
She must be awakened, to receive her 
husband’s letter.” 

The Countess Katsch, with two of 
Elizabeth’s maids of honor, entered her 
bedchamber, well armed with smelling- 
bottles and salts. Elizabeth Christine 
still slept. But on so important an oc- 
casion the sleep even of a princess was 
not considered sacred. The countess 
drew back the curtains, and Elizabeth 
was awakened by the bright, glaring 
light. She looked inquiringly at the 
countess, who approached her with 
a low and solemn courtesy. 


64 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“Pardon me for waking your majes- 
ty—” 

“ Majesty I wby ‘ your majesty ? ’ ” 
said the princess, quickly. “Has an- 
other ox or horse crossed the fata^ 
bridge ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, but it was Baron 
Villich’s horse, and he brought the 
news that King Frederick WHliam ex- 
pired yesterday at Potsdam. I have a 
smelling-bottle here, your majesty ; al- 
low me to hold — ” 

The young queen pushed back the 
smelling-bottle ; she did not feel in the 
least like fainting, and her heart beat 
higher. 

“ And has the baron brought no let- 
ter for me ? ” said she, breathlessly. 

“ Here is a letter, your majesty.” 

The queen hastily broke the seal. It 
contained but a few lines, but they 
were in her husband’s handwriting, 
and were full of significance. To her 
these few lines indicated a future full 
of splendor, happiness, and love. The 
king called her to share with him the 
homage of his subjects. It is true there 
was not a word of tenderness or love 
in the letter, but the king called her to 
his side ; he called her his wife. 

Away, then, away to Berlin, where 
her husband was awaiting her ; where 
the people would greet her as their 
queen ; where a new world, a new life 
would unfold itself before her — a life 
of proud enjoyment 1 For Elizabeth 
will be the queen, the wife of Fred- 
erick. Away, then, to Berlin ! 

The queen received the congratula- 
tions of her court in the music-room. 
And now to Berlin, where a new sun 
has risen, — a King Frederick the 
Second I 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ROYAL GRACE A]ND ROYAL DISPLEASURE. 

The cannon thundered, the beHs 
rang loudly and merrily ; the garrison 
in Berlin took the oath, as the garrif.on 
of Potsdam had done the day befori'. 

The young king held his first g; eat 
court to-day in the White Salmon. 
From every province, from every state, 
from every corporation, deputations 
had arrived to look upon the long- 
hoped-for king, the liberator from op- 
pression, servitude, and famine. De- 
light and pure unqualified joy reigned in 
every heart, and those who looked upon 
the features of Frederick, illuminated 
with kindliness and intellect, felt that 
for Prussia it was the de.5vning of a 
new era. 

But who was called to assist in or- 
ganizing this new movcjnent ? Whom 
had the king chosen irom amongst his 
friends and servants % whom had he 
set aside ? upon whoiU would he re- 
venge himself? Truth to tell, there 
were many now standing in the White 
Saloon who had often, perhaps, in obe- 
dience to the king’s c^.minand, brought 
suffering and bitter ; jrrow upon the 
prince royal ; many »vere there who 
had humbled him, n.isused his confi- 
dence, and often brought down his fa- 
ther’s rage and scorn upon him. 

Will the king remember these things, 
now that he has the power to punish 
and revenge his wrongs ? Many had 
entered the White Saloon trembling 
with anxiety; timidly keeping in the 
distance; glad that the eye of the 
king did not rest upon them ; glad to 
slip unseen into a corner. 

But nothing escaped the eye of Fred- 
erick. He had remarked the group 
standing in the far-oflf window ; he un- 
derstood full well their restless, dis- 
turbed, and anxious glances, A pity- 
ing and sweet smile spread over his 


ROYAL GRACE AND ROYAL DISPLEASURE. 


6e 


noble features, an expression of infinite 
gentleness illumined bis face. With 
head erect he drew near to this group, 
who, with the instinct of a common 
danger, pressed more closely together, 
and awaited their fate silently. 

Who had so often and so heavily op- 
pressed the prince as Colonel Derchau ? 
who had mocked at him and perse- 
cuted him so bitterly ? who had car- 
ried out the harsh commands of the 
king against him so unrelentingly ? It 
was Derchau and Grumbkow who pre- 
sided at the first cruel trial of “ Cap- 
tain Fritz,” and had repeated to him 
the hard and threatening words of the 
king. “ Captain Fritz ” had wept with 
rage, and sworn to revenge himself 
upon these cruel men. Will the king 
remember the oath of the captain ? 
The king stood now near the colonel ; 
his clear eye was fixed upon him. This 
man, who had prepared for him so 
many woes, now stood with bowed 
head and loudly-beating heart, com- 
pletely in his power. Suddenly, with 
a hasty movement, the king extended 
his hand, and said, mildly : 

“ Good-day, Derchau.” It was the 
first time in seven years that Frederick 
had spoken to him, and this simple 
greeting touched his heart ; he bowed 
low, and as he kissed the outstretched 
hand, a hot tear fell upon it. “ Colo- 
nel Derchau,” said the king, “you 
were a faithful and obedient servant to 
my royal father ; you have punctually 
followed his wishes and given him un- 
conditional obedience. It becomes me 
to reward my father’s faithful subject. 
From to-day you are a major-general.” 

As the king turned, his eye fell upon 
the privy councillor Von Eckert, and 
the mild and conciliating expression 
vanished from his features ; he looked 
hard and stern. 

“ Has the coat-of-arms been placed 
upon the house in Jager Street ? ” said 
the king. 


“ No, your majesty.” 

“ Then I counsel you not to have it 
done ; this house is the property of the 
crown, and it shall not be sacrificed by 
such folly. Go home, and there you 
will receive my commands.” 

Pale and heart-broken, Eckert glided 
from the group ; mocking laughter fol- 
lowed his steps through the saloons; 
no one had a word of regret or pity 
for him ; no one remembered their for- 
mer friendship and oft-repeated assur- 
ances of service and gratitude. He 
passed tremblingly through the palace; 
as he reached the outer door, Pollnitz 
stepped before him ; a mocking smile 
played upon his lips, and his glance 
betrayed all the hatred which he had 
been compelled to veil or conceal dur- 
ing the life of Frederick William. 

“ Now,” said he, slowly, “ will you 
send me the wine which you promised 
from your cellar? You understand^ 
the wine from your house in Jager 
Street, for which I arranged the coat- 
of-arms 1 Ah, those were charming 
days, my dear privy councillor ! You 
have often broken your word of honor 
to me, often slandered me, and brought 
upon me the reproaches of the king. I 
have, however, reason to be thankful 
to you; this house which you have 
built in Jager Street is stately and 
handsome, and large enough for a cav- 
alier of my pretensions. You have, 
also, at the cost of the king, furnished 
it with such princely elegance that it 
is in all things an appropriate residence 
for a cavalier. Do you not remember 
my description of such a house ? The 
king called it then a Spanish air-castle. 
You, great-hearted man, have made my 
castle in the air a splendid reality, and 
now that it is finished and furnished, 
you will, in your magnanimity, leave 
that house to me. I shall be your heir I 
You know, my dear Eckert, that the 
privy councillor is dead, and only the 
chimney-builder lives; and even the 


6 


66 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


adroit chimney - builder is banished 
from Berlin, and must remain twenty 
miles away from his splendid home. 
But tell me, Eckert, when one of my 
chimneys smokes, may I not send a 
messenger for you ? will you not prom- 
ise me to come and put things in order 
for me ? ” 

Von Eckert muttered some confused 
words, and tried to force Pollnitz from 
the door, before which the hard-heart- 
ed, spiteful courtier had placed himself, 
like the angel with the avenging sword. 

“You wish to go,” said he, with as- 
sumed kindliness. “ Oh, without doubt, 
you wish to see the royal commands 
now awaiting you at your house. I 
can tell you literally the sentence of 
the king: you have lost your office, 
your income, your rank, and you are 
oanished from Berlin ! — that is all. 
The king, as you see, has been gra- 
cious ; he could have had you execu- 
ted, or sent to Spandau for life, but he 
would not desecrate his new reign with 
your blood. For this reason was he 
gracious.” 

“Let me pass,” said Eckert, trem- 
bling, and pale as death. “ I am chok- 
ing ! let me out ! ” 

Pollnitz still held him back. “Do 
you not know, good man, that a thou- 
sand men stand below in the court- 
yard? do you not hear their shouts 
and rejoicings? Well, these hurrahs 
will be changed into growls of rage 
when the people see you, my dear Eck- 
ert; in their wild wrath they might 
.mistake you for a good roast, with 
which to quiet their hunger. You 
know that the people are hungry — you, 
who filled the barns of the king wdth 
grain, and placed great locks and bars 
I upon the doors, lest the people, in their 
•despairing hunger, might seize upon 
ithe.com 1 You even swore to the king 
that the people had enough, and did 
not need Ms com or his help I Listen, 
the people shout again ; I will not de- 


tain you. Gc and look upon these 
happy people. The king has opened 
the granaries and scattered bread far 
and wide, and the tax upon meal is re- 
moved for a month.* Go, dear Eckert, 
go and see how happy the people are I ” 

With a wild curse Eckert sprang 
from the door ; Pollnitz followed him 
with a mocking glance. “ Revenge is 
sweet,” he said, drawing a long breath ; 
“ he has often done me wrong, and now 
I have paid him back with usury. 
Eckert is lost. Would that I had his 
house I I must have it 1 I will have 
it I Oh, I will make myself absolutely 
necessary to the king ; I will flatter, I 
will praise, I will find out and fulfil his 
most secret, his unspoken wishes. I 
will force him to give me his confi- 
dence — to make me his maitre de 
plaisir. Yes, yes, the house in Jager 
Street shall be mine I I have sworn it, 
and Fredersdorf has promised me his 
influence. And now to the king; I 
must see for myself if this young royal 
child can, like Hercules in his cradle, 
destroy serpents on the day of his birth ; 
or, if he is a king, like all other kings, 
overcome by flattery, idle and vain, 
knowing or acknowledging no laws 
over himself, but those of his own con- 
science and his ton plaidr. But hark I 
that is the king’s voice ; to whom is he 
speaking ? ” 

Pollnitz hastened into the adjoining 
room; the king was standing in the 
midst of his ministers, and a deputa- 
tion of magistrates of Berlin, and was 
in the act of dismissing them. 

“ I command you,” said the king, in 
conclusion, turning to his ministers, 
“ as often as you think it necessary to 
make any changes in my orders and 
regulations, to make known to me 
your opinions freely, and not to be 
weary in so doing ; I may, unhappily, 


♦See King’s “History of Berlin,” toJ t.— Th« 
king’s own words. 


ROYAL GRACE AND ROYAL DISPLEASURE. 


67 


sometimes lose sight of the true inter- 
ests of my subjects ; I am resolved that 
whenever in future my personal inter- 
est shall seem to be contrary to the 
welfare of my people, their happiness 
shall receive the first consideration.” 

“Alas, it will be very difficult to 
tame this youthful Hercules!” mur- 
mured Pollnitz, glancing toward the 
king, who was just leaving the apart- 
ment ; “the serpents that we will twine 
about him must be strong and alluring ; 
now happily Fredersdorf and myself 
are acquainted with some such ser- 
pents, and we will take care that he 
finds them in his path.” 

In the mean time the king had left 
the reception-room, and retired to his 
private apartments, where the friends 
and confidants from Rheinsberg await- 
ed him with hopeful hearts. They 
were all ready to receive the showers 
of gold, which, without doubt, would 
rain down upon them. They were all 
convinced that the young king would 
lay upon them, at least, a corner of the 
mantle of ermine and purple with 
which his shoulders should be adorned. 
They alone would be chosen to aid 
in bearing the burden of his kingly 
crown and royal sceptre. They were 
all dreaming of ambassadorships, presi- 
dencies, and major-general epaulettes. 

As the king entered, they received 
him with loud cries of joy. The Mar- 
grave Henry, who had often borne a 
part in the gay fHes at Rheinsberg, 
hastened to greet the king with gay, 
witty words, and both hands extended. 
Frederick did not respond to this 
greeting; he did not smile. Looking 
steadily at the margrave, he stepped 
back and said : 

“ Monsieur, now I am the king ; no 
longer the gardener at Rheinsberg.” 
The king read the pained astonishment 
in the faces of his friends, who, one 
moment before, had been so hopeful, 
BO assured ; he advanced and said, in a 


kindly tone, “ We are no longer in 
Rheinsberg. The beautiful proverb of 
Horace belongs to our past — ‘ Folly is 
sweet in its season.’ There I was the 
gardener and the friend — here I am the 
king; here all must work, and each 
one must use his talents and his 
strength in the service of the state, 
and thus prove to the people that the 
prince had reason to choose him for a 
friend.” 

“ And may I also be a partaker of 
that grace and be counted amongst the 
friends of the king?” said the old 
Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, who, vnth his 
two sons, had just entered and heard 
the last words of Frederick ; “ will your 
majesty continue to me and my sons 
the favor which your ever-blessed fa- 
ther granted to us during so many long 
and happy years ? Oh, your majesty, 
I beseech you to be gracious to us, and 
grant us the position and infiuence 
which we have so long enjoyed.” So 
saying, the old prince bent his knee 
to the youthful monarch. Frederick 
bowed his head thoughtfully, and a 
smile played upon his lips ; he gave his 
hand to the prince, and commanded 
him to rise. 

“ I will gladly leave you your place 
and income, for I am sure you will 
serve me as faithfully and zealous- 
ly as you did my father. — ^As regards 
the position and influence which you 
desire, I say to you all, no man under 
my reign will have position but myself, 
and not even my best friend will exer- 
cise the slightest influence over me.” 

The friends from Rheinsberg turned 
pale, and exchanged stolen glances 
with each other. There was no more 
jesting; a hand of ice had been laid 
upon their heating hearts, and the 
wings of hope were broken. The king 
did not seem to remark the change; 
he drew near to his friend Jordan, and, 
taking his arm, walked to the window, 
and spoke with him long and earnestly. 


68 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


The courtiers and favorites looked 
after their happy friend with envious 
glances, and observed every shade in 
the countenances of the king and Jor- 
dan. Frederick was calm, but an ex- 
pression of painful surprise settled like 
a cloud upon Jordan. Now the king 
left the window, and called Bielfeld to 
him; spoke with him also long and 
gravely, and then dismissed him, and 
nodded to Chazot to join him. Lastly 
he took the arm of the Duke of War- 
tensleben, and walked backward and 
forward, chatting with him. The 
duke was radiant with joy, but the 
other courtiers looked suspicious and 
lowering; with none of them had he 
spoken so long ; no other arm had he 
so familiarly taken. It was clear that 
"Wartensleben was the declared favorite 
of the king ; he had driven them from 
the field. 

The king observed all this ; he had 
read the envy, malice, rage, and melan- 
choly in the faces of his friends; he 
knew them all too well, had too long 
observed them, not to be able to read 
their thoughts. It had pleased him to 
sport awhile with these small souls, so 
filled with selfishness, envy, and every 
evil passion ; he wished to give them 
a lesson, and bring them down from 
their" dizzy and imaginary heights to 
the stern realities of life. The king 
had used Wartensleben as his instru- 
ment for this purpose, and now must 
the poor duke’s wings be clipped. The 
mounting waves of his ambition must 
be quieted by the oil of truth. 

“ Yes,” said the king, “ I am the ruler 
of a kingdom; I have a great army 
and a well-filled treasury. You cannot 
doubt that it is my highest aim to 
make my country blossom as the rose ; 
to uphold the reputation of my army, 
and to make the best use of my riches. 
The gold is there to circulate; it 
there to reward those who faithfully 
serve their fatherland; but, above all 


other things, it is there for those who 
are truly my fnends.” 

The features of the young duke were 
radiant with expectation. As the king 
saw this, a mocking smile flashed from 
his eye. 

“I will, however, naturally know 
how to distinguish between my friends, 
and those who do not need gold will 
not receive it. You, for example, my 
dear duke, are enormously rich ; you 
will content yourself, therefore, with 
my love, as you will naturally never re- 
ceive a dollar from me.” So speaking, 
he nodded kindly to the duke, passed 
into the next room, and closed the 
door behind him. Grave and dumb, 
the friends from Rheinsberg gazed 
upon each other; each one regarded 
the other as his successful rival, and 
thought to see in him what he had not 
become — a powerful favorite, a minis- 
ter, or general. All felt their love 
growing cold, and almost hated the 
friends who stood in their way. Jor- 
dan was the first who broke silence. 
Reaching his hand to Bielfeld, he said ; 

“ It must not be thought that disap- 
pointed hopes have hardened our hearts, 
and that envy blinds us to the advanta- 
ges of our friends. I love you, Bielfeld, 
because of your advantages and talents ; 
and I understand full well why the 
king advances you before me. Receive 
also my good wishes, and be assured 
that from my heart I rejoice in your 
success.” 

Bielfeld looked amazed. “My suc- 
cess ! ” said he. “ Dear friend, you 
need not be envious ; and as to my ad- 
vancement, it is so small an affair that 
I can scarcely find it. The king said 
he intended me for a diplomatist, but 
that I needed years of instruction. With 
this view he had selected me to ac- 
company Duke Triickfess to Hanover. 
When I returned from there, I would 
receive further orders. This is my pro- 
motion, and you must confess I makf 


ROYAL GRACE AND ROYAL DISPLEASURE. 


69 


& small beginning. But you, dear Jor- 
dan, what important position have you 
received ? You are the king’s dearest 
friend, and he has without doubt ad- 
vanced you above us all. I acknowl- 
edge that you merit this. Tell us also 
what are you ? ” 

“ Yes,” cried they all eagerly, “ what 
are you ? Are you minister of state or 
minister of church affairs ? ” 

“ What am I ? ” cried Jordan, laugh- 
ing. “I will tell you, my friends. I 
am not minister of church affairs ; I am 
not minister of state. I am — ah, you 
will never guess what I am — I belong 
to the police 1 I must remove the beg- 
gars from the* streets of Berlin, and 
found a workhouse for them. Now, 
dear friends, am I not enviable ? ” For 
a moment all were silent; then every 
eye was fixed upon Wartensleben. 

“ And you, dear duke, are you made 
happy ? You have cut open the golden 
apple; you have the longed-for port- 
folio.” 

“II” cried the duke, half angry, 
half merry. “ I have nothing, and will 
receive nothing. I will tell you what 
the king said to me. He assured me 
earnestly that I was rich enough, and 
would never receive a dollar from him.” 

At this announcement they all broke 
out in uproarious laughter. “Let us 
confess,” said Bielfeld, “ that we have 
played to-day a rare comedy — a farce 
which Moli^re might have written, and 
which must bear the title of La Journee 
iea Dupes. Now, as we have none of 
us become distinguished, let us all be 
joyful and love each other dearly. — But 
listen 1 the king plays the fiute ; how 
soft, how melting is the sound I ” 

Yes, the king played the flute ; he 
cast out with those melodious strains 
the evil spirit of ennui which the tire- 
some etiquette of the day had brought 
upon him. He played the flute to re- 
cover himself — to regain his cheerful 
spirit and a clear brow. Soon he laid 


it aside, and his eye rested upon the 
unopened letters and papers with 
which the table was covered. Yes, he 
must open all these letters, and answer 
them himself, he alone. Nobody should 
do his work; all should work only 
through him ; no one should decree or 
command in Prussia but the king. 
Every thing should flow from him. He 
would be the heart and soul of his 
country. 

Frederick opened and read the let- 
ters, and wrote the answer on the mar- 
^n of the paper, leaving it to the secre- 
tary to copy. And now the work was 
almost done ; the paper with the great 
seal, which he now opened, was the last. 

This was a declaration from the 
Church department, which announced 
that, through the influence of the Cath- 
olic schools in Berlin, many Protestants 
had become Catholics. Did not his 
majesty think it best to close these 
schools ? A pitiful smile played upon 
the lips of Frederick as he read. “ And 
they say they believe in one God, and 
their priests and ministers preach 
Christian forbearance and Christian 
love, while they kuow nothing of either. 
They have not God, but the Church, 
always before their eyes ; they are in- 
tolerant in their hearts, imperious, and 
full of cunning. I will bend them, and 
break down their assumed power. My 
whole life will be a battle with priests ; 
they will mock at me, and call me a 
heretic. Let the Church be ever against 
me, if my own conscience absolves me. 
Now I will begin the war, and what I 
now write will be a signal of alarm in 
the tents of all the pious priests.” 

Hfe took up the paper again and 
wrote on the margin, “All religions 
shall be tolerated. The magistrates 
must have their eyes open, and see that 
no sect imposes on another. In Prus- 
sia each man shall be saved in his own 
way.” * 


* Busching.— The king’s words. 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER L 

THE GARDEN OP MONBIJOU. 

The excitement of the first days was 
quieted. The yoimg king had with- 
drawn for a short time to the palace 
in Charlottenbnrg, while his wife re- 
mained in Berlin, anxiously expecting 
an invitation to follow her husband. 

But the young monarch appeared to 
have no care or thought save for his 
kingdom. He worked and studied 
without interruption ; even his beloved 
flute was untouched. 

Berlin was, according to etiquette, 
draped with mourning for a few days ; it 
served in this instance as a veil to the 
joy with which all looked forward to 
the coronation of the new king. All 
appeared earnest and solemn, but every 
heart was joyful and eveiy eye beam- 
ing. The palace of the king was si- 
lent and deserted; the king was, as 
we have said, at Charlottenbnrg ; the 
young queen was in the palace for- 
merly occupied by the prince i^al, 
and the dowager-queen Sophia Doro- 
thea had retired with the two princess- 
es, Ulrica and Amelia, to the palace of 
Monbijou. All were anxious and ex- 
pectant; all hoped for influence and 
honor, power and greatness. The scul- 
lion and the maids, as well as the 
counts and princes, and even the queen 


herself, dreamed of happy and glorioui 
days in the future. 

Sophia Dorothea had been too long 
a trembling, subjugated woman ; she 
was rejoicing in the thought that she 
might at length be a queen. Her son 
would doubtless grant to her all the 
power which had been denied her by 
her husband ; he would remember the 
days of tears and bitterness which she 
had endured for his sake; and now 
that the power was in his hands she 
would be repaid a thousand-fold. The 
young king would hold the sceptre in 
his hands, but he must allow his mother 
to aid in keeping it upright ; and if he 
found it too weighty, the queen was 
ready to bear it for him, and reign in 
his stead, while her dreamy son wrote 
poems, or played on the flute, or phi- 
losophized with his friends. Frederick 
was certainly not formed to rule; he 
was a poet and a philosopher; he 
dreamed of a Utopia ; he imagined an 
ideal which it was impossible to real- 
ize. The act of ruling would be a 
weary trial to him, and the sounds of 
the trumpet but ill accord with his har- 
monious dreams. 

But happily his mother was there, 
and was willing to reign for him ; to 
bear upon her shoulders the heavy bur- 
dens and cares of the kingdom ; to 
work with the ministers, while the king 
wrote poetical epistles to Voltaire. 


THE GARDEN 

Why should not Sophia Dorothea 
-eign? Were there not examples in 
»ll lands of noble women who gov- 
erned their people well and honorably ? 
Was not England proud of her Eliza- 
beth, Sweden of her Christina, Spain 
of Isabella, Russia of Catharine ? and 
even in Prussia the Queen Sophia Char- 
lotte had occupied a great and glorious 
position. Why could not Sophia Dor- 
othea accomplish as much or even more 
than her predecessor ? 

These were the thoughts of the queen 
as she walked up and down the shady 
paths of the garden of Monbijou, and 
listened with a proud smile to the flat- 
tering words of Count Manteufiel, who 
had just handed her a letter of condo- 
lence from the Empress of Austria. 

“Her majesty the empress has sent 
me a most loving and tender letter to- 
day,” said the dowager-queen, with an 
ironical smile. 

“ She has then only given expression 
to-day to those sentiments which she 
has always entertained for your majes- 
ty ? ” said the count, respectfully. 

The queen bowed her head smiling- 
ly, but said, “ The houses of Hohenzol- 
lern and Hapsburg have never been 
friendly; it is not in their nature to 
love one another.” 

“ The great families of Capulet and 
Montague said the same,” remarked 
Count Manteuflfel, “but the anger of 
the parents dissolved before the love 
of the children.” 

“But we have not arrived at the 
children,” said the queen proudly, as 
she thought how her husband had been 
deceived by the house of Austria, and 
recalled that, on his death -bed, he had 
commanded his son Frederick to re- 
venge those treacheries. 

“ Pardon me, your majesty, if I dare 
to contradict you ; we have most surely 
arrived at the children, and the diffi- 
culties of the parents are forgotten in 
their love. Is not the wife of the young 


OF MONBIJOU! 

king the deeply-loved niece of the 
Austrian empress ? ” 

“She was already his wife, count, 
when my husband visited the emperor 
in Bohemia, and it was not considered 
according to etiquette for the emperor 
to oflf^r his hand to the King of Prus- 
sia.” * 

“She was, however, not his wife 
when Austria, by her repeated and en- 
ergetic representations, saved the life 
of the prince royal. For your majesty 
knows that at one time that precious 
life was threatened.” 

“It was threatened, but it would 
have been preserved without the assist- 
ance of Austria; for the mother of 
Frederick was at hand, and that mother 
was sister to the King of England.” 
And the queen cast on the count so 
proud and scornful a glance, that his 
eyes fell involuntarily to the ground. 
Sophia Dorothea saw this, and smiled. 
This was her triumph ; she would now 
show herself mild and forgiving. “We 
will speak no more of the past,” she 
said, in a friendly manner. “ The 
death of my husband has cast a dark 
cloud over it, and I must think only 
of the future, that my son, the young 
king, may not always behold me with 
tears in my eyes. No, I will look for- 
ward, for I have a presentiment that 
Prussia’s future wiU be great and glo- 
rious.” 

“Would that it might be thus for 
the whole of Germany I ” cried the 
count. “ It must be so, if the houses 
of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg will for- 
get their ancient quarrels, and live eo- 
gether in love and peace.” 

“Let Hapsburg extend to us the 
hand of love and peace ; show us her 
sympathy, her justice, and her .grati- 
tude, in deeds, not words.” 

“ Austria is prepared to do so, youi 
majesty ; the question is, whether Prus* 


♦ Seckendorf a Leben. 


72 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT 


sia will grasp her hand and place upon 
it the ring of love.” 

The queen glanced up so quickly 
that she perceived the dark and threat- 
ening look of the count. “Austria is 
agaiA making matrimonial plans,” sbe 
said, with a bitter smile. “ She is not 
satisfied with one marriage, such as 
that of her imperial niece, she longs for 
a repetition of this master-work. But 
this time, count, there is no dear one 
to be saved at any cost from a prison ; 
this time the decision can be deferred 
until the arrival of aU the courtiers.” 
And the queen, dismissing the count 
with a slight bow, recalled her ladies 
of honor, who were lingering at a short 
distance, and passed into one of the 
other walks. 

Count Manteuflfel remained where 
the queen had left him, looking after 
her with an earnest and thoughtful 
countenance. “ She is prouder and 
more determined than formerly,” he 
murmured; “ that is a proof that she 
will be influential, and knows her 
power. What she said of the courier 
was without doubt an allusion to the 
one who arrived an hour too late, with 
the consent of England, on the be- 
trothal day of the prince royal. Ah ! 
there must be other couriers en route^ 
and one of them was most probably 
sent to England. We must see that he 
‘'arrives an hour too late, as the former 
' one did.” At this instant, and in his 
immediate vicinity, Manteuifel heard a 
soft and melodious voice saying, “ No, 
count, you can never make me believe 
in your love. You are much too blond 
to love deeply.” 

“ Blond I ” cried a manly voice, with 
a tone of horror. “ You do not like 
fair h^ir, and until now I have been so 
proud of mine ! But I will have it 
dyed black, if you will promise to be- 
lieve in my love.” The lady replied 
with a light laugh, which brought an 
answering smile to the countenance of 


Count Manteuffel. “ It is my ally, Ma« 
dame von Brandt,” he said to himself. 
“ I was most anxious to see her, and 
must interrupt her tender tete-d-tete 
with Count Voss for one moment.” So 
speaking, the count hurried to the spot 
from which he had heard the voice of 
Madame von Brandt and her languish- 
ing lover. The count approached the 
lady with the most delighted counte- 
nance, and expressed his astonishment 
at finding his beautiful friend in the 
garden of the dowager-queen. 

“ Her majesty did me the honor to 
invite me to spend a few weeks here,” 
said Madame von Brandt. “ She knew 
that my physician had ordered me to 
the country, as the only means to re- 
store my health ; and as she knows of 
my great intimacy with Mademoiselle 
von Panne witz, one of her ladies of 
honor, she was so kind as to offer me a 
few rooms at Monbijou. Now I have 
explained to you the reason of my 
presence here as minutely as if you were 
my father confessor, and nothing re- 
mains to be done but to present you to 
my escort. This is Count Voss, a no- 
ble cavalier, a sans peur et sans reproche^ 
ready to sacrifice for his lady-love, if 
not his life, at least his fair hair.” 

“ Beware, my dear count,” said Man- 
teuflel, laughing, “beware that the 
color of your hair is not changed by 
this lovely scoffer — that it does not be- 
come a venerable gray. She is suffi- 
ciently accomplished in the art of en- 
chantment to do that; I assure you 
that Madame von Brandt plays a most 
important role in the history of my 
gray hairs.” 

“ Ah I it would be delightful to be- 
come gray in the service of Madame 
von Brandt,” said the young count, in 
so pathetic a tone, that his companions 
both laughed. “ As often as I looked 
at my gray hair I would think of her.” 
And the young count gazed into the 
distance, like one entranced, and hia 


THE GARDEN OF MONBIJOU. 


73 


imiling lips wliispered low, uiiiriteUigi- 
Dle words. 

“ This is one of his ecstatic mo- 
ments,” whispered Madame von Brandt. 

He lias the whim to consider himself 
an original; he imagines himself a 
Petrarch enamoured of his Laura. We 
will allow him to dream awhile, and 
speak of our own affairs. But be brief, 
I beg of you, for we must not be found 
together, as you are a suspicious char- 
acter, my dear count, and my inno- 
cence might be doubted if we were 
seen holding a confidential conversa- 
tion.” 

“ Ah I it is edifying to hear Madame 
von Brandt speak, like a young girl of 
sixteen, of her threatened innocence. 
But we will tranquillize this timidity, 
and be brief. In the first place, what 
of the young queen ? ” 

“ State of barometer : cold and 
damp, falling weather, stormy, with 
unfulfilled hopes, very little sunshine, 
and very heavy clouds.” 

“ That means that the queen is still 
fearful of being slighted by her hus- 
band.” 

“ She is no longer fearful — he neg- 
lects her already. The king is at Char- 
lottenburg, and has not invited the 
queen to join him. As a husband, he 
slights his wife; whether as king he 
will neglect his queen, only time will 
reveal.” 

“ And what of Madame von Morien ? ” 

“ The king seems to have forgotten 
her entirely since that unhappy quid 
pro quo with the poem at Rheinsberg ; 
his love seems to have cooled, and he 
converses with her as harmlessly and 
as indifferently as with any other lady. 
No more stolen words, secret embraces, 
or amorous sighs. The miserable Mo- 
nen is consumed with sorrow, for 
smce she has been neglected she loves 
passionately.” 

“And that is unhappily not the 
Divans to regain that proud heart,” 


said Count Manteuffel, shr ugging his 
shoulders. “ With tears and languish- 
ing she will lose her influence, and only 
gain contempt. You who are the mis- 
tress of love and coquetry should un- 
derstand that, and instruct your beau- 
tiful pupil. Now, however, comes the 
most important question. What of the 
marriage of the Prince Augustus Wil- 
liam ? ” 

Madame von Brandt sighed. “ You 
are really inexorable. Have you no 
compassion for the ’ noble, heart-felt 
love of two children, who are as pure 
and innocent as the stars in heaven ? ” 

“And have you no compassion for 
the diamonds which long to repose 
upon your lovely bosom ? ” said Count 
Manteuffel ; “ no compassion for the 
charming villa which you could pur- 
chase ? You positively refuse to excite 
the envy of all the ladies at court by 
possessing the most costly cashmere? 
You will—” 

“Enough, Count Devil I you are in 
reality more a devil than a man, for 
you lead my soul into temptation. I 
must submit. I will become a serpent, 
reposing on the bosom of my poor 
Laura, poisoning her love and lacerat- 
ing her heart. Ah, count, if you knew 
how my conscience reproaches me 
when I listen to the pure and holy con- 
fession of her love, when trembling and 
blushing she whispers to me the secrets 
of her youthful heart, and flies to me, 
seeking protection against her own 
weakness 1 Remember that these two 
children love each other, without ever 
having had the courage to acknowl- 
edge it. Laura pretends not to under- 
stand the deep sighs and the whispered 
words of the prince, and then passes 
the long nights in weeping.” 

“ If that is the case, it is most im- 
portant to prevent an understanding 
between these singular lovers. You 
must exert all your influence with the 
young lady to induce her tc close this 


74 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


romance "with an heroic act, which 
will make her appear a holy martyr in 
the eyes of the prince.” 

“ But, for example, what heroic act ? ” 

“ Her marriage.” 

“ But how can we find a man so sud- 
denly to whom this poor lamb can be 
sacrificed ? ” 

“ There is one,” said the count, 
pointing to Count Voss, who appeared 
to have forgotten the whole world, and 
was occupied writing verses in his 
portfolio. 

Madame von Brandt laughed aloud. 
“ He marry the beautiful Laura 1 ” 

“Yes,” said the count, earnestly, “ he 
seeks a Laura.” 

“ Yes, but you forget that he consid- 
ers me his Laura.” 

“You can, therefore, easily induce 
him to make this sacrifice for you ; he 
will be magnified in his own eyes, if, 
in resigning you, he gives himself to 
the lady you have selected.” 

“You are terrible,” said Madame 
von Brandt. “I shudder before you, 
for I believe you have no human emo- 
tions in your heart of iron.” 

“ There are higher and nobler consid- 
erations, to which such feelings must 
yield. But see, the count has finished 
his poem. To work now, my beautiful 
ally I to-day you must perfect your mas- 
terpiece ; and now farewell,” said the 
count, kissing her hand, as he left her 
side. 

Madame von Brandt approached the 
young count, who seemed to be again 
lost in thought. She placed her hand 
lightly on his shoulder, and whisper- 
ed, half tenderly, half reproachfully, 
“ Dreamer, where are your thoughts ? ” 

“With you,” said the count, who 
trembled and grew pale at her touch. 
“ Yes, with you, noblest and dearest of 
women; and as that tiresome gossip 
prevented me from speaking to you, I 
passed the time he was here in writing.” 

“But you do not remember,” said 


she, tenderly, “ that you were com- 
promising me before Count Manteuffel, 
who will not hesitate to declare in 
what intimate relationship we stand to 
one another. Only • think of writing 
without apology, while a lady and a 
strange gentleman were at your side I ” 
“The world will only exclaim, — 
‘ What an original I ’ ” said Count Voss, 
with a foolisli, but well-pleased smile. 

“ But it will also say that this origi- 
nal shows little consideration for Ma- 
dame von Brandt ; that he must, there- 
fore, be very intimate with her. The 
reputation of a woman is so easily in- 
jured ; it is like the wing of the but- 
terfly, so soon as a finger touches it or 
points at it, it loses its lustre ; and we 
poor women have nothing but our 
good name and unspotted virtue. It is 
the only shield — the only weapon — 
that we possess • against the cruelty of 
man, and you seek to tear that front 
us, and then, dishonored and humili- 
ated, you tread us under foot ! ’’ 

“ You are weeping ! ” cried the 
count, looking at his beloved, in whose 
eyes the tears really stood — “you are 
weeping ! I am truly a great criminal 
to cause you to shed tears.” 

“No, you are a noble but most 
thoughtless man,” said Madame von 
Brandt, smiling through her tears. 
“ You betray to the world what only 
God and we ourselves should know.” 

“ Heavens I what have I betrayed ? ” 
cried the poor frightened count. 

“ You have betrayed our love,” whis- 
pered Madame von Brandt, as she 
glanced tenderly at the count. 

“ What ! our love ? ” he cried, beside 
himself with delight; “you admit that 
it is not I alone who love ? ” 

“ I admit it, but at the same time de- 
clare that we must part.” 

“ Never I no, never I No power on 
earth shall part us,” said he, seizing her 
hand, and covering it with kisses. 

“ But there is a power which has thi 


THE GARDEN OF MONBIJOU. 


76 


right to separate us — the power of my 
husband. He already suspects my feel- 
ings for you, and he will be inexorable 
if he discovers that his suspicions are 
correct.” 

“ Then I will call him out, and he 
will fall by my hand, and 1 shall bear 
you in triumph as my wife to my cas- 
tle.” 

“ But if you should fall ? ” 

“ Ah I I had not thought of that,” 
murmured the count, turning pale. 
“ That would certainly be a most un- 
happy accident. We will not tempt 
fate with this trial, but seek another 
way out of our difficulty. Ah, I know 
one already. You must elope with 
me.” 

She said, with a sad smile, “ The 
arm of the king extends far and wide, 
and my husband would follow us with 
his vengeance to the end of the world.” 

“ But what shall we do ? ” cried the 
count, despairingly ; “ we love each 
other ; separated, we must be consumed 
with grief and sorrow. Ah ! ah I shall 
I really suffer the fate of Petrarch, and 
pass my life in an eternal dirge ? Is 
there no way to prevent this ? ” 

Madame von Brandt placed her hand 
with a slight but tender pressure on 
his. “There is one way,” she whis- 
pered, “ a way to reassure, not only my 
husband, but the whole world, which 
will cast a veil over our love, and pro- 
tect us from the wickedness and ca- 
lumny of man.” 

“ Show me this way I ” he exclaimed, 
“ and if it should cost half of my for- 
tune I would walk in it, if I could hope 
to gain your love.” 

She bent her head nearer to him, and 
with a most fascinating and tender 
glance, whispered, “ You must marry, 
count.” 

He withdrew a step, and uttered a 
cry ot horror. “ I must marry ! You 
desire it — you who profess to love 
me ?” 


“Because I love you, dearest, and 
because your marriage will break the 
bands of etiquette which divide us. 
You must marry a lady of my acquaint- 
ance, perhaps one of my friends, and 
then no one, not even my husband, will 
consider our friendship remarkable.” 

“Oh! I see it; there is no other 
way,” sighed the count. “ If I were 
only married now 1 ” 

“ Oh ! you ungrateful, faithless man,” 
cried Madame von Brandt, indignantly. 
“ You long already for your marriage 
with the beautiful young woman, in 
whose love I shall be forgotten.” ‘ 

“ Oh I you are well aware that I only 
wish to be married because you desire 
it.” 

“ Prove this by answering that you 
will not refuse to marry the lady I shall 
point out to you.” 

“ I swear it.” 

“ You swear that you will marry no 
other than the one I name ? You swear 
that you will overcome all obstacles, 
and be withheld by no prayers or re- 
proaches ? ” 

“ I swear it.” 

“ On the word of a count ? ” 

“ On the word of a count. Show me 
the lady, and I will marry her against 
the will of the whole world.” 

“But if the lady should not love 
you ? ” 

“ Why should I care ? Do I love 
her ? Do I not marry her for your sake 
alone ? ” 

“ Ah ! my friend,” cried Madame 
von Brandt, “ I see that we understand 
one another. Come, and I will show 
you your bride.” 

She placed her arm in his, and drew 
him away. Her eye gleamed with a 
wild, menacing light, and she said 
sneeringly to herself, “ I have selected 
a rich husband for my beautiful Laura, 
and have bartered my soul for diamonda 
and cashmeres, and the gratitude of an 
empress.” 


76 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE queen’s maid OF HONOR. 

After her interview with Count 
Manteuffel, the Queen Sophia Dorothea 
left the garden, and retired to her 
chamber. She dismissed her maids of 
honor for a few hours, requesting them 
to admit no one to her presence. She 
wished to consider and develop her 
plans in undisturbed quiet. She felt 
that Austria was again prepared to 
throw obstacles in the way of her fa- 
vorite project — an English marriage 
for one of her children. She wished 
to sharpen her weapons, and marshal 
her forces for the approaching combat. 

For a few hours, therefore, the maids 
of honor were free to follow their own 
inclinations, to amuse themselves as 
they thought fit. 

Laura von Pannewitz had declined 
accompanying the other ladies in their 
drive. Her heart required solitude 
and rest. For her it was a rare and 
great pleasure to listen in undisturbed 
quiet to the sweet voices which whis- 
pered in her heart, and suffused her 
whole being with delight. 

It was so sweet to dream of him — to 
recall his words, his smiles, his sighs ; 
all those little shades and signs which 
seem so unimportant to the careless, 
but which convey so much to the lov- 
ing observer ! 

He had written to her yesterday, and 
she — she had had the cruel courage to 
return his letter unopened. But she 
had first pressed it to her lips and to 
her heart with streaming eyes, and had 
then fallen on her knees to pray to God, 
and to implore Him to give her strength 
and courage to overcome her heart, to 
renounce his love. 

Since then an entire day had passed, 
and she had not seen him, had heard 
nothing of him. Oh, he must be sad 
and very angry with her; he wished 


never to see her again 1 And because 
he was angry, and wished to hold him- 
self aloof from her, he, the loving and 
attentive son, had even neglected to 
pay the accustomed morning visit to 
his royal mother, which he had never 
before omitted. 

Her heart beating hurriedly, and 
weeping with anguish, Laura had been 
standing behind her window curtain 
awaiting him, and had prayed to God 
that she might see him, or at least hear 
his voice in the distance. But the 
prince did not arrive, and now the 
time had passed at which he was ac- 
customed to come. The queen had al- 
ready retired to her study, and would 
admit no one. 

Laura could, therefore, no longer 
hope to see the Prince Augustus Wil- 
liam on this day. As she thought of 
this, she felt as if a sword had pierced 
her bosom, and despair took possession 
of her heart. She threw herself on her 
knees, wrung her hands, and prayed to 
God, not for strength and courage to 
renounce him as before, but for a little 
sunshine on her sad and sorrowful love. 
Terrified at her own prayer, she had 
then arisen from her knees, and had 
hurried to the room of Madame von 
Brandt, to take refuge from her own 
thoughts and sorrows in the bosom of 
a friend. 

But her friend was not there*, and 
she was told that Madame von Brandt 
had gone down into the garden. Laura 
took her hat and shawl, and sought 
her. As she walked down the shady 
avenue, her glowing cheeks and burn- 
ing eyes were cooled by the gentle 
breeze wafted over from the river 
Spree, and she felt soothed ; something 
like peace stole into her heart. Laura 
had forgotten that she had come to 
the garden to seek her friend ; she felt 
only that the calm and peace of nature 
had quieted her Heart; that solitude 
whispered to her soul in a voice of con 


THE QUEEN’S MAID OF HONOR. 


11 


Bolation and of hope. Hurriedly she 
passed on to the denser and more soli- 
tary part of the garden, where she 
could give herself up to dreams of him 
whose image still filled her heart, al- 
though she had vainly endeavored to 
banish it. 

She now entered the conservatory at 
the foot of the garden, which had been 
converted into a beautiful and charm- 
ing saloon, for the exclusive use of the 
queen and her maids of honor. There 
were artificial arbors of blooming myr- 
tle and orange, in which luxurious lit- 
tle sofas invited to repose ; grottoes of 
stone had been constructed, in the crev- 
ices of which rare mountain-plants were 
growing. There were little fountains 
which murmured and fiashed pleasant- 
ly, and diffused an agreeable coolness 
throughout the atmosphere. Laura 
seated herself in one of the arbors, 
which was covered with myrtle, and, 
in a reclining position, her head resting 
on the trunk of an aged laurel-tree, 
which formed part of the framework 
of the arbor, she closed her eyes, that 
she might see nothing but him. 

It was a lovely picture, the beautiful 
and noble countenance of this young 
girl, enclosed as it were in a frame of 
living myrtle ; her delicate but full and 
maidenly figure reclining against the 
trunk of the tree, to which the chaste 
and timid love of a virgin had once 
given life. She also was a Daphne, 
fleeing from her own desii-es, fleeing 
from the sweetly-alluring voice of her 
lover, who, to her, was the god of 
beauty and of grace, the god of learn- 
ing and the arts — her Apollo, whom 
she adored and believed in, whom she 
feared, and from whom she fled like 
Daphne, because she loved him. For 
woman flees only from him whom she 
loves ; she fears him only who is dan- 
gerous, not because his words of ten- 
derness and flattery are alluring, but 
because her own heart pleads for him. 


Laura was still sitting in the arbor, 
in a dreamy reverie. His image filled 
her thoughts ; her love was prayer, her 
prayer love. Her hands lay folded in 
her lap ; a sweet, dreamy smile played 
about her lips, and from under her 
closed eyelids a few tears were slowly 
rolling down her soft, rosy cheeks. 
She had been praying to God to give 
her strength to conquer her own heart, 
and to bear, without murmuring and 
without betraying herself, the sorrow, 
the anger, and even the indifference of 
the prince. Still she felt that her heart 
would break if he should desert and 
forget her. An alluring voice whis- 
pered that it would be a more blissful 
end to die, after an hour of ecstatic 
and intoxicating happiness, than to re- 
nounce his love, and still die. 

But the chaste Laura did not wish 
to hear this voice ; she would drown it 
with her prayers; and still, even while 
she prayed, she thought how great and 
sublime a happiness it would be to kiss 
the lips of her beloved, to whisper in 
his ear the long-concealed, long-buried 
secret of her love. And then his kiss 
still on her lips, and in the sunshine of 
his eyes, to fall down and die! — ex- 
changing heaven for heaven; redeem- 
ing bliss with bliss. And sweeter 
dreams and more painful fantasies 
came over her; heavier and heavier 
sank her eyelids; a w^eight of sorrow 
rested on her heart, and made it weary 
unto death ; until at the last, like the 
disciples on the Mount, she slept for 
very sorrow. 

The silence was profound. Suddenly 
stealthy footsteps could be heard, and 
the figure of a man appeared at the en- 
trance of the grotto. Cautiously he 
stepped forward, and cast an inquiring 
glance through the trailing vines which 
overhung the grotto, to the young girl 
who still slumbered, reclining on the 
trunk of the laurel -tree. It was Fritz 
Wendel, the gardener of Rheinsberg 


78 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Queen Sophia Di^rothea had desired to 
have her green-houses and flower-beds 
arranged in the style of those at Rheins- 
berg. And, by command of the young 
king, several of the most expert gar- 
deners of Rhein sberg had been sent to 
Berlin to superintend this airangement 
in the garden of Monbijou. Fortune 
had favored the young gardener, and 
had again brought him near her he 
loved. For the little maid of honor, 
Louise von Schwerin, was not only the 
favorite of Queen Elizabeth, but Queen 
Sophia Dorothea also loved this saucy 
and sprightly young girl, who, because 
she was a child, and as such was ex- 
cusable, was allowed to break in upon 
court etiquette with her merry laugh- 
ter, and to introduce an element of 
freshness and vivacity into the stiff 
forms of court life. Moreover, by her 
thoughtless and presumptuous behavior 
at Rheinsberg, she had lost favor with 
the young couple who now reigned in 
Prussia. Queen Elizabeth could not 
forget that it was through Louise she 
had learned the name of her happy 
rival. And the king was angry with 
her, because, through her, the secret of 
his verses to Madame von Morien had 
been discovered. Louise von Schwerm 
was rarely with Queen Elizabeth. So- 
phia Dorothea, however, kept this 
young girl near lier person for whole 
days. Her childish ways amused the 
queen, and her merry pranks drove the 
stiff and formal mistress of ceremonies, 
and the grave and stately cavaliers and 
ladies of the court, to despair. And 
the little maid of honor came to the 
queen willingly, for Monbijou had for 
her a great charm since the handsome 
gardener, Fritz Wendel, had been there. 
The romance with this young man had 
not yet come to an end ; this secret lit- 
tle love-affair had a peculiar charm for 
the young girl; and as no other ad- 
mirer had been found for the little 
Louise, she for the present was very 


well pleased with the adoration ol the 
young gardener, to whom she was not 
the “little Louise,” but the bewitcling 
fairy, the beautiful goddess. It was 
Fritz Wendel who appeared at the en- 
trance of the grotto, and looked anx- 
iously toward the sleeping Laura. He 
had been occupied in arranging the 
plants and flowers in this conservatory, 
which had been confided to his espe- 
cial care. As the queen never entered 
the garden at this time, this hour had 
been set apart for his labors. 

In the midst of his occupation he 
was interrupted by the entrance of 
Laura von Pannewitz, and had hastily 
retired to the grotto, intending to re- 
main concealed until the lady should 
have left the conservatory. From his 
hiding-place, concealed by the dense 
Indian vines, he could see the myrtle 
arbor in which the beautiful Laura re- 
posed ; and now, seeing that she slept, 
he advanced slowly and cautiously 
from the grotto. He listened atten- 
tively to her slow and regular breath- 
ing— yes, she really slept ; he might 
therefore stealthily leave the saloon. 

“Ah, if it were she ! ” he murmured ; 
“ if it were she ! I would not leave 
here so quietly. I would find courage 
to fall down at her feet and to clasp hei 
to my arms, while pressing my lips to 
hers, to suppress her cry of terror. But 
this lady,” said he, almost disdainfully, 
turning to the sleeping Laura, “is so 
little like her — that she is — ” 

The words died on his lips, and he 
hastily retreated to the entrance of the 
grotto. He thought he heard footsteps 
approaching the conservatory. The 
door of the vestibule creaked on its 
hinges, and again — Fritz Wendel 
slipped hastily into the grotto, and 
concealed himself behind the dense 
vines. 

On the threshold of the saloon stood 
a young man, who looked searchingly 
around. His tall and graceful figure 


THE QUEEN’S MAID OF HONOR. 


79 


was clad in tlie uniform of the guards, 
which displayed his well-knit form to 
great advantage. The star on his 
breast, and the crape which he wore 
on his arm, announced a prince of the 
royal house; his beautifully - formed 
and handsome features wore an ex|Dres- 
sion of almost ejffeminate tenderness. 
The glance of his large blue eyes was 
so soft and mild, that those who ob- 
served him long, were involuntarily 
touched with an inexplicable feeling 
of pity for this noble-looking youth. 
His broad brow showed so much spirit 
and determination, that it was evident 
he was not always gentle and yielding, 
but had the courage and strength to 
follow his own will if necessary. 

It was Prince Augustus William, the 
favorite of the deceased king, on whose 
account the elder brother Frederick 
had suffered so much, because the king 
had endeavored to establish the former 
as his successor to the throne in the 
jjlace of his first-born.* 

But the prince’s inclinations were 
not in accordance with the wishes 
of his father: Augustus William de- 
sired no throne, no earthly power. In 
his retiring modesty he disliked all 
public display ; the title of royal high- 
ness had no charm for him, and with 
the indifference of a true philosopher 
he looked down upon the splendor and 
magnificence of earthly glory. 

In his brother Frederick, the disdain 
of outward pomp might be attributed 
to his superior mind and strength of 
understanding; while Augustus Wil- 
liam was actuated by a depth of feel- 
ing, a passionate and ardent sensitive- 
ness. He had come to pay the queen, 
his mother, the customary morning 
visit ; but when told she had desired 
that no one should be admitted to her 
presence, he was not willing that an 
exception should be made in his favor. 


“ He had time to wait,” he said, “ and 
should be announced and called up 
from the garden only when the queen 
was again at leisure.” 

After giving this order he had gone 
down into the garden, where a lover’s 
instinct had conducted him to the con- 
servatory, in which, to him, the most 
beautiful of all flowers, the lovely 
Laura von Pannewitz, reposed. He 
did not dream of finding her there, 
supposing she had accompanied the 
other ladies on their drive; he had 
sought this building that he might 
pass a few moments in undistm*bed 
quiet — that he might think of her and 
the unrequited love which he had vain- 
ly endeavored to tear from his heart. 

It was therefore not her he sought 
when, on entering the conservatory, he 
looked searcMngly around. He only 
wished to know that he was alone, 
that no one observed him. But sud- 
denly he started, and a deep red suf- 
fused his ‘countenance. He saw the 
beautiful sleeper in the arbor. In the 
first ecstasy of his delight he was on 
the point of throwing himself at her 
feet, and awakening her with his 
kisses. He started forward — but then 
hesitated, and stood still, an expression 
of deep melancholy pervading his fea- 
tures. 

“ She will not welcome me,” mur- 
mured he, “she will repel me as she 
did my letter yesterday. She does not 
love me, and would never forgive me 
if I should desecrate her pure lips with 
mine.” He bowed his head and sighed. 
“ But I love her,” said he, after a long 
pause, “ and will at least look at and 
adore her, as the Catholics woi*ship the 
Virgin Mary.” And with a beaming 
smile, which illumined his whole coun- 
tenance, the prince slowly and noise- 
lessly stepped forward. 

“ Well,” murmured Fritz Wendel in 
his hiding-place, “ I have some curiosi- 
ty to know w^hat the prince has to say 


♦ Dr. Fred. Buschlng, page 172. 


80 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


to this sleeping beauty ; but, neverthe- 
less, I would give a year of my life if I 
could slip away unobserved, for if the 
prince discovers me here I am lost 1 ” 
He retired to that part of the grotto 
where the foliage was thickest, still 
however securing a f)lace from which 
he could observe all that took place in 
the myrtle arbor. 


CHAPTER HI. 

PRINCE AUGUSTUS WILLIAM. 

The prince entered the myrtle arbor, 
and, perceiving the lovely sleeper, he 
approached her with a joyful counte- 
nance. 

“ Madonna, my Madonna, let me 
pray to you, let me look at you,” he 
murmured. “ Listen to my pleadings, 
and let a ray of jour love sink into my 
heart.” Laura moved in her sleep, 
and uttered a few indistinct words. 
The prince kneeled motionless before 
her, and watched all her movements. 
The dreams that visited her were not 
bright; Laura moaned and sighed in 
her sleej) ; her countenance assumed an 
expression so sad and painful that the 
eyes of the prince filled with tears. 
“ She is suffering,” he murmured ; 
“ why should she suffer ? what is it 
that causes my beloved to sigh ? ” 
Suddenly she opened her eyes, arose, 
and fastened her astonished and half- 
dreamy gaze upon the prince, who 
with folded hands was still kneeling 
before her, and gazing on her with 
tender, pleading eyes. A trembling 
seized her whole being, as the ocean 
trembles when touched by the first ray 
of the sun. A sweet, blissful astonish- 
ment was painted on every feature. 
“ Am I still dreaming ? ” she mur- 
mured, passing her hand across her 
brow, and pushing aside her long dark 
hair — “ am I still dreaming ? ” 


“ Yes, you are dreaming,” murmured 
Prince Augustus, seizing her hands and 
pressing them to his lips, “you are 
dreaming, Madonna ; let me dream 
with you, and be forever blessed. Oh ! 
withdraw not your hand, be not angry, 
let us still dream for one blessed mo- 
ment.” But she hastily set her hands 
free and arose from her seat ; grandly 
and proudly she stood before him, and 
her flashing eyes rested with a severe 
and reproachful expression upon the 
still kneeling prince. 

“ Arise, my prince ; it is not proper 
that the brother of the king should 
kneel before me. Arise, and have the 
kindness to inform me what circum- 
stances procured me the rare and un- 
solicited favor of being sought by your 
royal highness. But no, I divine it; 
you owe me no explanation : the queen 
has asked for me, and your highness 
was so gracious as too seek for the 
tardy servant who is sleeping while 
her mistress calls. Allow me to hasten 
to her.” Laura, feeling her strength 
failing, and suppressing with pain the 
tears that sprang from her heart to her 
eyes, endeavored to pass the prince. 

But he held her back ; the timidity 
that had so often made him appear shv 
and embarrassed had vanished. He 
felt that at this moment he faced his 
destiny, and that his future depended 
upon the result of this interview. 
“No,” he said earnestly, “the queen 
did not call you, she does not need 
you ; remain, therefore, mademoiselle, 
and grant me a few moments of your 
time.” His solemn voice and deter- 
mined expression made her tremble, 
but still entranced ; her soul bowed in 
humility and fear before him. She had 
always seen him humble and pleading, 
always submissive and obedient : now his 
glance was commanding, his voice im- 
perious; and she, who had been able 
to withstand the entreaties of a lover, 
found no courage to resist the angry 


PRINCE AUGUSTUS WILLIAM. 


81 


&iid commandiug man. “ Kemain,” 
he repeated ; “ be seated, and allow 
me to speak to you honestly and truly.” 

Laura seated herself obediently and 
tremblingly. The prince stood before 
her, and looked at her with a sad smile. 

“Yesterday you returned my letter 
unopened, but now you must hear me, 
Laura ; I wish it, and no woman can 
withstand the strong will of the man 
who loves her.” 

Laura trembled and grew pale ; she 
feared that if at this moment he bade 
her forsake all — cast away and trample 
under foot her honor, her reputation, 
her innocence and pure conscience, she 
would obey him as a true and humble 
slave, and follow and serve him her 
whole life. 

“Yes, you shall hear me ; I will know 
my fate — know if you really despise 
my great and devoted love, if you are 
wdthout pity, without sympathy for my 
suffering, my struggles and despair. I 
should think that true, genuine love 
would, like the music of Orpheus, have 
power to animate stones and flowers, 
and my love cannot even move the 
Ueart of a noble, feeling girl. What is 
the reason ? why do you fly from me ? 
Is it, Laura, because you deem me un- 
worthy of your love ? because your 
heart feels no emotion for me? Are 
you cold and severe because you hold 
me for a bold beggar, who longs for 
the treasure belonging to another, 
whom you desj^ise because he begs for 
what should be the free gift of your 
heart ? Or has your heart never been 
touched by love ? If this is so, Laura, 
and my love has not the power to 
awaken your heart, then do not speak, 
but let me leave you quietly. I will 
try to bear my misery or die ; I shall 
have no one but myself to reproach, for 
God has denied me the power of w^in- 
ning love. But if this is not the rea- 
son of your coldness, if we are only 
separated by the vain prejudices of 
6 


rank and birth, O Laura, I entreat you, 
if this is all that separates us, speak 
one single word of comfort, of hope, 
one single low word, and I will conquei 
the whole world, break down all pre- 
judices and laws, and cast them from 
me. I will be as great and strong a» 
Hercules, to clear the way, and make 
it smooth for our love. I will present 
you to the world as my betrothed, and 
before God and my king call you my 
wife. Speak, Laura, is it so ? Do you 
fly from me because of this star upon 
my breast — because I am called a roval 
prince ? I implore you, tell me, is it 
so ? if not, if you cast me from you be- 
cause you do not love me, say nothing, 
and I will go away for ever.” 

A long, painful silence ensued. The 
prince watched the pained, frightenea 
countenance of the young girl, who sat 
before him with bowed head, pale and 
motionless. 

“ It is decided,” he sighed, after a 
long pause. “ Farewell ! I accept my 
destiny, you have spoken my sentence ; 
may your heart never accuse you of 
cruelty!” He bowed low before her, 
then turned and walked across the sa- 
loon. 

Laura had remained motionless. She 
now raised her head ; she followed him 
with a glance that, had he seen it, 
would have brought him back to her — 
a look that spoke more than words or 
protestations. 

The prince had reached the door 
once more ; he turned, their looks met, 
and a trembling delight took posses- 
sion of her whole being ; forgetting all 
danger, she longingly extended her 
arms toward him, and murmured his 
name. 

With a cry of delight he sprang to 
her side, and folded her with impas- 
sioned tenderness in his arms. Laura 
concealed her tear-stained face upon 
his breast, and murmured : “ God sees 
my heart, He knows how long I have 


82 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


prayed and struggled ; may He be more 
merciful, more compassionate than 
man I I shall be cast off, despised ; let 
it be, I shall think of this hour, and be 
happy.” 

“ No one shall dare to insult you,” 
he said proudly ; “ from this hour you 
are my affianced, and some day I shall 
present you to the world as my wife.” 

Smiling sadly, she shook her head. 
“ Let us not speak of the future ; it may 
be dark and sorrowful. I will not 
complain, I will bear my cross joyfully, 
and thank God for your love.” 

He kissed the tears from her eyes, 
and murmured sweet and holy prom- 
ises of love and faith. It was a mo- 
ment of blissful joy, but Laura sud- 
denly trembled and raised her head 
from his breast to listen. The beating 
of drums and quickly-rolling carriages 
were heard without. “ The king I ” 
cried the young girl. “The king,” 
murmured Prince Augustus, sadly, and 
he ventured no longer to hold the 
young girl in his arms. They were 
both awakened from their short, blessed 
dream, both were reminded of the 
world, and the obstacles that lay in 
their path. In their great happiness 
they had appeared small, but now were 
assuming giant-like proportions.” 

“ I must hasten to the queen,” said 
Laura, rising; “ her majesty will need 
me.” 

“ And I must go and meet the king,” 
sighed the prince. 

“ Go quickly ; let us hasten, and take 
different paths to the castle.” 

He took her hand and held it to his 
Ups. ‘ ‘ Farewell, my beloved, my bride ; 
trust me, and be strong in love and 
hope.” 

“Farewell,” she murmured, and en- 
deavored to pass him. 

Once more he detained her. “ Shall 
ive meet here again ? will you let me 
enjoy here another hour of your dear 
presence ? Oh, bow not your head ; do 


not blush; your sweet confession hai 
made of this place a temple of love, 
and here I will approach you with pure 
and holy thoughts.” He looked long 
into her beautiful, blushing face. 

“ We will see each other here again,” 
she murmured; “every day I shall 
await you here at the same hour ; now 
hasten, hasten I ” 

Both left the saloon ; it was again si- 
lent and deserted; in a few moments 
Fritz Wendel stepped out from the 
grotto with glowdng cheeks and spar- 
kling eyes. 

“ This is a noble secret that I have 
discovered — a secret that will bring nie 
golden fruits. Louise von Schwerin is 
not more widely separated from the 
poor gardener, Fritz Wendel, than Ma- 
demoiselle Pannewitz from Prince Au- 
gustus William. A gardener can rise 
and become a nobleman, but Mademoi- 
selle Pannewitz can never become a 
princess, never be the wife of her lover, 
Louise von Schwerin shall no longer be 
ashamed of the love of Fritz Wendel ; 
I will tell her what I have seen, I will 
take her into the grotto, and let her 
witness the rendezvous of the prince 
and his beloved, and whilst he is tell- 
ing Laura of his love, I will be wdth 
my Louise.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE KING AND THE SON. 

Laura was not mistaken. It was 
the king whom the castle guard were 
saluting with the beat of the drum. It 
was the king coming to pay his first 
visit to his mother at Mon bijou. He 
came unannounced, and the perplexed, 
anxious looks of the cavaliers showed 
that his appearance had caused more 
disturbance and terror than joy. With 
a slight laugh he turned to his grand- 
chamberlain, Pollnitz. 

Go tell her majesty that her son 


THE KING AND THE SON. 


83 


Frederick awaits her.” And followed 
by Kaiserling and the cavaliers of the 
queen, he entered the garden saloon. 

Queen Sophia Dorothea received the 
king’s message with a proud, beaming 
smile. She was not then deceived, her 
dearest hopes were to be fulfilled ; the 
young king was an obedient, submis- 
sive son ; she was for him still the 
reigning queen, the mother entitled to 
command. The son, not the king, had 
come, disrobed of all show of royalty, 
to wait humbly as a suppliant for her 
appearance. She felt proud, trium- 
phant I A glorious future lay before her. 
She would be a queen at last — a queen 
not only in name, but in truth. Her 
son was King of Prussia, and she would 
be co-regent. Her entire court should 
be witness to this meeting ; they should 
see her triumph, and spread the news 
far and wide. 

He came simply, without ceremony, 
as her son, but she would receive him 
according to etiquette, as it beseemed a 
queen. She wore a long, black trailing 
gown, a velvet ermine-bordered man- 
tle, and caught up the black veil that 
was fastened in her hair with several 
brilliants. All preparations were at 
last finished, and the queen, preceded 
by PoUnitz, arrived in the garden sa- 
loon. 

Frederick, standing by the window, 
was beating the glass impatiently with 
his long, thin fingers. He thought his 
mother showed but little impatience to 
see her son, who had hurried with all the 
eagerness of childlike love to greet her. 
He wondered what could be her mo- 
tive, and had just surmised it as the 
door opened and the chamberlain an- 
nounced in a loud voice, — “Her ma- 
jesty, the widowed queen.” A soft, 
mocking smile played upon his lips for 
a moment, as the queen entered in her 
splendid court dress, but it disappeared 
quickly, and hat in hand he advanced 
to meet her. 


Sophia Dorothea received him with 
a gracious smile, and gave him her 
hand to kiss. 

“Your majesty is welcome,” said 
she, with a trembling voice, for it 
grieved her proud heart to give her 
son the title of majesty. The king, 
perceiving something of this, said : 

“ Continue to call me your son 
mother, for when with your majesty I 
am but an obedient, grateful son.” 

“ Well, then, welcome, welcome, my 
son ! ” exclaimed the queen, with an 
undisguised expression of rapture, and, 
throwing her arms around him, she 
kissed his forehead repeatedly. “ Wel- 
come to the modest house of a poor, 
sorrowful widow.” 

“ My wish, dear mother, is, that you 
shall not think of yourself as^ a sad 
widow, but as the mother of a king. I 
do not desire you to be continually re- 
minded of the great loss we have all 
sustained, and that God sent upon us. 
Your majesty is not only the widowed 
queen ; you belong not to the past, but 
to the present ; and I beg that you will 
be called, from this moment, not the 
widowed queen, but the queen-mother. 
— Grand-chamberlain Pollnitz, see that 
this is done.” 

For a moment the queen lost her 
proud, stately bearing ; she was deeply 
touched. The king’s delicate atten- 
tions made her all the mother, and for 
a moment love silenced all her proud, 
imperious wishes. 

“ Oh, my son, you know how to dry 
my tears, and to change the sorrowing 
widow into a proud, happy mother,” 
said she, pressing his hand tenderly to 
her heart. 

The king was so overjoyed at his 
mother’s unfeigned tenderness that he 
was prepared to agree to all her de- 
mands, and humor her in every thing. 

“Ah,” said he, “I, not you, ought 
to render thanks that you are so will- 
ing to enter into my views. I will put 


54 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


your magnanimity still further to the 
test, and state a few more of my 
wishes.” 

“Let us hear them, my son,” said 
the queen, “ but first permit me to ask 
a favor.” 

“ Let us be seated.” 

The king led her to an arm-chair 
near a window, from which there was 
a beautiful view of the garden. The 
queen seated herself, and the young 
king remained standing in front of her, 
still holding his hat. Sophia Dorothea 
saw this, and was enraptured at this 
new tiiuraph. Turning to the king, 
she said : 

“ Let us now hear your wishes, and I 
promise joyfully to fulfil them.” 

“ I wish,” said he, “ your majesty to 
surround herself with a larger and 
more brilliant court. Two maids of 
honor are not sufficient for the queen- 
mother; for if by chance one were 
sick, and the other fretful, there would 
be no one to divert and amuse your 
majesty. I therefore propose that you 
have six instead of two maids of 
honor.” 

The queen looked at him in tender 
astonishment. 

“ My son,” said she, “ you are a veri- 
table magician. You divine all my 
wishes. Thanks — many, many thanks 1 
But your majesty is not seated,” said 
she, as if just perceiving this. 

“Madame,” said he, laughing, “I 
awaited your permission.” He seated 
himself, and said, “ You agree to my 
proposal, mother ? ” 

“ I agree to it, and beg your majesty 
to point out to me the ladies you have 
decided upon as my six maids of honor. 
Your majesty has free choice, and all 
I wish is, to be told when you have 
decided. I only fear,” said the queen, 
“ that with my enlarged court there 
will not be room for the ladies to have 
their separate apartments at Monbijou.” 

“ Your maj(^sty is no longer to live 


in this house,” said the king; “it is 
large enough for a passing summer 
visit, but it does not answer for the 
residence of the queen-mother. I spoke 
some time since to Knobelsdorf, and 
already a magnificent palace is being 
built for you.” 

The queen blushed with pleasure ; 
all her wishes seemed to be fulfilled to- 
day. She must now know whether 
Sophia Dorothea was to be queen-re- 
gent as well as queen-mother. She 
thanked her son tenderly for this new 
proof of his love and kindness. 

“ And still,” said she, sighing, “ per- 
haps I ought not to accept of your 
kindness. Your royal father’s death 
should remind me of the transitory 
nature of life, and should lead me to 
pass the remaider of my days in seclu- 
sion, devoting my time to God.” 

The king looked so anxious, so 
shocked, that the queen repented hav- 
ing given the conversation this gloomy 
turn. 

“ It is cruel, mother,” said he, “ not 
to let me enjoy the pleasure of being 
with you without a drop of wormwood. 
But I see by your rosy cheeks and 
bright smile that you only wished to 
frighten me. Let the architects and 
masons continue their work : God will 
be merciful to me, and grant a long 
life to the noblest and best-beloved of 
mothers ! ” 

He kissed her hand and rose; So- 
phia Dorothea was terrified. The king 
was leaving, and she still did not know 
how far her influence was to reach, and 
what were to be its limits. 

“You will already leave me, my 
son ? ” said she, lovingly. 

“I must, your majesty. For from 
here I can hear the government ma- 
chinery creaking and groaning ; I must 
hasten to supply it with oil, and set it 
in motion again. Ah ! madame, it ia 
no easy task to be a king. To do jus- 
tice to all his obligations, a king musi 


THE KING AND THE SON. 


8a 


rise early and retire late ; and I think 
ti'uly it is much more pleasant to be 
reigned over than to reign.” 

The queen could scarcely suppress 
her delight; the king’s words were 
balm to her ambitious heart. 

“ I can well see that it is as you say,” 
said she, “ but I think that the king has 
a right to amuse himself ; I think that 
a mother has some claims on her son, 
even if he is a king. You must not 
leave now, my son. You must grant 
me the pleasure of showing you my 
new conservatory. Give me your arm, 
and comply with my request.” 

“ Madame, you now see what power 
you have over me,” said he, as she 
laughingly took his arm. “I forget 
that I am the servant of my country, 
because I prefer being the servant of 
my queen.” 

The large glass door was opened, 
and, leaning on the king’s arm, the 
queen entered the garden. 

At some distance the princesses with 
their brother and the rest of the court 
followed. They were all silent, eagerly 
listening to the conversation of the 
royal couple. But the queen did not 
now care to be heard by her court. 
They had seen her triumph, but they 
should not be witness to a possible de- 
feat. She now spoke in a low tone, 
and hurried her steps, to put a distance 
between herself and the courtiers. She 
spoke with the king about the garden, 
and then asked if he thought of pass- 
ing the summer at Rheinsberg. 

“Alas!” said he, “I ,will not have 
the time. For a king is but the first 
officer of bis state, and as I receive my 
salary I must honestly fulfil the duties 
I have undertaken.” 

“ But I think your majesty does too 
much,” said the queen. “You should 
allow yourself more relaxation, and 
not let state matters rest entirely upon 
your own shoulders. To one who is 
accustomed to associate with poets, ar- 


tists, and the sciences, it must be very 
hard suddenly to bury himself in deeds, 
documents, and all sorts of dusty pa- 
pers ; you should leave this occasionally 
to others, and not work the state ma- 
chinery yourself.” 

“ Madame,” said the king, “ this ma- 
chine has secrets and peculiarities that 
its architect can intrust to no workman, 
therefore he must lead and govern it 
himself; and if at times the wheels 
creak and it is not in perfect order, he 
has only himself to thank.” 

“ But you have your ministers ? ” 

“ They are my clerks — nothing 
more I ” 

“ Ah, I see, you intend to be a rock, 
and take counsel from no one,” said the 
queen, impatiently. 

“Yes, your majesty, from you al- 
ways ; and with your gracious permis- 
sion I will now consult you.” 

“ Speak, my son, speak,” said the 
queen, in breathless expectation. 

“ I wish your advice upon theatrical 
matters. Where must the new opera- 
house be built ? ” 

The queen’s face darkened. 

“ I am not a suitable adviser for 
amusements,” said she, pointing to her 
black gown. “ My mourning garments 
do not fit me for such employment, and 
you well know I do not care for the 
theatre ; for how many cold, dull even- 
ings have I passed there with your fa- 
ther 1 ” 

“Ah, madame,” said the king, “I 
was not talking of a German theatre, 
which I dislike quite as much as your- 
self. No, we will have a French thea- 
tre and an Italian opera. The French 
alone can act, and only the Italians can 
sing, but we Germans can play ; I have 
therefore charged Graun to compose a 
new opera for the inauguration of the 
new opera-house.” 

“ And undoubtedly this inauguration 
will take place on a festive occasion,” 
said the queen, going directly to the 


80 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


point. “Perhaps at the wedding of 
one of your sisters ? ” 

“Ah,” said he, “your majesty is 
thinking of a wedding ? ” 

“ Not I, but others. Yesterday I re- 
ceived from London a letter from my 
royal brother. And a few moments 
ago Count Manteuffel brought me let- 
ters of condolence from the Empress 
of Austria. It seems the count was, 
besides this, commissioned to sound me 
as to a possible marriage with Prince 
Augustus.” 

“It was very unnecessary for the 
count to burden you with matters 
which are happily beyond the reach of 
your motherly duties. For, alas 1 the 
marrying of princes is a political affair, 
and is not determined by the mother’s 
heart, but by the necessities of the 
kingdom.” 

The queen bit her lip until it bled. 
“Your majesty is, undoubtedly, think- 
ing of performing this political obliga- 
tion, and have chosen a bride for the 
prince,” said she, sharply. 

“ Forgive me,” said the king, laugh- 
ing, “ I am not now thinking of marry- 
ing, but of unmarrying.” 

Sophia Dorothea looked anxiously at 
the king. “Howl my son, are you 
thinking of a divorce ? ” said she, trem- 
blingly. 

“ Not of one, but of many, mother. 
Does your majesty know that I have 
abolished the torture ? ” 

“No,” said the queen, impatiently, 
“ I did not — ^politics do not concern 
me.” 

“ That is in conformity with the true 
womanly character of my mother,” said 
he. “ There is nothing so insipid and 
tiresome as a woman who gives up the 
graces and muses, to excite herself with 
politics.” 

“And still your majesty was just 
initiating me into politics.” 

“ Ah, yes, I told you I had abolished 
the torture/’ 


“ And I ask, how does that concern 
me ? ” 

“You ask why I am thinking of di- 
vorces ? Well, I told you that I had 
abolished the torture, and in doing this 
it was but natural that I busied myself 
about marriage. For your majesty will 
grant me that there is no severer rack, 
no more frightful torture, than an un- 
happy marriage.” 

“ It seems as if with the torture you 
will also abolish marriage,” said the 
queen, terrified. 

The king laughed. “Ah, no, ma- 
dame, I am not pope, and have not re- 
ceived the right from God to decide 
over men’s consciences, though perhaps 
the majority would be inclined to call 
me holy, and to honor me with godlike 
worship, if I would really abolish the 
torture of matrimony. However, I am 
not ambitious, and renounce all claim 
to adoration. But while engaged in 
abolishing the torture, I could but see 
that when the marriage chains had 
ceased to be garlands of roses, and 
were transformed into heavy links of 
iron, there should be some means found 
to break them. I have therefore com- 
manded that if two married people 
cannot live harmoniously, a divorce 
shall not be denied them. I hope that 
my royal mother agrees with me.” 

“ Ah, there will soon be many divorce 
cases,” said the queen, with a con- 
temptuous smile. “All who are not 
thoroughly happy will hasten to the 
king for a divorce. Who knows but 
that the king himself will set the peo- 
ple a good example ? ” 

“With God’s help, madame,” said 
the king, gravely. “ My noble mother 
will always wish me to set my people a 
good example. A king is but the ser- 
vant of the nation.” 

“ That is, indeed, an humble idea of 
a king — a king by the grace of God.” 

“ Madame, I do not crave to ])e called 
a king by the grace of God. I prefer 


THE KING AND THE SON. 


87 


oeing king by my own right and 
strength. But forgive me, mother. 
You see how these politics mix them- 
selves up with every thing. Let them 
rest. You were speaking, I think, of 
the marriage of one of the princes ? ” 

“We were speaking of the marriage 
of Prince Augustus William,” said the 
queen, who, with the obstinacy of a 
true woman, always returned to the 
point from which she had started, and 
who, in the desire of gaining her point, 
had lost all consideration and presence 
of mind. “ I was telling you that I 
received yesterday a letter from my 
royal brother, and that King George 
the Second is anxious to form an al- 
liance between our children.” 

“ Another marriage with England ! ” 
said the king, dejectedly. “ You know 
there is no good luck in our English 
marriages. The courier who brings 
the English consent is always too late.” 

The queen was enraged. “ You 
mean that you have decided upon a 
bride for my son ; that again my dar- 
ling wish of intermarrying my children 
with the royal house of England is not 
to be realized ? Ah, your father’s ex- 
ample must have been very satisfactory 
to you, as you follow so quickly in his 
footsteps.” 

“ I truly find, madame, that the king 
acted wisely in not regarding in the 
marriage of the prince royal the wishes 
of his heart and his family, but politi- 
cal interests, which he was bound to 
consider. I will certainly follow his 
example, and take counsel over the 
marriage of the prince royal, not with 
my own neart, not even with the 
wishes of my royal mother, but with 
the interests of Prussia.” 

“ But Augustus William is not prince 
royal,” cried the queen, with trembling 
lips. “ The prince is only your brother, 
and you may have many sons who will 
aispute with him the succession to the 
throne.” 


An expression of deep sorrow lay 
like a dark veil upon the handsome 
face of the king. “I shall have no 
children,” said he, “ and Prince Augus- 
tus William will be my successor.” 

The queen had not the heart to reply. 
She looked at her son in amazement. 
Their eyes met, and the sad though 
sweet expression of the usually clear, 
sparkling eyes of her son touched her, 
and awoke the mother’s heart. With 
a hasty movement she took his hands, 
pressed them to her heart, and said: 
“Ah, my son, how poor is this lifel 
You are young, handsome, and highly 
gifted, you are a king, and still you are 
not happy.” 

The king’s face was brighter, his eye 
sparkled as before. 

“ Life,” said he, smiling, “ is not a 
pleasure, but a duty, and if we honest- 
ly perform this duty we shall be happy 
in the end. It is now time to return 
to my prison and be king once more.” 

He embraced his mother tenderly, 
laughed and jested for a few moments 
with his sisters Ulrica and Amelia, 
then left, followed by his cavaliers. 
Sophia Dorothea remained in the gar- 
den, and Ulrica, her favorite daughter, 
followed her. 

“ Your majesty looks sad and grave,” 
said she, “ while you have every reason 
to look happy. The king was remark- 
ably kind and amiable. Only think 
of it, you will have six maids of honor, 
and a beautiful palace is being built 
for you I ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the queen, “ I shall 
be surrounded with outward glory.’’ 

“ And how anxious the king seemed 
for you to forget the past I ” said Prin- 
cess Amelia, who, with Piince Augus- 
tus William, had joined her mother 
and sister, “ you are not the widowed 
queen, but the queen-mother.” 

“Yes,” murmured Sophia Dorothea 
to herself, “ I am queen-mother, but I 
shall never be queen-regent. Ah, my 


88 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


children,” cried she, passionately, “ the 
king, your brother, was right. Princes 
are not born to be happy. He is not 
so, and you will never be ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE queen’s tailor. 

A DREARY silence bad reigned for 
some time in the usually gay and hap- 
py family circle of the worthy court 
tailor. No one dared to speak or 
laugh aloud. Herr Pricker, the crown 
and head of the house, was sad and 
anxious, and the storm-cloud upon his 
brow threw a dark reflection upon the 
faces of his wife and two children, the 
beautiful Anna, and the active, merry 
Wilhelm. Even the assistants in the 
work-room were affected by the gen- 
eral gloom ; the gay songs of the ap- 
prentices were silenced, and the pretty 
house-maids looked discontented and 
duU. 

A tempest lowered over the house, 
and all appeared to tremble at its ap- 
proach. When Wilhelm, the son and 
heir of the house, returned from his 
work, he hastened to his mother’s 
room, and casting a curious glance 
upon the old woman, who was seated 
on a sofa, grim-looking, and support- 
ing her head upon her hand, he said, 
mysteriously — 

“ Not yet ! ” 

Frau Pricker shook her head, sighed 
deeply, and replied — 

“ Not yet ! ” 

The beautiful Anna was generally 
in her elegant room, painting or sing- 
ing, and did not allow herself to be 
disturbed; but now when the bell 
rang, or a strange step was heard, she 
hastened to her mother, and said : 

‘‘ Well, has it come ? ” 

Again Frau Pricker sighed, shook 
uer head, and answered — 


“ Not yet ! ” 

Herr Pricker asked nothing, de- 
manded nothing ; silent and proud he 
sat in the midst of his family circle; 
stoically listened to the ringing of the 
bell, and saw strangers enter his count- 
ing-room, too proud to show any ex- 
citement. He wrapped himself in an 
Olympian silence, and barricaded him- 
self from the curious questions of his 
children by the stern reserve of paren- 
tal authority. 

“ I see that he suffers,” said his wife 
to, her daughter Anna ; “ I see that he 
looks paler every day, and eats less and 
less; if this painful anxiety endures 
much longer, the poor man will become 
dangerously ill, and the king will be 
answerable for the death of one of his 
noblest and best subjects.” 

“But why does our father attach 
such importance to this small affair ? ” 
said Anna, with a lofty shrug of her 
shoulders. 

Frau Pricker looked at her with' as- 
tonishment. 

“ You call this a small affair, which 
concerns not only the honor of your fa- 
ther, but that of your whole family ; 
which affects the position and call- 
ing enjoyed by the Pricker family for 
a hundred years ? It is a question 
whether your father shall be unjustly 
deprived of his honorable place, or 
have justice done him, and his great 
services acknowledged I ” 

Anna gave a hearty laugh. 

“ Dear mother, you look at this thing 
too tragically ; you are making a camel 
of a gnat. The great and exalted 
things of which you speak have noth 
ing to do with the matter ; it is a sim- 
ple question of title. The great point 
IS, will our father receive the title of 
‘ court tailor ’ to the reigning queen, or 
be only the tailor of the queen-dowager. 
It seems to me the difference is very 
small, and I cannot imagine why so 
much importance is attached to it” 


THE QUEEX’S TAILOR. 


89 


“ You do not understand,” said Frau 
Pricker ; “you do not love your fami- 
ly ; you care nothing for the honor of 
your house ! ” 

“ Pshaw 1 to be the daughter of a 
tailor is a very poor and doubtful 
honor,” said Anna, drearily, “ even if 
he is the tailor of one or even two 
queens. Our father is rich enough to 
live without this contemptible busi- 
ness; yes, to live in style. He has 
given his children such an education 
as nobles only receive ; I '\ave had my 
governess and my music-r.eacher ; my 
brother his tutor; my father has not 
allowed him to walk through the 
streets, fearing that he might fall into 
the hands of the recruiting-otScers. 
We have each our private rooms, beau- 
tifully furnished, and are the envy of 
all our friends. Why, notwithstanding 
all this, will he condemn us to be and 
to continue to be the children of a 
tailor ? Why does he not tear down 
the sign fi-om the door ; this sign, 
which will be ever a humiliation, even 
though ‘ court tailor ’ should be written 
upon it 1 This title will never enable 
us to appear at court, and the noble 
cavaliers will never think of marrying 
the daughter of a tailor, though many 
would seek to do so if our father would 
give up his needlework, buy a country 
seat, and live, as rich and distinguished 
men do, upon his estate.” 

“Child, child, what are you say- 
ing?” cried the Frau Pricker, clasp- 
ing her hands with anguish. “Your 
father give up his stand, his honorable 
stand, which, for more than a hundred 
years, has been inherited by the fami- 
ly I Your father demean himself to 
buy with his honorably-earned gold a 
son-in-law from among the poor nobles, 
who will be ever thinking of the honor 
done us in accepting you and your 
sixty thousand dollars I Your father 
buy a country seat, and spend in idle- 
ness that fortune which his forefathers 


and himself have bcei. collecting for 
hundreds of years I That can never 
be, and never will your father con- 
sent to your marriage with any other 
than an honest burgher; and he will 
never allow Wilhelm to have any other 
calling than that of his father, his 
grandfather, and his great-grandfa- 
ther, a court tailor.'^'* 

The beautiful Anna stamped invol- 
untarily upon the floor, and a flush of 
scorn spread itself over her soft cheek. 
“ I will not wed a burgher,” said she, 
tossing her head proudly back, “ and 
my brother Wilhelm will never carry 
on the business of his father 1 ” 

“Then your father will disinherit 
you — cast you out among strangers to 
beg your bread I ” said the old woman, 
wringing her hands. 

“ God be praised,” said Anna, proud- 
ly, “ there is no necessity for begging 
our bread ; we have learned enough tc 
carry us honorably through the world, 
and when all else fails I have a capital 
in my voice which assures me a glitter- 
ing future. The king will found an 
opera-house, and splendid singers are 
so rare that Prussia will thank God if 
I allow myself to be prevailed upon to 
take the place of prima donna.” 

“ Oh, unhappy, wretched child I ” 
sobbed Frau Pricker, “you will dis- 
honor your family, you will make us 
miserable, and cover us with shame; 
you will become an actress, and we 
must live to see our respectable, yes, 
celebrated name, upon a play-bill, and 
pasted upon every corner ! ” 

“You will have the honor of hearing 
all the world speak of your daughter, 
of seeing sweet flowers and wreaths 
thrown before her whenever she ap- 
pears, and of seeing her praises in every 
number of every journal in Berlin. I 
shall be exalted to the skies, and the 
parents called blessed who have given 
me life.” 

“ These are the neio ideas,” gasped 


90 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


out her mother — “ the new ideas 
which are now the mode, and which 
our young king favors. Alas ! wailing 
and sorrow will come over our whole 
city; honor and principle will disap- 
pear, and destruction like that of Sodom 
and Gomorrah will fall upon Berlin ! 
These are the alluring temptations with 
which Baron Pollnitz fills your ear and 
crushes in your heart the worthy and 
seemly principles of your family. — 
That,” — suddenly she stopped and lis- 
tened ; it seemed to her the bell rang ; 
truly there was a step upon the stairs, 
and some one asked for the Frau 
Pricker. 

“Pollnitz,” whispered Anna, and a 
glowing blush overspread her face, 
throat, and neck. 

“ The Baron Pollnitz, the master of 
ceremonies,” said Frau Pricker, with a' 
mixture of joy and alarm. 

The door flew open, and with a gay, 
frolicsome greeting, Pollnitz danced 
into the room ; Anna had turned to the 
window, and made no reply to his 
greeting. Frau Pricker stepped toward 
him, and greeted him with the most 
profound reverence, calling him master 
of ceremonies and master of the bed- 
chamber. 

“ Not so,” said Pollnitz ; “ why so 
much reverence and so many titles ? I 
am indeed master of ceremonies, but 
without the title. His majesty, the 
young king, has no special fondness for 
renewing the titles bestowed upon us 
by his blessed father, and every prayer 
and every representation to that effect 
has been in vain ; he considers titles ri- 
diculous and superfluous.” 

Frau Pricker turned pale, and mur- 
mured some incomprehensible words. 
Anna, however, who had up to this 
time been turned toward the window, 
suddenly looked at the two speakers, 
and fixed her great eyes questioningly 
upon the baron. 

“Ah, at last I have the honor to see 


you, fair, beautiful Anna ! ” said Poll- 
nitz; “I knew well some magic was 
necessary to fix those splendid eyes on 
me. Allow me to kiss your hand, most 
honored lady, and forgive me if I have 
disturbed you.” He flew with an ele- 
gant pirouette to Anna, and took her 
hand, which she did not extend to him, 
and, indeed, struggled to withhold ; he 
then turned again to the Frau Pricker, 
and bowing to her, said, with a solemn 
pathos : “lam not here to-day simply 
as the friend of the house, but as the 
ambassador of the king; and I beseech 
the honored Frau Pricker to announce 
to her husband that I wish to speak to 
him, and to deliver a message from the 
queen.” 

The mother uttered a cry of joy, and, 
forgetting all other considerations, has- 
tened to the counting-house of her hus- 
band, to make known to him the im- 
portant information. 

Baron Pollnitz watched her till the 
door closed, then turned to Anna, who 
still leaned immovable in the window. 
“Anna, dearest Anna,” whispered he, 
tenderly, “ at last we are alone I How 
I have pined for you, how happy I am 
to see you once again ! ” 

He sought to press her fondly to his 
heart, but the maiden waved him 
proudly and coldly back. “ Have you 
forgotten our agreement ? ” said she, 
earnestly. 

“No, I have held your cruelty in 
good remembrance ; only, when I have 
fulfilled all your commands, will you 
deign to listen to my glowing wishes , 
when I have induced your father to 
employ for you another singing-mastei*, 
and arranged for your glorious and 
heavenly voice to be heard by the king 
and the assembled court ? ” 

“Yes,” cried Anna, with glowing 
eyes and burning cheeks, “ that is my 
aim, my ambition. Yes, I will be a 
singer; all Europe shall resound with 
my fame ; all men shall lie at my feet 


THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OF A TAILOR 


91 


and princes and queens shall seek to 
draw me into their circles.” 

“ And I will be the happiest of the 
happy, when the lovely nightingale 
has reached the goal. From my hand 
shall she first wing her flight to fame. 
But, when I have fulfilled my word, 
when you have sung in the royal palace 
before the queen and the court, then 
will you fulfil your promise ? Then 
Pbllnitz will be the happiest of mor- 
tals.” 

“ I will fulfil my word,” she said, as 
proudly and imperiously as if she were 
already the celebrated and grace-dis- 
pensing prima donna. “On the day 
in which I sing for the first time before 
the king — the day in which the tailor’s 
daughter has purified herself from the 
dishonor of her humble birth, and be- 
comes a free, self-sustaining, distin- 
guished artiste — on that day we will 
have no reason to be ashamed of our 
love, and we can both, without humil- 
iation, present our hearts to each other. 
Baron Pollnitz can take for his wife, 
without blushing, the woman ennobled 
by art, and Prima Donna Anna Pricker 
need not be humbled by the thought 
that Baron Pollnitz has forgotten his 
rank in his choice of a wife.” 

Baron Pollnitz, courtier as he was, 
had not his features so completely un- 
der control as to conceal wholly the 
shock conveyed by the words of his 
beautiful sweetheart. He stared for a 
moment, speechless, into that lovely 
face, glowing with enthusiasm, ambi- 
tion, and love. A mocking, demoniac 
smile appeared one moment on his lips, 
then faded quickly, and Pollnitz was 
again the tender, passionate lover of 
Anna Pricker. “ Yes, my dearly-be- 
ioved Anna,” whispered he, clasping 
her in his arms, “ on that blessed and 
happy day you will be my wife, and 
the laurels entwined in your hair will 
be changed into a myrtle-wreath.” 
He embraced her passionately, and she 


resisted no longer, but listened ever to 
his words, which, like sweet opium, 
poisoned both the ear and heart of the 
young girl. But Pollnitz released her 
suddenly, and stepped back, colder 
and more self-possessed than Anna. 
He had heard a light, approaching step. 
“ Some one comes ; be composed, dear 
one; your face betrays too much of 
your inward emotion.” He danced to 
the open piano and played a merry 
strain, while Anna hid her blushes in 
the branches of a geranium placed in 
the window, and tried to cool her 
glowing cheeks on the fresh green 
leaves. 

The Frau Pricker opened the door, 
and bade the master of ceremonies 
enter the adjoining room, where the 
court tailor awaited him. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OP A 
TAILOR, 

Pollnitz offered his arm to the love- 
ly Anna, and followed Frau Pricker, 
laughing and jesting, into the next 
room. This was a long hall, which 
had an appearance of gloom, and so- 
lemnity in its arrangements and decora- 
tions. The high walls, hung with 
dark tapestry, were poorly lighted by 
two windows. Several divans, covered 
with a heavy silken material, the same 
color as the tapestry, were placed 
against the sides of the room, and over 
them hung a few oil paintings in black 
frames, each representing the figure of 
a man with a most solemn expression 
and bearing. The remarkable resem- 
blance which these pictures bore to 
each other convinced you that they 
must be the portraits of one family. In 
each appeared the same countenance, 
the same short, clumsy figure, and only 


92 


FKEDERICK THE GREj.! AND HIS COURT. 


the costumes served to point out by 
their various styles the different periods 
at which they had been painted. A 
figure, closely resembling the pictures, 
stood in the centre of the hall ; it had 
the same countenance, the same short, 
clumsy figure, and even the same dress 
as that represented in one of the pic- 
tures. You might have supposed that 
some galvanic experiment had given 
life and motion to the painted form, 
and that as soon as this power was ex- 
hausted it would become lifeless, and 
return to its place among the other 
pictures. But this figure was certainly 
living, for it greeted the grand-cham- 
berlain, without, however, leaving the 
round table which stood in the centre 
of the room. 

“ I welcome you to the house of my 
fathers,” it said, with great dignity. 
PoUnitz threw a laughing, jesting 
glance toward Anna, who had left his 
side on entering the room, and had 
withdrawn to one of the windows. 

“ Why are you so earr est and solemn 
to-day, my dear Pricker ? ” said he, 
turning to the old gentleman. 

“ Are you not here as the ambassador 
of the royal court ? ” he replied. “ I 
wished to receive you with all honor, 
and therefore desired you to come into 
this hall, that I might hear the royal 
message in the midst of my ancestors. 
Tell me now how I can serve the house 
of my sovereign.” 

“ You can serve it, my dear Pricker,” 
said Pollnitz, smiling, as he displayed 
a large sealed paper, “ by altering the 
sign upon your door. In the place of 
‘ court tailor of the queen and princess 
royal,’ it should read — ‘ court tailor of 
the dowager and of the reigning queen.’ 
Here is the patent, my dear sir.” 

The old man quietly took the paper ; 
not a feature of his cold, solemn face 
moved. 

The mother, however, could not con- 
ceal her joy. With a cry of delight 


she hurried to her husband, to embrace 
and congratulate him on his appoint- 
ment. 

Pricker waved her proudly back. 

“ Why do you congratulate me ? ” he 
said. “ The house of Hohenzollem has 
only done justice to my house, that is 
all. The title of court tailor to the 
reigning queen has become an inherit- 
ance in my family, and it would be 
great ingratitude in the house of Hohen- 
zollern to withhold it from me. For 
more than a century the Ilohenzollerns 
have been dressed by my family; we 
have prepared their apparel for every 
ball and wedding, every baptism or 
bmial ; and if they were arrayed with 
elegance, it was entirely owing to our 
taste and dexterity. The proverb says, 

‘ The tailor makes the man,’ and it is ' 
true. We made the coronation dresses 
of both the queens; it follows that 
they could not have been crowned 
without our assistance, for which w'e, 
of course, deserve their gratitude.” 

“ I assure you, however, my dear 
fi-iend,” said Pollnitz, “ that it was 
with much difficulty I obtained this 
appointment for you, and you owe me 
some acknowledgments. All my elo- 
quence was necessary to induce the 
queen to grant ray prayer.” 

Pricker grew pale, and his counte- 
nance lost its calm dignity. 

“Take back your patent,” he said, 
proudly, handing the baron the sealed 
paper ; “ I will not accept this title if 
it is not given willingly.” 

“No, no, keep it,” cried Pollnitz; 

“ You merit it ; it is your right ; I only 
mentioned the difficulty with which I 
obtained it, that I might win your 
heart, and incline you to grant a re- 
quest which I wish to make.” 

“I suppose you allude to the five 
hundred dollars which I lent you last 
month,” said Pricker, smiling. “ Speak 
of that no more — the debt is can- 
celled.” 


THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OF A TAILOR. 


“Thank you,” said Pollnitz, “but I 
i^as not thinking of that small affair ; 
It was quite another request I wished 
to make.” 

“ Let me hear it,” said the tailor, 
with, a most gracious inclination of the 
head. 

“ It concerns a young artiste, whom I 
would like to recommend to your pro- 
tection,” returned the crafty Pollnitz, 
with a side glance at Anna. “ He is a 
young and talented musician, who de- 
sires to gain a livelihood by giving in- 
struction, but unfortunately he is a 
stranger here, and has found but few 
patrons. I thought, therefore, that if 
you, who are so well known, would in- 
terest yourself in him, and give him 
your patronage, it would greatly ben- 
efit him, for doubtless many others 
would hasten to follow your example. 
If you will allow him to give singing- 
lessons to your daughter Anna, his for- 
tune is assured.” 

“ I grant your request,” said Pricker, 
solemnly, not for an instant doubting 
the motive of the baron. “ I will be- 
stow my protection upon this young 
artiste ; he can give my daughter a 
daily lesson, that is, if Anna is willing 
to show this kindness to the poor 
young man.” 

Anna could scarcely restrain her 
laughter, as she replied : 

“You have commanded it, and I will 
obey, as a daughter should do.” 

“ Very well,” said her father, majes- 
tically ; “ that matter is arranged. 

And now, baron, I beg you will inform 
me at what time the coronation will 
take place, that I may make my prepa- 
rations, and not be the cause of any 
delay on that solemn occasion.” 

“ The day of the coronation has not 
been decided, but it will certainly not 
oe fixed before the first of August. 
You will have time to make all your 
preparations. Later we will hold a 
consultation with her majesty the queen, | 


and decide the style, color, and mate- 
rial of the costumes. I will only give 
you a single word of counsel, my deal 
friend. Accommodate yourself to the 
new era. Remember that we have a 
new king, who is the counterpart of 
his father. The father hated and de- 
spised elegance and fashion — the son 
adores them ; the father was the sworn 
enemy of French manners — the son has 
a perfect passion for them : and if you 
would please the son, you must lay 
aside your old German habits and cus- 
toms, as we have all done, and walk in 
the new path. I tell you a new era is 
approaching, a period of glory and 
splendor. Every thing will be altered, 
but, above all, we shall have new fash- 
ions. In the first place, you must rid 
yourself of your German apprentices, 
and replace them as quickly as possible 
with French workmen from Paris. — 
That is the only means of retaining the 
court favor.” 

The tailor listened to all this with 
horror and astonishment. His cheeks 
were white, and his voice trembled 
with anger, as he cried : 

“ Never shall that happen ! Never 
will I adopt the innovations which are 
now the fashion ! Shall I lay aside my 
respectable dress, to replace it with a 
monkey-jacket, and become a laughing- 
stock to all honest men ? Shall I so 
far forget my God, my forefathers, and 
my native land, as to call French work- 
men into my German work-room ? 
Shame on me if I ever conduct myself 
in such a godless and unchristian man- 
ner I Never shall a French foot cross 
the threshold of my dwelling ! never 
shall a French word be spoken there I 
I was born a German, and I will die a 
German. True to my fathers, and to 
the commands of my sainted sovereign, 
who hated and despised these frivolous 
French fashions, it shall be my pride to 
retain the good old German customs, 
and never shall a dress cut in the 


94 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT 


French style be made in my work- 
room.” 

“ If you act in this niamier, the time 
of your good fortune is passed,” said 
Pollnitz. 

Pricker paid no attention to him, 
but, looking at the pictures which 
hung on the wall, he bowed respect- 
fully before one of them. 

“Look I” he said, pointing to one 
of the portraits, “that is my great- 
great-grandfather. He was a German, 
and the best and ablest of men. With 
him began the connection between the 
houses of Hohenzollern and Pricker. 
For him the Prince George William 
created the title of court tailor, and he 
would wear no garment that was not 
made by his favorite. He remembered 
him in his will, and from that time be- 
gan the importance of the Prickers. 

“ Then look at the next picture. It 
is the portrait of his son, who was the 
court tailor of Frederick William, the 
Great Elector. He made tfhe suit worn 
by the elector at the battle of Fehrbel- 
lin ; it was, however, the unhappy duty 
of his son to make the burial- dress of 
this great man. 

“ But with this portrait begins a new 
era for Prussia ; this was the tailor of 
Frederick the Third, and he made the 
robe and mantle which Frederick wore 
on the day of his coronation. His son 
succeeded him, and now began a new 
era for the Prickers. 

“ The son did not follow the example 
of his father ; he was of a softer, a 
more poetical nature. He loved flow- 
ers and poetry, and adored beauty ; he 
therefore became a lady’s tailor. The 
princess royal, Sophia Dorothea, ap- 
pointed him her tailor. He made the 
coronation robe of the queen, and the 
wedding-dress of the Margravine of 
Baireuth. 

“ When he died he was succeeded by 
his son, the now living Pricker. I 
made the wedding-dress of the Duchess 


of Brunswick, and the mourning of the 
present dowager-queen. And now, in 
the very presence of my ancestors, you 
tempt me to become a traitor to them 
and to their customs ! No, I am a Ger- 
man, and I remain a German, even 
should it cause my ruin I ” 

He bowed to the amused and aston- 
ished baron, and walked proudly 
through the hall to his work-room. 
His wife followed him, with folded 
hands and heavy sighs. 

Pollnitz and the lovely Anna were 
again alone. 

“ What an absurd man I ” said Poll- 
nitz, laughing. “ If Moli^re had 
known him, he would have worked his 
character into a charming farce.” 

“You forget that this absurd man 
may soon be your father-in-law,” said 
Ajina, sternly, as she left his side. 

“That is true,” said Pollnitz, smil- 
ing; “we will spare him. Come, one 
last kiss, my beautiful Anna — one kiss 
as a reward for my successful acting. 
To-morrow you will have a singing- 
master, who is no poor wretch, but a 
celebrated and influential musician, 
who has undertaken to instruct you 
cut of pure kindness for me, for he is 
not a teacher but a composer. Graun 
himself will be your instructor, and it 
rests with you to crown our love with 
the happiest results.” 


CHAPTER VH. 

SOFFRI E TACI. 

The most ardent desire of the young 
queen was about to be accomplished : 
she was to have a private and uncon- 
strained interview with her husband. 
The days of resignation, of hope de- 
ferred, and of hidden sorrow, were 
now over. The dearly - beloved and 
longed-for husband had at last re- 
turned to her! She need no longei 


SOFFRI E TACI. 


95 


lii(3e her head in shame from her own 
servants, who, she imagines, are se- 
cretly laughing at and mocking her, 
because the young king is so cold and 
indifferent. She need no longer envy 
the poor woman whom she saw in the 
street yesterday, carrying dinner to her 
laboring husband. She will also have 
a husband, and will feel the guiding 
and supporting arm of a strong man 
at her side. No longer will she be a 
poor, neglected queen, but a proud and 
happy wife, envied of all the world. 

He had written that he desired to 
pay her a visit, and had requested her 
not to lock her door, as important busi- 
ness would prevent his coming until 
quite late. He would, however, cer- 
tainly come, as he desired to have a 
private interview with her on this very 
evening. 

How w^earily the hours of this day 
have passed, how slowly the sun sank 
to rest I It is at last evening ; night is 
coming on. Elizabeth can now dismiss 
her attendants, and retire to her private 
apartments to await her husband. He 
shall see how joyfully she will receive 
him, how happy he has made her. 
She will adorn herself, that he may be 
pleased ; she will be beautiful, that he 
may smile upon her. 

The queen, with the assistance of her 
astonished maids, attires herself for the 
first tinje in one of the charming negli- 
gee recently sent by the Empress of 
Austria; for the first time she dons her 
prettily-worked and coquettish little 
cap, and encloses her tiny feet in gold- 
embroidered white satin slippers. This 
neglige is really charming, and the 
queen’s waiting-maids assure her that 
she never looked better, and was never 
more becomingly attired. But the 
queen desires to assure herself of this 
fact, and, stepping forward to the mir- 
ror, she examines her dress with the 
careful eye of a connoisseur; then, 
oending down, she scans her face at- 


tentively, and an expression of satisfac- 
tion flits over her features. Elizabeth 
sees that she is young and pretty, and 
for the first time rejoices in her beauty. 
The maids regard with astonishment 
these unusual preparations. Why was 
Elizabeth now so much rejoiced at the 
beauty of which she had never before 
seemed conscious ? 

The toilet is at an end; the queen 
seats herself on the light-blue sofa, and 
dismisses her maids with a mute ges- 
ture. But when the first maid ap- 
proaches the door, and as usual draws 
the key from the lock in order to secure 
it from the outside, Elizabeth awakes 
from her dreamy state and arises from 
her reclining position ; a glowing color 
suffuses her cheek, and a happy smile 
plays around her lips. 

“ Do not lock the door to-day,” said 
she, with emotion; “for I await the 
king.” 

As if astonished at her new happi- 
ness, she sinks back on the cushions, 
and covers her glowing face with her 
handkerchief, seemingly to shut out 
the dazzling light. The waiting-maids 
courtesy respectfully, and leave the 
room. In the antechamber this respect- 
ful expression vanishes from their fea- 
tures, and they turn to each other with 
mocking and derisive laughter. 

“ Poor queen ! she wishes to make 
us believe that the king, while he alto- 
gether neglects her in public, some- 
times pays her a secret visit. She 
wishes to make us believe that she is 
really the wife of the handsome young 
king; and we all know — yes, we all 
know — ” 

And all three shrugged their shoul- 
ders derisively, and hurried off to their 
associates, to gossip with them about 
the poor, despised, neglected queen. 

But what was that ? Did they not 
hear a carriage driving into the inner 
court, and the guard presenting arms 
amid the rolling of drums ? Could it 


96 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


be as the queen had said? was the 
king really coming to his wife ? The 
waiting-maids stood and listened ; they 
heard steps on the grand staircase. 
Yes, it was the king, who, preceded by 
his pages, carrying silver candelabras 
with wax-candles, walked hastily down 
the corridor to his chambers, and from 
thence to those of Elizabeth Chris- 
tine. 

What the queen had said was there- 
fore true. He did not despise her ; per- 
haps he loved her ! The astonished 
waiting-maids hurried off to inform 
their friends that the king loved his 
wife passionately, and that the royal 
pair were the happiest persons on earth. 
Elizabeth Christine also heard the equi- 
page drive into the court. With a cry 
of delight she sprang from her seat 
and listened. A fervent glow of hap- 
piness shot through her veins. She 
pressed her hands to her heart to still 
its rapid beating; her countenance was 
illumined with joy. But these feelings 
were so novel they almost terrified her, 
and filled her heart wdth tremulous anx- 
iety. 

“ My God,” murmured she, “ give me 
strength to bear this happiness, as I 
have borne misery ! ” 

But her prayer died on her lips, for 
she heard the door of the corridor 
open. She was no longer the queen, 
no longer the resigned and timid wife ; 
she was now the happy and joyful wo- 
man hurrying to meet the husband of 
her love. And with uplifted head and 
proud satisfaction she might now con- 
fess without shame that she loved him ; 
for he loved her also. He had re- 
quested a rendezvous, and was coming 
as a lover — her first love-meeting. She 
will not be shy and silent to-day, now 
that she knows he loves her ; her 
tongue will no longer be chained ; she 
will have courage to confess all, to tell 
him how ardently she loves him, and 
how long and vainly she has struggled 


with her heart; how the flames had 
ever broken out anew ; how his glances 
had ever renewed the ardor of her af- 
fection. 

There — he knocked at the door — she 
could scarcely breathe ; she could 
scarcely bid him enter ; she could not 
move, and stood transfixed in the mid- 
dle of the room ; she could only stretch 
out her arms longingly, and welcome 
him with her smiles and tearful glances. 

The door opened ; now he entered. 
The light of the wax-candles fell on 
his face. It was handsome as ever, but 
his eye was cold, and his lips uttered 
no loving greeting. He walked for- 
ward a few steps, stood still, and bowed 
in a stiff and formal manner. A chill 
of horror crept over Elizabeth; h<.r 
arms sank down, and the smile van 
ished from her pallid face. 

“Madame,” said the king, and his 
voice sounded harsher and colder than 
she had ever before heard it — “ma- 
dame, I must first beg your pardon for 
having disturbed you at so unseemly 
a time, and for having robbed you of 
an houi‘’s sleep. But you see that I 
am a repentant sinner, and you will 
forgive me when I assure you that, as 
this is my first, it shall also be my last 
violation of your retirement ! ” 

The queen uttered a low cry, and 
pressed her hand to her heart. She 
felt as if a sword had pierced her 
breast, as if she were dying. 

The king raised his large blue eyes 
with a surprised look to the pale, trem- 
bling face of his wife. 

“ You are pale, you are ill,” said he, 
“ and my presence is undoubtedly an- 
noying; I will retire and send your 
waiting-maids to your assistance.” 

While he was speaking the queen 
prayed to God for courage and strength ; 
she called her womanly pride to her 
assistance, and struggled against her 
tears and her despair. The king, who 
in vain had waited for an answer, now 


SOFFRI E TACI. 


91 


hastily approached the door, murmur- 
ing a few impatient words. 

But Elizabeth’s courage had now re- 
turned, she had conquered her heart. 

“Remain, sire,” she said — “I beg 
you to remain; I feel well again. It 
was only a passing spasm from which 
I often sufler, and for which I crave 
your indulgence.” 

“If I may then remain,” said the 
king, smiling, “ permit me to conduct 
you to a seat.” 

She accepted Frederick’s proffered 
arm and followed him to the sofa on 
which she had awaited him with such 
blissful anticipations, and on which he 
was now about to put her heart to the 
torture. 

The king did not seat himself by her 
side, but, rolling an arm-chair forward, 
seated himself at some distance in front 
of her. 

“Madame,” said he, “is it credible 
that we two have been married for 
seven long years, and still have never 
been as man and wife to each other? 
Our lips were forced to pronounce 
vows of which our hearts knew noth- 
ing. Having been forced into this 
marriage, you must have hated me. 
You can never have forgiven me for 
having led you to the altar. At the 
foot of the altar we did not vow eter- 
nal love to each other, but eternal cold- 
ness and indifference ; and to this hour, 
madame, you, at least, have faithfully 
kept this vow.” 

The queen sank back, murmuring a 
few incomprehensible words, and her 
head fell wearily upon her breast. 

The king continued : “ I come to-day 
to solicit your forgiveness for the invol- 
untary injustice which I committed. I 
have made you unhappy, for you were 
forced to give your hand to an unloved 
man, of whom you knew that he loved 
you not. Madame, it is unfortunately 
true, an abyss lies between us, and this 
abyss is filled with the blood of the 
T 


dearest friend of my youth. Oh, ma- 
dame, forgive me this wrong, for the 
sake of what I have suffered I I then 
had a soft and tender heart, but it was 
trodden under foot, and has become 
hardened. I placed full confidence in 
the world, and it has deceived me ter- 
ribly. I have suffered more than the 
poorest beggar ; I was forced to regard 
my own father as a cruel enemy, who 
watched me unceasingly, awaiting a fa- 
vorable moment to give me a death- 
blow. It was necessary that I should 
be continually on my guard; for the 
smallest fault, the slightest thought- 
lessness, a trifle, a mere nothing, wa^ 
sufiicient to condemn me. Oh, if you 
knew with what venom I have been 
publicly calumniated and accused I 
After doing their utmost to make me 
odious to the world, and fearing they 
might perhaps still fail, they resorted 
to another expedient to compass my 
ruin, and endeavored to kill me with 
their ridicule. So^ri e tad, this Ital- 
ian proverb was then the motto of my 
life. And believe me, it is hard to 
obey this seemingly so dry maxim ; it 
has a grand significance.” * 

The king, oppressed as it were by 
these reminiscences, leaned back in his 
arm-chair and breathed heavily. With 
downcast eyes and in silence the queen 
still sat before him, charmed by the 
music of his words, which found an 
echo in her heart like the dying wail 
of her youth. 

“ I do not tell you this,” continued 
the king, after a pause, “in order to 
play the role of a martyr in your sight, 
but because I wish you to understand 
by what means my spirit was at last 
broken, and my will made subservient 
to that of my father. I purchased my 
freedom, madame, by chaining you to 
myself. But in doing this^.,I vow^ed 


* The king's own words. — See “•CEuvws,'’ etc. 
tome xvi., page 161 . 


98 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


you should no longer be bound when 
it. should be in my power to release 
you. This moment has come, and, 
true to my vow, I am here. I know 
that you do not, cannot love me, ma- 
dame. The question arises. Is your 
aversion to me so great that you insist 
on a separation ? ” 

The queen raised her head and 
looked wonderingly into the mild and 
sorrowful countenance of her husband. 
She could no longer restrain the cry 
which trembled on her lips, no longer 
stem the tide of tears which gushed in 
torrents from her eyes, 

“ My God ! my God ! ” she exclaimed, 
with a plaintive wail, “ he asks me if I 
hate hiui ! ” 

There was something in the tone of 
her voice, in this despairing cry of her 
soul, which ought to have betrayed the 
long-hidden secret of her love to the 
king. But jDerhaps he knew it already, 
and did not wish to understand. Per- 
haps, in the nobility and native deli- 
cacy of his soul, he wished to represent 
the indifference and coldness which he 
experienced for his wife, as coming 
from herself. At all events, the king 
did not seem to notice her tears. 

“ No, madame,” said he, “I did not 
ask if you hated me, for I well know 
that your noble and womanly heart is 
not capable of this passion. I merely 
asked if your aversion to me was so 
great that it demanded a separation. I 
pray you to give me a short and de- 
cisive answer.” 

But Elizabeth Christine had lost the 
power of speech; tears rained down 
her cheeks, and she could only give a 
mute assent. 

‘‘You are, then, willing to be my 
wife before the world ? ” asked the 
king. “You are willing to remain 
Queen of Prussia, and nominally the 
wife of the king ? You do not demand 
that my reign shall be inaugurated 
with the exposure of our domestic 


misfortunes, and that your chaste and 
virtuous name shall be bandied about 
with mine before the calumniating 
world ? ” 

“ No,” said the queen, with feverish 
haste, for she feared her strength 
might fail her. “ No, I do not demand 
it ; I desire no separation I ” 

“I thank you for this word,” said 
the king, gravely. “ It is worthy of a 
queen. You then feel with me that 
we princes have not even the right to 
cast off the burden which weighs us 
down, but must bear it patiently if it 
serve to secure the stability of our 
throne. Enviable are those who dare 
complain of their sufferings, and show 
their scars. But it becomes us to 
wrap ourselves in silence, and not to 
show to the miserable, pitiful, and 
drivelling world, which envies and 
abuses, even while applauding us, that 
a king can also suffer. I thank you, 
madame, and from this hour you will 
find in me a true friend, a well-mean- 
ing brother, ever ready to serve you. 
Give me your hand to this contract, 
which shall be more lasting and holier 
than that blest by priests, to which our 
hearts did not say amen.” 

In his proffered hand Elizabeth laid 
her own slowly and solemnly. But 
when he clasped it in his own with a 
firm pressure, Elizabeth started and a 
cry escaped her lips. She hastily 
withdrew her hand, and, sinking back 
on the sofa, burst into tears. Frederick 
allowed her tears to flow, regarding 
her with a look of deep sympathy. 

“ You weep, madame,” said he, after 
a long and painful pause. “I honor 
your tears; you weep for your lost 
youth; you weep because you are a 
queen, and because reason has con- 
quered your heart and forbids you to 
make yourself free as any other woman 
except a princess might do. Weep on, 
madame, I cannot dry your tears, for 
like yourself I have been cheated of my 


SOFFPvI E TACI. 


happiness; like yourself I am well 
aware of the sacrifice which we are 
both making to our royal standing. 
Ah, madame, if we were only private 
individuals, if we were not the rulers 
of Prussia, but her subjects, we might 
now be happy. Feeling our own un- 
happiness, and desiring to save our sub- 
jects from a like misfortune, I have 
made a divorce more easily attaina- 
ble.” 

Elizabeth arose fi*om her reclining 
position and regarded the king with a 
mournful smile. 

“ I thank your majesty,” said she. 
•‘It is noble in you to alleviate that 
misfortune for others, which you have 
determined to endure.” 

“ Ah, madame,” exclaimed the king, 
smiling, “ you forget that I have in you 
a noble friend and sister at my side, 
who will help me to bear this evil. 
And then we are not altogether unhap- 
py ; if we do not love, neither do we 
hate each other. We are brother and 
sister, not by blood, but united by the 
word of a priest. But never fear, ma- 
dame, I will regard you only as a sis- 
ter, and I promise you never to violate 
the respect due to your virtue 1 ” 

“ I believe you,” murmured the 
queen, blushing, and inwardly ashamed 
of the charming and coquettish neglig^ 
in which she had received the king. 

“ Before the world we are still mar- 
ried, but I promise that this chain shall 
gall you as little as possible. In your 
private life you will only be reminded 
that you are still my wife, when it is 
absolutely unavoidable. At the cor- 
onation I must request your presence at 
my side. When this is over you will 
be as free and independent as circum- 
stances will admit. You will have a 
court of your own, a summer and a 
winter residence, in which I shall never 
intrude.” 

“ I shall then never see you again ! ” 
said the queen, in the sad voice of resig- 


99 

nation, which is often produced by an 
excess of pain. 

“ Oh, I pray you, madame, to permit 
me to meet you at times when etiquette 
demands it ; but I shall take care that 
these meetings take place on official 
and neutral ground, and not in our 
private houses. I will never enter 
your house without your permission, 
and then only on particular fete days 
— your birthday for instance; and I 
trust that you will not refuse to receive 
me on such occasions.” 

“ No, I will not refuse,” replied the 
queen, regarding her husband with a 
sad and reproachful look. But Fred- 
erick did not or would net see this 
look. 

“I beg,” said the king, smiling, 
“that you will permit me to present 
you with the castle of Schonhausen, as a 
reminiscence of the hour in which you 
found a faithful brother, and I a noble 
sister. Accept this little gift as an ear- 
nest of our new bond of friendship. It 
has been fitted up and prepared as a 
summer residence for your use, and you 
can retire to it immediately after the 
coronation, if you are so inclined.” 

“ I thank you,” said the queen in so 
low a voice that her words could 
scarcely be distinguished. “I thank 
you, and I will go there on the day af- 
ter the coronation.” A sigh, almost a 
sob, escaped her breast. 

The king regarded with a clear and 
penetrating glance the meek woman 
who sat before him, who accepted her 
joyless and gloomy future with such 
heroic resignation. Her mute anguish 
excited his compassion. He wished to 
throw a sunbeam into her dark future, 
to warm her heart with a ray of happi- 
ness. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I am on the point 
of making a little journey incognito ^ 
in the mean while you can go to Schon- 
hausen ; but when I return I desire to 
spend a few weeks in Rheinsberg in 


100 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


my family circle, and, as a matter of 
course, madame, you are a member of 
my family. I beg, therefore, that you 
will accompany me to Rheinsberg.” 

Elizabeth’s countenance was illu- 
mined with so beautiful and radiant a 
smile, that eyen the king saw it and 
admired her beauty. She held out 
both her hands and greeted him with 
a loving glance, but her trembling lips 
refused to utter the words which her 
heart prompted. 

The king arose. “I must no longer 
deprive you of your repose, and I also 
need rest. We must both keep our- 
selves well and strong for the sake of 
our country and our subjects, for we 
both have a grand task to accomplish. 
You will administer consolation to the 
miserable and suffering; you will dif- 
fuse happiness and reap blessings ; you 
A'ill shine as a model of nobility and 
feminine virtue before all other women, 
and through your example will give 
noble wives and mothers to Prussia’s 
sons! And I,” continued the king, a 
ray of enthusiasm lighting up his hand- 
some face, “I will make my people 
great ; my country shall have a place 
in the counsels of mighty nations. I 
will enlarge Prussia and make her 
strong and powerful. My name shall 
be engraven in golden letters in the 
book of history. As fate has destined 
me to be a king, and will not permit 
me to spend my days in retirement and 
philosophic tranquillity, like other and 
happier mortals, I will at least en- 
deavor to accomplish my mission with 
honor to myself and advantage to my 
people. You will be a ministering an- 
gel to the needy and suffering of our 
subjects, and I will extend the bounda- 
ries of Prussia and diffuse prosperity 
throughout the land I Farewell, Eliza- 
beth I our paths will seldom meet, but 
if I were so fortunate as to believe in a 
hereafter, and your noble and gentle 
nature would almost persuade me to 


do so, I would say: ‘In heaven we 
will perhaps meet oftener, and xmder 
stand each other better.’ Pray to God 
in my behalf*. I believe in God and in 
the efScacy of the jirayers of the good 
and pious. Farewell I ” 

He bowed deeply. He did not see 
the deathly pallor and convulsive trem- 
bling of the queen. He did not see 
how she, after he had turned from her 
and was advancing toward the door, 
hardly knowing what she did, stretched 
out her arms after him, and whispered 
his name in a plaintive and imploring 
tone. He hurried on, and without once 
turning left the room. On the outside 
he stood still for a moment, and drew 
a long breath of relief. 

“ Poor woman I unfortunate queen I ” 
he murmured, returning slowly to his 
chambers. “But why pity her? Is 
not her lot mine, and that of all princes ? 
A glittering misery — ^nothing else ? ” 

A few minutes later, and the royal 
equipage again drove through the 
courtyard. 

The king was returning to his sum- 
mer residence at Charlottenburg. The 
queen, who was on her knees, crying 
and sobbing, heard the carriage as it 
drove off. “Gone! he is gone!” she 
exclaimed, with a cry of anguish ; “ he 
has deserted me, and I am a poor, dis- 
carded woman ! He despises me, and 
I — I love him ! ” And, wringing her 
hands, she sobbed aloud. For a while 
she was tranquil, and prayed, and then 
again burst into tears. Her soul, which 
had suffered so long in silence, once 
more rebelled. The voice of her youth 
made itself heard, and demanded in 
heart-rending accents a little sunshine, 
a little of the joy and happiness prom- 
ised to mankind. 

She was at last quieted ; she ac • 
cepted her destiny, and bowed her 
head in humility and patience. Morn- 
ing was already dawning when Eliza- 
beth Christine arose from her kneea 


THE CORONATION. 


101 


pale and trembling, but resigned. 
“ Soffri e tad ! ” said she, sadly. “ This 
was the motto of his youth, and this 
shall be the motto of my whole life ! 
Soffri e tad! how sad, and yet how 
grave are these words ! ” Oh, Freder- 
ick, Frederick I why do you condemn 
me to such torture ; why has your heart 
no pity for me, no pity for my love ? 
But no ! ” she exclaimed, firmly, “ I will 
weep no more. He shall not despise 
me. I have accepted my destiny, and 
will bear it as beseems a queen. Be 
still, my heart, be still. Soffri e tad!'*'' 


CHAPTER VHI. 

THE CORONATION. 

Berlin was resplendent; the streets 
were filled with happy faces and gayly- 
dressed people, and the houses gar- 
landed with flowers. To-day was the 
young king’s coronation festival. 

The citizens of Berlin were assem- 
bled to take the oath of allegiance, and 
the nobles and officials to do homage 
to Frederick as their king. Crow^ds 
were moving toward the castle; all 
were anxious to see the monarch in Ms 
coronation uniform, to see him step 
upon the balcony to greet the people 
with the queen at his side, the young 
and lovely lady with the sweet smile 
and cloudless brow ; all wished to see 
the rich equipages of the nobility, and, 
if possible, to collect some of the coins 
which, according to an old and time- 
honored custom, were to be showered 
amongst the people. Thousands were 
standing before the castle, gazing in- 
tently upon the balcony where the king 
would soon appear. The windows of 
the surrounding houses were filled with 
lovely women richly dressed, holding 
wreaths and bouquets of fragrant flow- 
ers with which to greet their young 
and worshipped sovereign. All were 


gay and joyous, all were eager to greet 
the new king with shouts of gladness. 
The people were ready to adore him 
who, during the few weeks of his reign, 
had done so much for them ; had show- 
ered upon them so many blessings ; had 
opened the granaries, diminished the 
taxes, and abolished the torture ; who 
had recalled the religious sect so lately 
driven with derision from Berlin, and 
declared that every man in Prussia 
should worship God and seek his sal- 
vation in his own way. Yes, all wished 
to greet this high-minded, high-souled 
king, who, being himself a philosopher 
and a writer, knew how to reward and 
appreciate the scholars and poets of 
his own land. Frederick had recalled 
the celebrated philosophic Wolf, pun- 
ished some time before by Frederick 
William. He had organized the Acad- 
emy of Science, and filled it with learned 
and scientific men of the day. All this 
had been done in a few weeks. How 
much could still be hoped for I 
The king loved pomp and splendor ; 
this would promote the industry of the 
people. How much money would be 
conveyed through him and his gay 
court to the working- classes I What 
a costly festal life would now become 
the fashion in Berlin, and what a rich 
harvest would the manufacturers and 
tradesmen reap ? Not only the people 
dreamed of a golden era, but the no- 
blemen and high officials, who now 
crowded the palace, were hopeful and 
expectant, and saw a rare future of 
costly feasts and intoxicating pleasures. 
The stupid and frugal entertainments 
of Frederick William would give place 
to royal feta worthy of the Arabian 
Nights. 

Pbllnitz, the grand-chamberlain, was 
in his element ; he was commissioned 
with the arrangements for all the court 
balls, was empowered to order every 
thing according to his own judgment 
and taste, and he resolved to lavish 


102 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


money with a liberal hand. Pollnitz 
wished to realize his great ideal ; and 
he desired to see embodied in Freder- 
ick the picture he had drawn, for the 
benefit of the old king, of a true cava- 
lier. The king had given him the 
power, and he was resolved to use it. 
He thought and dreamed of nothing, 
now that the court mourning was 
drawing to a close, but the costly feasts 
which he would give. Pollnitz was 
ever searching, with an experienced 
and critical eye, amongst the ladies and 
maids of honor for the fascinating 
beauty who should charm the heart of 
the young king, and draw him into the 
golden net of pleasure — the net PoU- 
nitz was so anxious to weave for him. 

That the king did not love his wife 
was no longer a secret at court. Who, 
then, would win the love of this im- 
passioned young monarch? This was 
the great question with Pollnitz. There 
was the lovely Madame Wreeckie, who 
had shown so much kindness to the 
prince during his imprisonment. Ma- 
dame Wreeckie was still young, still 
bewitching ; perhaps it was only ne- 
cessary to bring them together in order 
to rekindle the old flame. There was 
Madame Morien, “Le Tourbillon,” who 
had so often charmed the prince during 
his minority, and for whom he had 
manifested a passionate preference. To 
be sure, since his coronation he had not 
noticed her, she had not received a 
single invitation to court. Then Dor- 
ris Ritter, the poor innocent young girl 
who had been fiogged through the 
streets of Berlin, her only fault being 
that she was the first love of the crown 
prince. Would the king, now that he 
was free to act, remember poor Dorris 
and what she had suffered for him; 
her sorrow, her shame, and her de- 
spair ? Would not Dorris Ritter now 
rise to power and influence, be prayed 
to as a lovely saint, her shame being 
covered with a martyr’s crown ? Pdll- 


nitz determined to keep an eye on 
Dorris Ritter, and, if the king showed 
no special interest in any other woman, 
to draw her from her exile and abase- 
ment. But, alas I the coronation 
threw no light upon this torturing sub- 
ject. Pollnitz had hoped in vain that 
a round of intoxicating pleasures would 
begin this day ; in vain did he suggest 
to the king that a court ball should 
crown the solemnities of the day. 

“No,” said Frederick, “this shall 
be no day of thoughtless joy ; it brings 
me sad retrospective thoughts and the 
consciousness of weighty duties. On 
this day my father seems to me to die 
anew. Dismiss, therefore, your extrav- 
agant fancies to a more fitting time. 1 
cannot trust you, Pollnitz, with the 
decorations of the throne — your taste 
is too Oriental for this occasion ; I will 
therefore place this affair in the hands 
of M. Costellan, who will order the 
simple decorations which I deem most 
fitting.” 

The grand-chamberlain could only 
shrug his shoulders contemptuously, 
and rejoice that he was not compro- 
mised by these contemptible arrange- 
ments; he grumbled to himself, and 
said scornfully: “This pitiful saloon, 
with no gilded furnitm-e, no paintings, 
no works of art, with faded, shabby 
silk curtains ; and that black, imeouth 
structure, is that really a throne — the 
throne of a young king ? A long plat- 
form covered with cloth ; an old arm- 
chair, black, worn, and rusty ; a canopy 
covered with black cloth ; faugh I it 
looks like a crow with his wings spread. 
Can this be the throne of a king who 
receives for the first time the homage 
of his subjects ? ” A coutemptuouti 
mocking smile was on the lips of Poll 
nitz as he saw the king* and his threj 
brothers enter the room. 

Pollnitz could scarcely suppress a cry 
of horror as he looked at the kinsi. 

O 

What, no embroidered coat, no ermine 


THE CORONATION. 


lOD 


mantle, no crown, nothing but the 
Biraple uniform of the guard, no decora- 
tions — not even the star upon his 
breast, to distinguish him from the 
generals and officials who surrounded 
him I Nevertheless, as Frederick stood 
upon that miserable platform with the 
princes and generals at his side, there 
was no one that could be compared 
with him ; he seemed, indeed, to stand 
alone, his bearing was right royal, his 
countenance beamed with a higher 
majesty than was ever lent by a kingly 
crown ; the fire of genius was seen in 
the flashes of his piercing eye ; proud 
and fearless thoughts were engraved 
upon his brow, and an indescribable 
grace played around his finely-formed 
mouth. There stood, indeed, “ Freder- 
ick the Great ; ” he did not need the 
purple mantle, or the star upon his 
breast. God had marked him with 
elevated, kingly thoughts, and the star 
which was wanting on his breast was 
replaced by the lustre of his eye. 

The solemn address of the minister of 
state, and the reply of President Gor- 
ner, were scarcely listened to. Freder- 
ick, though silent, had said more than 
these two ministers, with all their 
rounded periods ; his very glance had 
reached the heart of every one who 
looked upon him, and said, “ I am thy 
king and thy superior;” they bowed 
reverently before him, not because 
chance had made him their sovereign, 
they were subdued by the power of in- 
tellect and will. The oath of allegi- 
ance was taken with alacrity. The 
king stood motionless upon his throne, 
betraying no emotion, calm, impassive, 
unapproachable, receiving the homage 
of his subjects, not haughtily but with 
the composed serenity of a great spuit 
accepting the tribute due to him, and 
not dazzled by the ofiering. 

The coronation was at an end. Fred- 
erick stepped from the throne, and 
nodded to his brothers to follow him ; 


the servants hastily opened the doors 
which led to the balcony, and carried 
out the bags filled with the ‘gold and 
silver coins. The air resounded with 
the shouts of the populace. The king 
drew near to the iron railing, and 
greeted his subjects with a cordial 
smile. “You are my children,” he 
said, “ you have a right to demand ot 
your father love, sympathy, and protec- 
tion, and you shall have them.” Then 
taking a handful of coin he scattered it 
amongst the crowd. Shouts of merri- 
ment and a fearful scuffiing and scram- 
bling were seen and heard below ; each 
one wished to secure a coin thrown by 
the king himself, and they scarcely no- 
ticed the silver and gold which the 
young princes were scattering with lib- 
eral hands ; all these were worthless, 
as long as it was possible to secure one 
piece which had been touched by 
Frederick. The king saw this, and, 
much fiattered by this disinterested 
mark of love, he again scattered the 
coin far and wide. 

While the men were struggling 
roughly and angrily for this last treas- 
ure, a weak, pallid woman sprang 
boldly into the thickest of the surging 
crowd. Until now she had been cold 
and indifierent; the coins thrown by 
the young princes, and which had fallen 
at her feet, she had cast from her with 
disdain; now, however, as the king 
once more cast the coins in the midst 
of the gaping crowd, with a power 
which passion only gives she forced her 
way amongst the wild multitude, and 
with outstretched arms she shrieked 
out, “ Oh ! give me one of these small 
coins, only a silver one, give it to me as 
a keepsake I Oh I for God’s sake, give 
me one ! ” • Suddenly strange murmurs 
and whispers were heard from amongst 
those who now recognized this poor 
outcast ; they looked askance at her, 
they shrank from her as from a leper ; 
and she who a moment before had sued 


104 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT 


to them so humbly, now stood in their 
midst like an enraged lioness. 

“ It is she ! — it is she ! ” they whis- 
pered ; “ she has come to see the king, 
for whom she suffered so much ; for 
his sake she has been covered with 
shttme ; she has been driven from 
amongst the poor and innocent, and 
now she dares to come amongst us ! ” 
cried a harsh and pitiless voice. 

“We know how cruelly she was in- 
sulted and abused,” said another, “ but 
we all know that she was innocent; 
my heart is full of pity for her, and she 
has a right to a coin touched by the 
king.” The last speaker approached 
the poor woman, and offered both a 
gold and silver coin, “ Take these 
coins, I beg you, and may they be to 
you an earnest of a better and haj)pier 
future.” 

She gazed with a hard and tearless 
eye upon the good - natured, kindly 
face. “No, there is no happy future 
for me — nothing but want, and misery, 
and despair ; but I thank you for your 
pity, and I accept these coins as a me- 
mento of this hour.” She took them 
and laid them in her tattered dress, 
walked erect through the circle which 
gathered around, and was lost in the 
crowd. 

She was soon forgotten. The king 
with his brilliant suite w^as still upon 
the balcony, they had not noticed the 
scene passing amongst the people below ; 
none of them remarked this poor crea- 
ture, who, having made her way 
through the crowd, now leaned against 
one of the pillars of the spire, and 
gazed earnestly upon Frederick. The 
money was exhausted, the king had 
shown himself to the people sufficient- 
ly, and now, according to etiquette, he 
must leave the balcony, and make the 
grand tour of the saloons, greeting 
with kind and gracious words the as- 
sembled nobles. He motioned, how- 
ever, to his followers to leave him ; he 


wished to remain a few moments alone 
and look thoughtfully upon this sea 
of upturned faces. Frederick gazed 
eagerly below. That was no inani- 
mate and pulseless creation moved to 
and fro by the wind, which he now 
looked upon, but a living, thinking, 
immortal people ; with hearts to hate 
or love, with lips to bless or curse, 
their verdict would one day decide the 
great question as to his fame and 
glory as a monarch, or his neglect of 
holy duty, and the eternal shame 
which follows. They seemed to Fred- 
erick to be pleading with him ; they 
demanded but little — a little shade to 
rest in when weary with their daily 
labor ; prompt justice and kindly pro- 
tection, the right to live in peace, bear- 
ing the burden and sorrow of their 
lives patiently ; pity for their necessi- 
ties, forbearance for their weakness and 
folly. What did he, their king, de- 
mand of them ? That alone, which a 
million of people, his people, could 
bestow, immortal fame ! — they must 
give him the laurel of the hero, and 
crown him with the civic wreath ; he 
would make his subjects strong, healthy, 
and happy — they must make his great- 
ness known to all the world, and future 
ages. 

Such were the thoughts of the king 
as he stood alone upon the balcony. 
His eye often wandered across to the 
spire, and as often as it did the 
wretched woman who was leaning 
against the pillar trembled fearfully, 
and her lips and cheeks became deadly 
pale. The king did not see her ; he 
saw nothing of the outer world, his eye 
was turned within, reading the secrets 
of his own heart. 

In the grand saloons the nobles 
stood waiting in grim and angry silence 
the return of Frederick ; a cloud rested 
upon every brow ; even Pollnitz could 
no longer retain his gracious and stereo- 
typed smile; he felt it to be a bittei 


THE CORONATION. 


105 


grievance that the king should keep 
the nobility waiting while he stood gaz- 
ing at a dirty mass of insignificant 
creatures called human beings ! Look- 
ing around the circle, Pollnitz saw dis- 
pleasure marked upon every face but 
three. “ Ah,” said he to himself, “ there 
are the three Wreeckies I — no doubt 
they have come to be rewarded for ser- 
vices rendered the crown prince ; they 
were doubtless dangerous rivals for us 
all ; they suffered much for the prince, 
and were banished sever years from 
court on his account. The king must 
indemnify them for all this, and, who 
knows, perhaps he may give them the 
house in Jager Street, the house I am in 
the habit of calling mine I Well, I 
must draw near them and hear all the 
king promises.” So saying, Pollnitz 
approached quietly near the Messieurs 
Wreeckie. At this moment there was 
a movement in the vast assembly, and 
all bowed low ; as the king stepped 
into the saloon he commenced the 
grand tour of the room ; he had a 
kind and friendly word for all. At 
last he reached the Messieurs Wreeckie, 
and remained standing before them. 
All glances were now directed to this 
group ; all held their breath, not wish- 
ing to lose a word which Frederick 
should say to these formidable rivals. 

The king stood before them — his eye 
was severe, and his brow clouded. 
“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ it has been a 
long time since I have seen you at the 
court of the King of Prussia. I sup- 
pose you seek the prince royal ; I do 
not think you will find him here. At 
this court you will only find a king 
who demands, above all things, that 
his majesty should be respected ; that 
you subjugate yourselves to him in si- 
lent obedience ; even when his orders 
appeal harsh and cruel they must not 
be questioned for a moment ; he who 
opposes the will of the sovereign de- 
serves punishment ; I will not bear op- 


position at my court. There is but one 
will, but one law ; that is the will and 
law of the king 1 ” And, without 
further greetings, he passed on. 

The Wreeckies stood pale and trem- 
bling, and the face of Pollnitz was ra- 
diant with contentment. “ Well, those 
poor fellows will not receive my house 
in Jager Street,” he said to himself, 
“ they have fallen into disgrace ; it ap- 
pears the king wants to punish all 
those who rendered good service to the 
prince royal. Louis the Fourteenth 
said : ‘ It is most unworthy of a French 
king to punish any wrong done to the 
crown j^rince ; ’ here the rule is re- 
versed — the >.ring of Prussia deems it 
unworthy to reward the services ren- 
dered the prince royal. But what is 
the meaning of that crowd over there ? ” 
he exclaimed, interrupting himself; 
“ why is the lord-marshal approaching 
his majesty with such an eager, joyful 
air ? I must know what is going on.” 
Again Pollnitz made his way through 
the courtiers and arrived safely, right 
behind the king, just as my lord-mar- 
shal was saying in an excited voice : 
“ Your majesty, there is a young man 
in the next room who begs your high- 
ness to allow him to throw himself at 
your feet and take the oath of alle- 
giance ; he has come from America to 
greet you as king. So soon as he heard 
of the illness of your father, he left his 
asylum and has travelled night and 
day ; he has finished his journey at a 
most fortunate moment.” 

The eye of Frederick rested coldly, 
unmoved on the speaker; and, even 
after he ceased speaking, regarded him 
sternly. “ What is the name of this 
young man, for whom you show so 
lively an interest ? ” said the king, after 
a pause. 

The lord-marshal looked perplexed 
and frightened ; he thought the king’s 
heart should have told him who stood 
without ; who it was that had left his 


106 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS COURT. 


asylum in America and longed to greet 
the young king. “ Sire,” he said, hesi- 
tatingly, “your majesty demands to 
know the name of this y^ung man ? ” 

“ I demand it.” 

The lord-marshal breathed quickly. 
“Well, your majesty, it is my nephew ; 
it is Lieutenant Keith, who has come 
from Ameiica to throw himself at your 
majesty’s feet.” 

Not a muscle of the king’s counte- 
nance moved. “ I know no Lieutenant 
Keith,” he said sternly; “he who was 
once known to me by that name, was 
stricken from the oflBcers’ roll with the 
stigma of disgrace and shame, and 
was hung by the hangman in effigy, 
upon the gallows. If Mr. Keith is still 
living, I advise him to remain in Amer- 
ica, where no one knows of his crime, 
or of his ignominious punishment.” 

“ Your majesty will not receive him, 
then ? ” said the lord-marshal, with a 
trembling voice. 

“You may thank God, sir, that I do 
not receive him — above all, that I ig- 
nore his being here : if I should know 
that he still lived, I should be forced to 
execute the sentence to which he was 
condemned by the court-martial.” 
Slightly nodding to the lord-marshal, 
the king passed on and spoke a few 
indifferent words to some gentlemen 
standing near. 

“Well, Mr. Keith will not get my 
house in the Jager Street,” said P611- 
nitz, laughing slightly. “ What is the 
matter with this king? He seems to 
have lost his memory ! God grant he 
may not forget who it was that induced 
Frederick Willian to pay the debts of 
the prince royal, and to present him 
with the Trakener stud ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

DORRIS RITTER 

When the king had left the balcony, 
a poor young woman, who had been 
sitting on the steps of the cathedral, 
arose and looked fearfully around her. 
The sight of the king had carried her 
far away, she had been dreaming of 
the blissful days of the past. His dis- 
appearance brought her back to the 
present — the sad, comfortless present. 
The king had left the balcony. What 
had she to do in this mob, that might 
again mock, insult, or commiserate 
her? She could stand neither their 
sneers nor their pity, she must flee from 
both. 

With a hasty movement she drew 
her shawl tighter around her poor 
slender flgure, and hurried through the 
crowd. She came at last to a miser- 
able small house. The low narrow 
door seemed unfriendly, inhospitable, 
as if it would permit no one to pass its 
threshold and enter its dreary, deserted 
rooms, from which no sound of life 
proceeded. But this small, quiet dwell- 
ing ought to have been a house of la- 
bor and occupation, and would not 
have been so poor and pitiful-looking 
if the large iron bell hanging over the 
door had been oftener in motion, and 
filled the silent space with its cheerful 
sound. 

Behind this door there was a shop, 
but the bell was generally silent, and 
purchasers rarely came to buy in this 
miserable little store the articles which 
could be purchased more reasonably in 
one of the large shops belonging to 
wealthy merchants. The house seemed 
to have seen better days ; it had some 
claims to comfort and respectability. In 
the windows were placed bright shells 
and cocoanuts; there were the large 
blue china pots, in which the costly gin- 
ger is brought ; there were quantities of 


DORRIS RITTER. 


10 ^/ 


almonds, raisins, citrons, and lemons in 
glass shells ; neat paper-bags for coffee, 
and small Chinese chests that had held 
real Chinese tea. But these bags and 
chests were empty; the lemons and 
fruits were dried and hard ; the ginger- 
pots held no more of their strengthen- 
ing contents; even the dusty, faded 
sign over the door, which represented 
a wonderfully - ornamented negro en- 
gaged in unrolling dried tobacco-leaves, 
was but a reminiscence of the past, for 
the tobacco had long since disappeared 
from the chests, and the little that was 
left had fallen to dust. The store con- 
tained but a few unimportant things : 
chiccory for the poor, who could not 
pay for coffee; matches, and small 
home-made penny lights, with which 
Poverty illuminated her misery and 
want; on the table, in glass cans, a 
few hardened broken bits of candy; 
a large cask of old herring, and a 
smaller one of syrup. This was 
the inventory of the shop, these the 
possessions of this family, who alone 
occupied this house with their misery, 
their want, and their despair; whose 
head and only stay was the poor young 
woman now leaning wearily against the 
steps, dreading to enter her house of 
woe and wretchedness. She arose at 
length and hastily went in. The bell’s 
hoarse creaking ring was heard, and a 
poor, pale boy hastened forward to in- 
quire the comer’s wants. He stopped 
and looked angrily at the poor woman 
who had entered. 

“Ah, it is you, mother,” said he, 
peevishly. “ I hoped it was some one 
wishing to buy, then I could have 
bought some bread.” 

“ Bread I ” said the mother, anx- 
iously ; “ did I not, before I went out, 
give you money to buy bread for you 
and your little sister ? ” 

“ Yes, but when father came home 
he threatened to beat me if I did not 
give up the money at once; I was | 


frightened, and gave it ; then he left, and 
Anna and I have been crying for bread, 
while our father is amusing himself at 
the beer-house, and our mother has 
taken a holiday, and has been looking 
at the festivities which I also would 
have been glad to see, but could not, 
because I must stay at home and watch 
the shop into which no one has entered, 
and take care of my little sister, who 
cries for bread, which I cannot give 
her.” As he finished he threw an an- 
gry look at his mother, who, deeply 
grieved, had fallen back on a wooden 
bench. She looked lovingly at her 
son, and, holding out her arms to him, 
said : 

“ Come, give me a kiss, and reward 
me for all my pain and suffering.” 

“ Give us bread, then perhaps I will 
kiss you,” said he, harshly. 

She looked terrified into his hard, 
cold face. She pressed her hand to 
her high, pale forehead, as if she would 
force back the madness that threatened 
her; she held the other hand to her 
heart, whose wild, feverish throbbings 
were almost choking her. 

“ My God ! my God ! ” murmured 
she, “ am I then already mad ? Am I 
dreaming? Is this my son, my Karl, 
who loved me so dearly — my boy, 
who was the only comfort in my mis- 
ery, the confidant of my tears and 
wretchedness ? Can I, whom he looks 
at with such dark glances, be his 
mother — his mother, who joyfully 
bears for him the scorn of the world, 
who has suffered and hungered for 
him, worked for him during the long, 
cold winter nights — ^his mother, whose 
love for him was so great that she was 
willing not to die, but for his sake to 
live on in her woe ? — Kai’l, my son, 
come to your mother, for you well 
know how tenderly she loves you, and 
that she will die if you do not love 
her.” 

“ No, mother,” said he, not moving, 


108 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“you do not love me, nor my little 
Bister Ajma ; for if you loved us, you 
would not have left us to-day, and 
joined the gay people who were making 
merry while your poor children were 
at home groaning and crying.” 

“ Oh, my child I my child I I did not 
go, out of idle curiosity,” said she, 
sadly. “ I went to consult the oracle 
of your future, and to see if there was 
not to be some hope, some comfort for 
my children ; if this would not be the 
beginning of brighter days. I wished 
to read all this in a man’s face; I 
wished to see if he still had a heart, or 
if, like all princes, he had become hard 
and pitiless.” 

She had forgotten that she was 
speaking to her son ; she was address- 
ing herself, and had entirely forgotten 
that he was present. 

“ Ah,” said he, sneeringly, “ you 
thought he would now give you money 
for your shame ; but father told me that 
aU the gold in the world would not 
wipe out this shame, and that brandy 
was the only way besides death that 
could make us forget that we are de- 
spised and accursed. Father told 
me — ” 

The boy stopped and retreated a 
few steps; his mother had risen from 
her seat and stood before him, deadly 
pale, with widely-opened, flashing eyes, 
with trembling lips ; every muscle of 
her face in play ; her whole form trem- 
bling in a paroxysm of rage and fright 
ful torture. It was not the head of a 
woman, but of a Medusa ; not the look 
of a tender, loving mother, but of a 
wild, angry, threatening, and outraged 
woman. 

“ What did your father tell you ? ” 
».ried she, wildly, to the trembling boy 
before her. “ What did he say ? I 
will, I must know I You are silent; 
speak, or I dash my brains out against 
the wall, and you will be guilty of your 
mother’s death I ” 


“ You will beat me if I tell you,” said 
he, insolently. 

“No, no, I will not beat you,” said 
she, breathlessly ; and folding her 
hands as if to pray, she continued; 
“my child, my child, have mercy on 
your mother. Tell me what he said ; 
with what words he poisoned your 
heart, and made the love for your poor 
mother die so quickly. Tell me all, my 
son; I will not beat but bless you, 
though your words should cut my 
heart like a knife.” 

She wished to press him to hei 
heart, but he resisted passionately. 

“ No,” said he, “ you shall not kiss 
me; father said you made all you 
touched unhappy and despised, and that 
we would be well, happy, and rich, if 
you were not our mother.” 

She shuddered ; her arm fell power- 
less to her side, a hollow groan escaped 
her, her eyes were fixed and tearless. 

“ Wliat more did he tell you ? ” mur- 
mured she ; “ with what other tales did 
he amuse my child 'i ” She looked at 
him with such a sad, painful smile, that 
he trembled and glanced timidly down ; 
he now saw W’hat torture he was pre- 
paring for her. 

“ Father was drunk,” said he ; “ wher 
he had heard that you had gone out, 
he was furious; he cursed you so 
dreadfully that Anna and I both cried, 
and I begged him not to insult you so, 
for it hurt me, for then I still loved 
you.” 

“ Then he still loved me ! ” said his 
mother, wringing her hands. 

“But he laughed at me, and said 
you did not deserve our love, that you 
were the cause of all our misery and 
want ; he had become poor and 
wretched because he had married you, 
and taken to drink so as not to hear or 
see men pointing and laughing at you 
when you passed. But, mother, you 
look so pale, you tremble so I I will 
say no more; I will forget all fathei 


DORRIS RITTER. 


109 


flaid ; I will love you, mother ; but do 
not look at me so dreadfully, and do 
not tremble in that way.” 

The boy wept from grief and terror. 
His old love had awakened ; he ap- 
proached his mother to kiss her, but 
now she pushed him back. 

“ I do not tremble,” said she, though 
her teeth were chattering. “ I do not 
tremble, and you must not forget what 
your father said ; you must tell me all 
again. Speak on, speak I I must 
hear all, know all. "What more did he 
say ? ” 

The boy looked at her sadly. His 
voice, which before had been insolent 
and rude, was now quiet and gentle, 
and his eyes were full of tears. 

“ He said he married you out of pity, 
and because you brought him a few 
thousand dollars; but that this gold 
brought no blessing with it, but a 
curse ; and that since then it had gone 
worse with him than with the execu- 
tioner, whom all despise, and who 
dares not enter an honest man’s house 
— that you were more despised and 
disgraced than the miserable man who 
had stripped you in the open market 
and whipped you through the streets ; 
that the boys had pelted you with 
mud, and that the streets became red 
with the blood that flowed down your 
back.” 

The poor woman gave a piercing 
shriek, and fell as if struck by light- 
ning to the floor. The boy threw him- 
self weeping by her side ; and the little 
girl, who had been sleeping in another 
corner of the room, awakened by the 
scream, came running toward them, 
crying for bread. 

But the mother moved not ; she lay 
there pale, with closed eyes ; she was 
cold and lifeless ; she did not hear her 
poor little girl cry ; she did not feel the 
bot kisses and tears of her son, who 
was imploring her in anxious, tender, 
oving words, to open her eyes, to tell 


him that she was not angry, that she 
had forgiven him. But he suddenly 
stopped and listened eagerly ; he 
thought he heard the well-known 
sound of the bell. 

“ There it is again ; if it is father, 
he will beat me to death,” murmured 
he, as he went toward the shop door. 
“ He forbade me to repeat a word of 
all that to mother.” 

He opened the door, and there stood, 
not his father, but a richly-dressed gen- 
tleman, who, with a friendly gesture, 
pushed the boy aside and entered the 
shop. 

“ I want some tobacco, my little fel- 
low,” said he; “therefore call Mr. 
Schommer to give me some from hia 
best canister.” 

“ My father is not at home,” said the 
boy, staring at the handsome, friendly 
gentleman. 

“ Well, I did not come precisely on 
his account,” said the gentleman, with 
a strange laugh. “Call your mother, 
Madame Schommer, and tell her I wish 
to make a purchase.” 

“Mother is lying in tnc back room 
on the floor, and I believe she is dead I ” 
said Karl, sobbing. 

The gentleman looked at him with 
amazement. “ Did you say ‘ dead ? ’ 
That would be very inconvenient, for I 
have greatly counted on her life. What 
did she die of? Is a physician with 
her ? ” 

“No one is with her but my little 
sister ; you can hear her crying ! ” 

“Yes, I can hear her; and it is |n 
truth no edifying music. No one else, 
did you say ? Where, then, are your 
friends ? where is your father ? ” 

“Father is at the beer-house, and 
friends we have none; we live all 
alone, for no one will live with us.” 

“ Well, if you are alone, I may go to 
your mother,” said he, with a careless 
laugh. “ It is likely your mother has 
fainted ; and as I am learned in these 


no 


FREDERICK THE GREAT aND HIS COURT. 


feminine swoons, it is very possible I 
may call her back to life. Show the 
way, little Cupid, and lead me to your 
mother, the fainting Venus.” And 
laughing, he followed the astonished 
Doy into the back room. 

She still lay without movement on 
the floor, and little Anna, kneeling by 
her side, was praying for bread. 

“ That is your mother, Madame 
Schommer ? ” asked the strange gen- 
tleman, looking curiously at the pale 
woman. 

“Yes, that is my mother,” said the 
boy. “ Mother, mother, wake up ! ” 
said he, covering her face with kisses. 
“Wake up, I do not believe what 
father said. I will love you ! He was 
drunk I Ah, my dear, dear mother, 
only wake up I ” 

“ She will awake,” said the stranger, 
who was bending over her, laying his 
hand on her heart and temples, “ she 
is, as I thought, not dead, but in a 
swoon.” 

The boy laughed aloud with glee. 
“ My mother is not dead,” said he, cry- 
ing and laughing at once. “ She will 
wake up and love me ; we shall all be 

BO happy ! ” 

“ Mother, mother, give me some 
oread 1 ” whimpered poor little Anna. 

“Are you, then, so hungry?” said 
the stranger, who w'as getting tired of 
this scene. 

“ Yes,” said the boy, “ she is hungry ; 
we are both hungry. We have had 
nothing to eat all day. Mother gave 
np money before she went out, to buy 
bread and milk, but father came and 
took it to get brandy for himself.” 

“A worthy father,” said the stran- 
ger, handing him something. “ Here, 
my son, is money. Take your sister, 
go to the baker’s, and get something, 
then seat yourselves and eat; and do 
not come back here until I call you. 
But if you see your father coming, then 
come and tell me.” 


The children joyfully hurried to the 
door; they were not now thinking of 
their poor, fainting mother, but of the 
bread they would buy to satisfy their 
hunger. 

“But who,” said the boy, turning 
around, “will watch the shop ?” 

“Well, I will,” said the stranger; 
“ I will watch your mother and your 
shop ; go ! ” 

The children hurried away, and the 
stranger was alone with the fainting 
woman. 


CHAPTER X. 

OLD AND NEW SUFFEKENG. 

The cavalier stood quietly some min- 
utes, showing no sympathy for the 
poor, insensible woman, and making no 
efibrt to arouse her to consciousness; 
he examined her face searchingly and 
curiously, not from sympathy for her 
sad condition, but with cold egotism, 
thinking only of his own special object. 

“ Hum,” murmured he, “ in spite of 
pallor and attenuation, there are yet 
traces of great beauty. I am sure if 
well noiu-ished and well clothed she 
may yet allure the heart which must 
be ever touched with pity for her 
mournful fate ; besides, she is poor — 
hopelessly, despairingly poor. The 
husband is a drunkard, the cDildren 
cry for bread ; she is so poorly clad, so 
pale, so thin; hunger has been her 
only lover ! Under these circumstances 
she will readily adopt my plans, and 
be my willing tool ; she will acknowl- 
edge me as her master, and, by the fates I 
I will teach her how to bind this head- 
strong fool in chains ! He has so far 
escaped all the pitfalls which Freders- 
dorf and myself have so adroitly laid 
for him. Dorris shall be the Delilah 
who will tame this new Samson. 
Truly,” he continued, as he cast a look 
of contempt upon the senseless form 


OLD AND NEW SUFFERING. 


iying before bim, “ truly it is a desper- 
ate attempt to transform this dirty, 
pale, tbin woman into a Delilab. But 
the past is powerfully in ber favor, and 
my Samson has a heart full of melting 
pity and sensibility ; moreover, all pre- 
vious effoiis have failed, and it is par- 
donable to seek for extraordinary means 
in our despair. So to work ! to work 1 ” 

He took from bis pocket a small 
pbial of smelling-salts, held it to ber 
nose, and rubbed ber temples witb a 
small sponge. “ Ab, sbe moves,” be 
said, resting for a moment from bis 
work, and looking coldly and curiously 
upon tbe poor woman, wbo, witb tbe 
shudder of newly-awakened life, now 
turned ber head, and whose convulsed 
lips uttered short sighs and piteous 
complaints. Pollnitz rubbed her tem- 
ples again witb tbe strong salts, and 
then, as he saw that consciousness was 
more and more restored, be raised ber 
from tbe floor, and placed her softly in 
a chair. “ Aux armes^ aux armes ! ” 
muttered be ; “ la lataille cominence- 

Tbe woman opened ber eyes, and 
they wandered witb an anxious and 
questioning look here and there, then 
fell upon tbe stranger, wbo, witb a 
smiling and observant glance, followed 
every movement. Her eyes were fixed 
and staring, ber features expressed ter- 
ror and scorn, her whole form was con- 
vulsed, she was still half dreaming, 
half unconscious. But ber eye was 
immovably placed upon bim, and sbe 
murmured in low tones : “ I know this 
face — yes, I know this cold, smiling 
face, I liave felt it twice I When was 
it? wa» it only in fearful dreams, or 
was il a frightful reality? When, 
where did I see this cold, devilish 
smile. Ibis face so cold and heartless, 
so full of iron egotism ? ” 

“ Ti uly, sbe does not flatter,” mur- 
mured Pollnitz, but without changing 
for one moment bis watchful though 


111 

friendly mien. *‘I am cm ions to see 
if she will at last recognize me.” 

“ Pollnitz ! ” cried sbe at last, with 
flaming eyes. “Yes, it is you I I 
know you 1 you are Baron Pollnitz ! 
Wbo 'gave you tbe right to enter this 
bouse ? What brings you here ? ” 

“ I repeat your question,” be replied, 
smiling, “ what brought you here, here 
in this gloomy, miserable room ; here 
where hunger and wailing have their 
dwelling ; here where Misery grins 
upon you with hollow-eyed Terror ? 
What do you here, Dorris Ritter ? ” 

She trembled convulsively at this 
name, her cheeks were dyed purple, 
and in another moment became ghastly 
pale. “Why do you call me Dorris 
Ritter ? ” she cried, with gasping 
breath ; “ why remind me of the past, 
which stands like a dark spectre, ever 
behind me, and grins upon me with 
bloody and shameful horrors ? ” Lost 
wholly in these fearful remembrances, 
she stared before her, thinking no more 
of Pollnitz, forgetting that his watch- 
ful and heartless eyes were ever fixed 
upon her. “ Dorris Ritter ! ” she cried, 
slowly, “ Dorris Ritter ! where are you ? 
why do they call you by your name ? 
Can they not remember that you are a 
sleep-walker wandering on the edge 
of a precipice, into which you must 
fall headlong if awakened by the sound 
of your name, Dorris Ritter ? ” she said, 
more loudly, fixing her eyes upon Poll- 
nitz ; “ how dare you call my name, 
and tear me shriekhig from my grave ? ” 

“ Now, that is exactly what I wish,” 
said Pollnitz. “I will raise you from 
this lowly and forgotten grave; you 
shall forget what you have suffered; 
you shall be rich, happy, distinguished, 
and envied.” 

“II” cried she, with mocking laugh- 
ter, “ and you will make that of me 1 
You, Baron Pollnitz, you, who were 
partly the cause of my misery, and who 
looked smilingly upon my shame f 


112 


FHEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


What, then, what have I done to de- 
serve so much humiliation and sorrow ? 
My God I ” cried she, in heart-rending 
tones, “ my heart was pure and inno- 
cent; I dared raise my head without 
fear, and look God and my parents in 
the face ; even before Am, my prince, I 
needed not to cast down my eyes ; I 
was innocent, and he loved me because 
he could also respect me. Alas 1 it 
was so silent, so resigned a love; it 
asked for nothing, it had no speech. 
Was it our fault that others saw and 
pointed out this love without words, 
and which eyes of innocence only ex- 
pressed ? We stood far removed from 
each other, and a gulf lay between us, 
but heavenly music formed a golden 
starry bridge over this abyss, and the 
holy and melodious tones whispered to 
our young hearts the complaints and 
longings of a speechless, self-renoun- 
cing love. Only thus, only thus, a 
sweet dream, and nothing more ! Then 
you came to awaken us, to accuse the 
prince of high-treason, to make of me 
a miserable prostitute I You cast my 
love, which I had only confessed to 
my Father in heaven, like a dirty libel 
and foul fruit in my face ; you wished 
to spot and stain my whole being, and 
you succeeded ; you crushed my exist- 
ence under your feet, and left me not 
one blossom of hope 1 Oh, I will never 
forget how you tore me from the arms 
of my poor father 1 how you cast me 
into prison and chained my hands, be- 
cause in the anguish of my shame and 
despair I tried to take that life which 
you had dishonored ! They came at 
last, and dragged me before the king. 
Two men were with him, one with a 
common red and swollen visage, with 
thick, lascivious lips, with red and wa- 
tery eyes — that was Grumbkow; the 
other, with the fine friendly face, with 
the everlasting deceitful smile, the cold, 
contemptuous, heartless glance, that 
was you, Baron Pbllnitz. Ah, with 


what horrible glances did these three 
men look upon me I what mockery and 
contempt did their cruel voices ex- 
press ! I threw myself at the feet of 
the king ; I prayed to him for mercy 
and grace; he kicked me from him, 
and shamed me with words and accu- 
sations which made my soul blush. I 
swore that I was innocent ; that no sin 
lay upon me; that I had never been 
the beloved of the prince; that I had 
never spoken to him but in the pres 
ence of my father. Then laughed they, 
and mocked me, and loudest of all 
laughed Baron Pollnitz, and his words 
of scoffing and insult pierced my heart 
like a poisoned arrow, and checked my 
flowing tears.” 

“ It is true,” murmured Pollnitz ; 
“ she has forgotten nothing.” 

“ Forgotten I ” cried she, with a wild 
laugh, “ can I forget that I was driven 
through the streets like a wild beast ; 
that I was stripped by the rough hands 
of the hangman’s boy; that I heard 
behind me the scoffings and insults of 
the wild mob hii-ed for the occasion ; 
that I felt upon my naked back the 
cruel blows of the executioner’s whip ! 
Oh, I have borne, and I have suffered ; 
I did not become a maniac, I did not 
curse God, but I prayed to my Father 
in heaven as I ran like a baited animal 
through the streets. I saw that all the 
houses were closed, that no one stood 
at the windows ; no one had the cour- 
age to look upon my path of martyr- 
dom, and it comforted me even in the 
midst of my torture, and I blessed 
those men who were pitiful to me, and 
who appeared to bear testimony to my 
innocence by refusing to witness my 
cruel punishment, and I ran farther, 
and the hot blood flowed down my 
back. Suddenly I came upon a house 
which was not closed, the door was 
open ; before it stood the servants and 
pointed the finger of scorn at me, and 
mocked and jeered at me. On the bal 


OLD AND NEW SUFFERING. 


113 


Sony stood Baron Pollnitz, with his 
stony, heartless face ! Then I uttered 
a cry of rage and revenge, then my 
prayers were hushed or changed into 
wild curses, and I yelled and howled 
in my heart : ‘ He is guilty of my shame ; 
ue with his cruel jests, his pitiless 
sneers, has poisoned the ear of the 
king, and destroyed the last doubt of 
ray guilt in the heart of his majesty. 
Disgrace and shame upon Baron Poll- 
nitz I may he be despised, lonely, and 
neglected in the hour of death; may 
remorse, the worm of conscience, feed 
upon his soul, and drive him hither 
and thither, restless and homeless all 
his life long I ’ ” 

She uttered a wild cry, and sank 
back powerless and broken in her chair. 

Baron Pollnitz was self-possessed 
and smiling throughout; he laid his 
hand upon the nerveless arm of the 
sobbing woman, and said with a soft, 
flattering tone : 

“ It is true I have done you injustice, 
but I have come to make amends for 
the past. You shall yet raise your head 
proudly, and no one shall doubt of 
your innocence.” 

She shook her head sadly. “ How 
can that help me ? My father died of 
shame ; my husband, who married me 
from pity, and because I had a poor 
two thousand crowns, could not bear 
that men should flee from me as from a 
branded culprit ; this grief drove him 
to drink, and when he comes home’ 
drunk at night, he beats me and shames 
me; the next morning he prays, with 
strong crying and tears, for forgiveness, 
but goes again and begins anew the 
same sad existence. My children ! — ” 

She could say no more; her words 
were choked with tears, as she thought 
of the hard and frightful language her 
little boy had used to her that morn- 
ing. 

Pollnitz was weary of the complaints 
and sobs of this wretched woman. 

8 


“ Weep no more,” said he ; “ weep- 
ing makes the eyes red, and you must 
henceforth be lovely and attractive ; if 
you will follow my advice, you and 
your children will once more be joyful 
and happy. I will send you beautiful 
.clothing, and I know an adroit person 
who will make you charmingly attrac- 
tive, and at the same time arrange your 
toilet with such enchanting grace, 
that you will pass for the ‘ Mater dclo- 
rosa’ and the beautiful Magdalen in 
the same person. Then will I lead you 
to the king ; then will he read in your 
lovely and noble face the touching and 
innocent story of his first love ; it will 
then rest with you, who have so long 
been covered with dust and ashes, to 
kindle again the spark of your dead 
love, and to find in his tenderness the 
award and compensation for all the 
bitter past.” 

She looked at him with flaming eyes, 
and her glance was so piercing that 
even Pollnitz felt a little embarrassed, 
and involuntarily cast his eyes to the 
ground. 

“ Has the king sent you here with 
this message ? ” 

“ No, not the king; but I know that 
he thinks of you with love and pity, 
and that he would be happy to find 
you.” 

“If that is so, let him come to seek 
me. I will not go to him — I am the 
injured and dishonored one; it is his 
duty to repair my wrongs. But he will 
not come — I know it. I read it to-day 
in his face. The world has killed his 
heart; it has turned to stone in his 
breast — a gravestone for his dearly-loved 
Katt, and for Dorris Ritter.” 

“ He will come; I say to you he will ! 
Hear me, Dorris: you will not go to 
him ? Well, then, expect him here, and 
prepare yourself in such a way to receive 
him as to make an impression upon his 
heart; study carefully your part; re- 
volve every word which you will say to 


lU 


FREDERICS THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


him ; consider every glance with which 
you will look upon him; put on the 
clothes which I will send you, and ban- 
ish your husband and your children.” 

“ My children I ” cried she, trem- 
bling ; “ no, no, only as a mother — 
only under the protection of their inno-. 
cent presence will I ever see him ; only 
for my children will I receive his sym- 
pathy and grace.” 

Pollnitz stamped involuntarily with 
his feet upon the floor, and muttered 
curses from between his tightly-pressed 
lips. 

“Do you not understand that our 
whole scheme will fail, unless you do 
exactly as I tell you ; that you will at- 
tain nothing unless you begin wisely 
and prudently? You say the king has 
no heart; well, then, he has intellect, 
and this you must flatter ; through this 
you may, perhaps, warm his stony heart. 
You must not trust wholly to the ma- 
jesty of your misfortunes, but advance 
to meet him in the grace and glory of 
your beauty; by your soft eyes you 
must work upon his heart; not with 
your tears, but by enchanting smiles, 
he may be won.” 

She looked at him with proud and 
contemptuous glances. 

“ Go ! ” said she ; “ go ! we have 
nothing to do with each other. I 
would curse you and seek to revenge 
myself upon you for the new dishonor 
which you have put upon me by your 
shameless words, but I know I have 
not the right to resent. I am a de- 
■ graded, dishonored woman, and all 
i.men believe they have the right to in- 
sult me and to mock at my misfortunes. 
Gol” 

“You command me, then, to leave 
you ? You will not heed the voice of 
.t* well-meaning friend ; you — ” 

“Baron Pollnitz,” said she, with a 
voice tremulous with scorn, “ I say go I 
Drive me not to extremity. Shall I 
call upon the neighbors to relieve me 


from the presence of one I abhor, who 
disregards the sanctity of my poor 
house, and abuses and sneers at a wo- 
man who hates him ? Go, and let me 
never see your face or hear your voice 
again ! ” 

“Well, then, I will go. Farewell, 
dear Madame Schommer; but I will 
come again, and perhaps I may be so 
happy as to find in your place the en- 
chanting Dorris Ritter, that sentimental 
young maiden of the past, who loved 
the crown prince so passionately, and 
was so well pleased to receive his love 
and his presents.” 

He laughed aloud, and left the 
dreary room with a courtly pirouette ; 
with quick steps he hastened through 
the shop, and opening the door which 
led into the street, he kicked the two 
children who w^ere sitting on the thresh- 
old to one side, and rushed into the 
street. 

“ She is truly proud yet,” murmured 
he, shrugging his shoulders. “The 
hangman’s whip did not humble her — 
that pleases me ; and I am more than 
ever convinced we will succeed with 
her ; she must and shall be beloved of 
the king; and as she will not go to 
him, well, then, I will bring him to 
her. To-morrow Frederick will visit 
the site chosen for the palace of the 
queen-mother ; that will be a glorious 
opportunity to induce him to enter her 
hut.” 

Dorris Ritter had risen, and with up- 
lifted arm and a proud glance she had 
followed Pollnitz. Her -whole being 
was in feverish excitement. In this 
hour she was no more a poor, dis- 
heartened woman, from whom all 
turned away with contempt, but a 
proud wife conscious of her honor and 
her worth, 'who commanded her perse- 
cutor from her presence; who asked 
no mercy or grace, and demanded a 
recognition of her purity. 

As the steps of the baron faded 


115 


THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 


iway, and Dorris was again alone, her 
feverish excitement subsided, and she 
was again a poor, pallid, trembling, 
humble woman. With a cry of the 
most profound woe she sank back in 
her chair, and stared long before her. 
Suddenly she murmured from between 
her tightly-compressed lips : “ Woe to 
Iiim ! woe to him, when he forgets 
what I have suffered for him ! woe to 
him, if he does not remove the shame 
which crushes me I woe to him, if he 


me as others do I Then will 
Dorris Ritter be his irreconcilable 
enemy, and she will take vengeance as 
true as there is a God over us ! ” 


CHAPTER XL 

THE PROPOSAL OP MARRIAGE. 

“ Courage, my dear friend,” said 
Madame von Brandt to Count Voss, 
who stood before her with the most 
mournful expression, and seemed so 
lost in grief as to be scarcely aware of 
the presence of his charming and be- 
witching Armida. 

“ I do not understand how you can 
laugh and be gay, if you love me,” he 
said, sadly. 

“I love you truly, and therefore I 
am gay. We have almost gained our 
end ; soon the suspicions of the world 
will be lulled, for who would dream 
that the husband of the young and 
beautiful Laura von Pannewitz could 
possibly love the old and ugly Madame 
von Brandt ? ” 

“ You old ! you ugly ! ” cried the 
young count, indignantly. “ It is well 
that it is you who utter such a blas- 
phemy ; if any other did, I should de- 
stroy him.” 

“ You would do very wrong, dear 
count, for that would betray our love 
to the world. No, no, if any one should 
ppeak so to you, you must shrug your 


shoulders, and say, ‘ I am not acquainted 
with Madame von Brandt ; I am in- 
different whether she is handsome or 
ugly. She may be as old as Methuselah, 
it does not concern me.’ ” 

“ Never will I say that, never will I 
be induced to utter so miserable and 
dishonorable a falsehood. No, dearest, 
you cannot demand that. You see 
your power over me, and treat me most 
cruelly. You condemn me to be mar- 
ried, and I have obeyed your com- 
mands, although my heart was break- 
ing as I made my proposal to the queen. 
Now I entreat that you will not torture 
me by demanding that I shall revile 
and calumniate you. No, no, I pray 
on my knees that you will be kind and 
merciful ! ” 

He threw himself on his knees before 
her, leaning his head upon the divan 
on which she was sitting. 

She placed her hand upon his head 
and played with his fair hair. “ I am 
not cruel, I am only cautious,” she 
whispered, almost tenderly. “Trust 
me, Alexander, you must not doubt my 
boundless love.” 

love me,” he 
hard and 


, you do 
you are 


not 


“No, 
sighed ; 

cruel, you have never granted me the 
smallest favor, you have never accepted 
one of my presents.” 

A slight but scornful smile played 
upon the lips of this beautiful woman, 
while the enthusiastic and imi)assioned 
young man spake thus. She turned 
aside her face, that he might not see 
its expression. 

But he thought she was again angry 
with him. “ Ah,” he said, despairing- 
ly, “you will not allow me even to 
behold your heavenly countenance ; do 
you wish to drive me to distraction? 
What have I done to deserve this new 
torture ? Are you so offended because 
I entreated you to accept a gift from 
me ? Oh, it is so sweet to compel the 
one we love to think of us ; to place a 


116 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


ring upon her finger, and bid ber 
dream of him who loves her when she 
looks upon it; to bind a chain upon 
her neck, and whisper, ‘You are fet- 
tered, my love enchains you, you are 
mine ! ’ A man can only believe in the 
affection of his beloved when she con- 
descends to accept something from him. 

“ And would that give you faith in 
my love ? ” she said, in a tender, melt- 
ing voice, as she turned smilingly tow- 
ard him. 

“ Yes I ” he exclaimed, “ it would in- 
crease my faith.” 

“Well, then, give me some little 
thing that will remind me of you, that 
I can wear, as the spaniel wears the 
collar which bears the name of its mas- 
ter.” 

She offered him her hand, which he 
covered with fervent kisses, and then 
drew from his bpsom a large and heavy 
Hui^ which he pflaced in her hands. 

“ But this contains not merely a 
ring,” she said, reproachfully; “you 
have deceived me, misused my kind- 
ness ; instead of presenting me with a 
small souvenir, with the pride of a king 
you wish to overwhelm me with your 
rich gifts. Take back your case, count, 

I will not look at its contents ; I will 
not behold how far your extravagance 
and pride have led you ; take your 
treasures, and give me the simple ring 
that I promised to accept.” She stood 
up, and handed him the Hui with the 
air of an insulted queen, without once 
glancing at its contents, and only di- 
vining their value by the size and 
weight of the case. 

Her poor lover regarded her with a 
truly despairing expression. “ If you 
desire to destroy me, do it quickly and 
at once, not slowly, day by day, and 
hour by hour,” he said, almost weep- 
ing. “I fulfil your smallest desire, I 
marry at your command, and you re- 
fuse to show me the slightest kindness.” 
He was now really weeping, and turned 


aside that she might not behold hie 
tears. Then suddenly recovering him- 
self, he said with the boldness of de- 
spair : “ I will learn from you the use 
of the word ‘ no.’ If you refuse to ac- 
cept this case, then will I refuse to 
marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz. 
If you compel me to receive again those 
miserable stones, I will go at once to 
the queen, and tell her that I was mis- 
taken, that I cannot and will not mar- 
ry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz ; that 
I have given up my plan, and am de- 
termined to leave Berlin immediately.” 

“ No I no I you must not go I you 
shall not leave me I ” she cried, with 
every appearance of terror; “give me 
the case, I will accept it. You must 
not leave Berlin ! ” 

The young count uttered a cry of de- 
light, and hurried to her side. 

“ I will accept this she said, 

smiling, “ but will not open it while we 
are together, for fear we might again 
disagree.” 

Count Voss was beside himself with 
joy and gratitude, and vowed he would 
marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz 
that very day, to obtain the kiss which 
Madame von Brandt had prf)mised him 
at his wedding. 

“ Love might perhaps remove moun- 
tains,” she said, “ but it cannot give 
wings to the tongue of a queen. You 
have placed your proposals in the hands 
of her majesty, you selected this lofty 
lady to sue for you, and now you must 
wait until it pleases her to make your 
proposals known to the lady.” 

“ The queen promised to do that to- 
day. It was necessary for me to make 
my proposals to her, for the family of 
Mademoiselle von Pannewitz demanded 
that I should obtain the consent of the 
queen to my marriage, before I could 
hope for theirs.” 

“ And Laura— have you obtained her 
consent ? ” 

“ Oh,” said the vaiu count, shrugging 


THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 


117 


his shoulders, “I am certain of that; 
she is poor and entirely dependent on 
the proud dowager-queen ; I will make 
her a countess, and insure her freedom; 
she will live independently upon her es- 
tates, and be surrounded with wealth 
and luxury ; she will have every thing 
but a husband.” 

“Poor Laura!” said Madame von 
Brandt, softly. “ But you have been 
with me already too long ; it might be 
remarked, and give rise to suspicion. 
Go, now, I will work for you, and you 
must work for yourself. Let no diffi- 
culties frighten you.” 

The count left her slowly, while Ma- 
dame von Brandt was scarcely able to 
conceal her impatience to be alone. 
She looked after him with a contempt- 
uous smile, and murmured to herself : 
“ Vain fool, he deserves to be deceived. 
But now at last I will see what this 
precious etui contains.” She flew to 
the table and hastily lifted the cover of 
the case. A cry of astonishment arose 
to her lips, and her eyes beamed as 
clearly and brightly as the diamonds 
resting upon the satin cushion within. 
“ Ah ! this is really a royal present,” 
she whispered breathlessly, “ more than 
royal, for I am confident King Freder- 
ick would never present any woman 
with such diamonds; but I deserve 
them for my wonderful acting. This 
poor count is convinced that I am the 
noblest, most unselfish, and most loving 
of women. How well conceived, how 
wise it was to decline his first gift ! I 
knew that he would replace it with 
something more costly and elegant, 
hoping to move me to change my reso- 
lution. How my heart bounded with 
delight when he drew forth this great 
case ! I could scarcely withhold my 
hands from grasping the costly treasure. 
I concealed my impatience, and would 
not open the case in his presence, fear- 
ful that he might read my delight in 
my eyes, and that might have undeceived 


the poor fool as to my di.sinterested- 
ness. Truly it was very wise and very 
diplomatic in me ; even Manteuffel 
could not have acted more discreetly.” 
She bent again over the flashing dia- 
monds, and pressed her burning lips to 
the cool gems. “Beautiful stones,” 
she whispered, tenderly, “ your cold 
kiss animates my whole frame ; I love 
you more than any human being, and 
when you are upon my neck I will de- 
sire no warmer embrace. Welcome, 
then, beloved, to my house and my 
bosom ! You shall be well cared for, I 
shall exert myself to provide you with 
worthy companions ; many of your fam- 
ily are lying loosely about in the world, 
and you doubtless desire the company 
of your brothers and sisters. I myself 
share that desire, and will seek to ac- 
complish it by bringing together more 
and more of your relations ; I will in- 
vite your cousins, the pearls, and you 
shall be united. My diamonds and 
pearls shall have a gayer and more 
splendid wedding than Count Voss 
and beautiful Laura von Pannewitz.” 
She laughed aloud in the joy of her 
heart, then closed the case and locked 
it carefully in her writing-desk. “ And 
now to the queen- mother,” she said ; 
“ the train is laid, it is only necessary 
to apply the match and await the ex- 
plosion. I must point out to the queen 
that this marriage of the lovely Laura 
with Count Voss is necessary to prevent 
a difficulty in the royal family, I must 
— eh Men ! nous verrons. I hear the 
voice of the queen ; she is taking her 
promenade, and I must not fail to be 
present.” She took her hat and shawl, 
and hurried to the garden. 


118 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE QUEEN AS A MATRIMONIAL AGENT. 

The queen - mother was taking a 
walk in the garden of Monbijou. She 
was unusually gay to-day, and her 
countenance wore an expression of 
happiness to which it had long been a 
stranger. And the queen had good 
reason to be gay, for she seemed on 
the point of realizing the proud antici- 
pations she had indulged in for so many 
weary years. Her son was carrying 
into execution the promises which he 
had made on his first visit, and in 
which she had hardly dared to believe. 
She had already received the first 
monthly payment of her income as 
queen - dowager, which her son had 
largely increased. New appointments 
had been made to her court, and it had 
been placed on a truly royal footing ; 
and yesterday Frederick had told her 
that he had already chosen a 'site for 
her new palace. Moreover, the hom- 
age she received from the entire court, 
and more especially from the king’s fa- 
vorites, bore evidence to the fact that 
her influence was considered great, aed 
that much importance was attached to 
her grace and favor. While queen 
Elizabeth was passing her time joy- 
lessly at the Castle of Schonhausen, to 
which she had retired, the entire court 
was assembling at Monbijou, and hast- 
ening to do homage to the queen- 
mother. Even the young king, who 
had not yet paid a single visit to his 
wife at Schonhausen, waited on the 
queen his mother daily, accompanied 
by a brilliant suite of cavaliers.” * 

The queen Sophia Dorothea had good 
reason to be gay, and to entertain the 
happiest anticipations in regard to the 
future. To-day for the first time she 
eould take her morning walk attended 


by her brilliant suite, for the last ap- 
pointments had only been made on the 
preceding day. When the queen now 
looked around, and she did so from 
time to time, she no longer saw the 
two maids of honor of earlier days 
walking languidly behind her. Six of 
the most beautiful ladies, all of the first 
nobility, had been appointed to the 
queen’s service, and were now engaged in 
a merry conversation with the fom* cav - 
aliers in attendance on the queen, who 
had been selected for this office by the 
king himself. While conversing with 
her marshal. Count Rhedern, she could 
hear the merry laughter of the newly- 
appointed maid of honor Louise von 
Schwerin, and the soft, melodious voice 
of the beautiful Laura von Pannewitz, 
whose grace and loveliness had even 
excited the admiration of her son the 
king, and for a few weeks thrown him 
into a state to which he was entirely 
unaccustomed.* 

The queen, as we have said, was un- 
usually gay, for she had just received a 
new proof of her own importance, and 
of the influence she was supposed to 
exert on the young king her son. 

Count Rhedern had solicited the as- 
sistance of the queen-mother in a very 
delicate and important matter, and had 
requested her to advocate his cause 
with King , Frederick. The count de- 
sired to marry, but the permission of 
the king was still wanting, and would 
probably be very difficult to obtain, 
for the count’s chosen was unfortu- 
nately not of a noble family, but had 
the misfortune to be the daughter of a 
Berlin merchant. 

“But,” said the queen, after this con- 
fidential communication, “I do not 
understand why it is that you wish to 
marry this girl. I should think the no- 
bility of our kingdom was not so pooi 


♦ Iti^Lault, vol. il,, p. 84. 


♦“M6molres de Fr6d6riqne Wllhelmine de RaJ 
reuth,” vol. ll., p. 3S0 


THE QUEEN AS A MATRIMONIAL AGENT. 


no 


m beautiful and marriageable ladies 
that a Count Rhedem should find it 
necessary to stoop so low in search of 
a wife. Look behind you, count, and 
you will see the loveliest ladies, all of 
whom are of pure and unblemished de- 
scent.” 

“True, your majesty. These ladies 
are beautiful, of good birth, young and 
amiable ; but one thing is wanting to 
make them perfect. Mademoiselle Or- 
guelin is neither beautiful nor of good 
birth, neither young nor amiable, but 
she has the one thing which those 
fairies lack, and for the sake of this one 
thing I am forced to marry her.” 

“ Count, you speak in riddles, and, 
as it seems to me, in riddles of doubtful 
propriety,” said the queen, almost an- 
grily. “ What is this one thing which 
Mademoiselle Orguelin has, and on ac- 
count of which you are compelled to 
marry her ? ” 

“Your majesty, this one thing is 
money.” 

“ Ah, money,” said the queen, smil- 
ing ; “ really, it well becomes a cavalier 
to marry beneath him for the sake of 
money ! ” 

“Your majesty, it is because I am 
mindful of the duties which my rank 
imposes on me, and of the demands 
which a cavalier of my standing should 
meet, that I have determined to make 
this misalliance. Your majesty will be 
indulgent if I dare open before you the 
skeleton closet, and unveil the con- 
cealed misery of my house. Tlie Counts 
Rhedern are an old and illustrious 
race. My ancestors were always rich 
in virtues, but poor in gold. Economy 
seems to have been the one virtue they 
never possessed ; they were too gener- 
ous to reject any appeals made to them, 
and too proud to limit their expendi- 
tures to their small income. Outwardly 
they maintained the pomp suitable to 
their standing, while they gnawed se- 
cretly and unseen at the hard crust of 


want. Thus from father to son the 
debts were constantly increasing, and 
the revenues becoming smaller and 
smaller. If I do not make an end of 
this, and sever the Gordian knot, like 
Alexander, instead of attempting the 
weaiisome task of untying it, i shall 
soon present to the court and nobility 
the sad spectacle of a Count Rhedern 
who is compelled to give up his hotel, 
his equipage, his furniture, and his ser- 
vants, and live like a beggar.” 

“ Ah, this is really a sad and pressing 
affair!” exclaimed the queen, sympa- 
thizingly, “but are there no heiresses 
among the nobility, whose fortunes 
might save you ? ” 

“None, your majesty, who, like Ma- 
demoiselle Orguelin, would bring me a 
fortune of three millions.” 

“ Three millions 1 That is a great 
deal, and I can now perfectly well un- 
derstand why you are compelled to 
marry this Orguelin. You have my con- 
sent, and I think I can safely promise 
you that of my son the king. Make 
your arrangements and fear nothing. 
I guarantee that the king will not re- 
fuse your request.” 

“ After what your majesty has said, 
I feel assured on this point,” exclaimed 
Count Rhedern, with a sigh. 

“ How, and you still sigh, count ?” 

“Your majesty, I need the permission 
of one other person — the acceptance of 
the bride. And to this acceptance is ap- 
pended a condition, the fulfilment of 
which again depends upon your ma- 
jesty's kindness.” 

“ Well, truly, this is a strange state 
of affairs. You speak gravely of your 
approaching marriage, and as yet are 
not even engaged. You speak of your 
bride, but Mademoiselle Orguelin has 
not yet accepted you, and whether she 
will or not, you say, depends on me.” 

“ Yes, on your majesty ; for this girl, 
who is as proud of her three millions 
as if it were the oldest and most illus 


120 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AKD HIS COURT. 


krious pedigree, consents to be my wife 
only on the condition that she is ac- 
knowledged at court, and has access, 
as Countess Rhedern, to all court festivi- 
ties.” 

“ Truly, this is a great pretension ! ” 
exclaimed the queen, angrily. “A 
pedlar’s daughter who carries arro- 
. ance so far as to wish to appear at the 
court of the King of Prussia I This 
can never be, and never could I advo- 
cate such an innovation : it is destruc- 
tive, and only calculated to diminish 
the prestige of the nobility, and to de- 
j)rive it of its greatest and best privilege 
— that privilege which entitles it alone 
to approach royalty. It 'was this view 
which prevented me from receiving 
the so-called Count N6al at my court, 
although my son the king admits him 
to his presence, and desires that I also 
should recognize this count of his crea- 
tion. But, as a queen and a lady, I can 
never do this. There must be a ram- 
part between royalty and the low and 
common world, and a pure and unblem- 
ished nobility alone can form this ram- 
part. You see, therefore, my poor 
count, that I cannot accede to this re- 
quest.” 

“ Have compassion on me, your ma- 
testy ! — If your majesty will but remem- 
oer that I am ruined ; that I am a beg- 
gar if this union does not take place 
— if I do not marry the three millions 
of Mademoiselle Orguelin.” 

“ Ah, certainly, I had forgetten that,” 
said the queen, thoughtfully. 

“Moreover,” continued the count, 
somewhat encouraged, “ this is a differ- 
ent affair altogether, and I do not be- 
lieve that a principle is here at stake, 
as was the case with the so-called 
Count N6al. A man represents him- 
self and his house, and no power on 
earth can give him better or nobler 
blood than already flows in his veins. 
But with a woman it is different. She 
receives her husband’s name and his 


rank ; she becomes blood of his blood, 
and can in no manner affect his nobili- 
ty. The sons of Countess Rhedem wiU 
still be the Counts Rhedern, although 
the mother is not of noble birth.” 

“ True,” said the queen, “ this case 
is different, from that of the adventurer 
N6al. The rank of her husband would 
be sufficient to permit us to draw a veil 
over the obscure birth of this new-made 
countess.” 

“ And your majesty would then be 
the noble protectress of our family,” 
said the count, Tn a sweet and insinu- 
ating tone; “your majesty would not 
only restore my house to its ancient 
prestige, but you would retain the three 
millions of Mademoiselle von Orguelin 
in Prussia. For, if I should not be able 
to fulfil the condition which this lady 
has made. Mademoiselle Orguelin will 
marry a rich young Hollander, who is 
the commercial friend of her father, and 
has come here for the especial pur- 
pose of suing for the hand of his 
daughter.” 

“ Ah, if that is the case, it becomes 
almost a duty to give you this girl, in 
order to prevent her millions from leav- 
ing the country,” said the queen; smil- 
ing. “ Be hopeful, count, your wish 
will be granted ; and this little million- 
naire, who longs to appear at court, 
shall have her desire. I will speak 
with my son on this subject to-day; 
and you may take it for granted that 
your request will meet with a favorable 
response.” 

And the queen, who was proud and 
happy to have an opportunity of show- 
ing the count how great was her influ- 
ence with her royal son, graciously 
permitted him to kiss her hand, and 
listened well pleased to his exclama- 
tions of gratitude and devotion. 

She then dismissed him with a gra- 
cious inclination of her head, re- 
questing him to inform Madame 'ron 
Brandt, whose laughing voice could be 


THE QUEEN AS A MATRIMONiAL AGENT. 


121 


heard at a short distance, that she de- 
sired to see her. 

While the count hurried off to exe- 
cute the commission of his royal mis- 
tress, the queen walked on slowly and 
thoughtfully. Now that she was per- 
mitted to be a queen, her woman's na- 
ture again made itself felt ; she found 
it quite amusing to have a hand in the 
love-affairs which were going on around 
her, and to act the part of the benefi- 
cent fairy in making smooth the path of 
true love. Two of the fi.'*8t noblemen 
of her court had to-day solicited her 
kind offices in their love-affairs, and 
both demanded of her the reestablish- 
ment of the prosperity and splendor of 
their houses. 

The queen, as before said, felt flat- 
tered by these demands, and was in 
her most gracious humor when Ma- 
dame von Brandt made her appearence. 
Their conversation was at first on in- 
different subjects, but Madame von 
Brandt knew very well why the queen 
honored her with this interview, and 
kept the match in readiness to fire the 
train with which she had undermined 
the happiness and love of poor Laura 
von Pannewitz. 

“Do you know,” asked the queen, 
suddenly, “that we have a pair of lov- 
ers at my court ? ” 

“ A pair of lovers 1 ” repeated Ma- 
dame von Brandt, and so apparent was 
the alarm and astonishment depicted 
in her countenance, that the queen was 
startled. 

“ Is this, then, so astonishing ? ” asked 
the queen, smiling. “ You express so 
much alarm that one might suppose we 
were living in a convent, where it is a 
crime to speak of love and marriage. 
Or were you only a little annoyed at 
not having heard of this love-affair ? ” 

“Your majesty,” said Madame von 
Brandt, “I knew all about this affair, 
out had no idea that you had any 
knowledge of it.” 


“ Certainly you must have known it, 
as Mademoiselle von Pannewitz is your 
friend, and has very naturally made you 
her confidante.” 

“ Yes, I have been her confidante, in 
this unhappy and unfortunate love,” 
said Madame von Brandt, with a sigh ; 
“ but I can assure your majesty that I 
have left no arguments, no prayers, and 
even no threats untried, to induce this 
poor young girl to renounce her sad 
and unfortunate love.” 

“ Well, you might have saved your- 
self this trouble,” said the queen, smil- 
ing ; “ for this love is not, as you say, a 
sad and unfortunate one, but a happy 
one! Count Voss came to me this 
morning as a suitor for the hand of 
Mademoiselle von Pannewitz.” 

“Poor, unhappy Laura!” sighed 
Madame von Brandt. 

“ How ! ” exclaimed the queen, “ you 
still pity her, when I assui’e you that 
hers is not an unhappy, but a happy 
love, reciprocated by Count Voss, who 
is a suitor for her hand ? ” 

“ But what has Count Voss to do 
with Laura’s love ? ” asked Madame von 
Brandt, with such well-acted astonish- 
ment, that the unsuspecting queen 
might very well be deceived. 

“Truly this is a strange question,” 
exclaimed the queen. “You have just 
told me that Mademoiselle von Panne- 
witz tintertains an unfortunate attach- 
ment for Count Voss; and when I in- 
form you that, so far from hers being 
an unfortunate attachment, it is re- 
tmmed by Count Voss, who is at this 
moment a suitor for her hand, you ask, 
with an air of astonishment, ‘What 
has Count Voss to do with Laura’s 
love?’” 

“ Pardon me, your majesty, I did not 
say that my poor friend loved Count 
Voss.” 

“How!” exclaimed the queen, im- 
patiently ; “ it is then not Count Voss ? 
Pray, who has inspired her with this 


122 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


unfortunate love? Who is he? Do 
you know his name ? ” 

“ Your majesty, I know him ; but I 
have vowed on the Bible never to men- 
tion his name.” 

“ It was very inconsiderate in you to 
make such a vow,” exclaimed the 
queen, impatiently. 

“ Your majesty, she who demanded 
it of me was my friend, and, in view of 
her sorrow and tears, I could not refuse 
a request by the fulfilment of which she 
would at least have the sad consolation 
of pouring out her sorrow and anguish 
into the bosom of a true and discreet 
friend. But the very friendship I en- 
tertain for her makes it my bounden 
duty to implore your majesty to sustain 
the offer of Count Voss with all the 
means at your command, and, if neces- 
sary, even to compel my poor Laura to 
marry him.” 

“How ! You say she loves another, 
and still desire that I should compel 
her to marry Count Voss ? ” 

“Your majesty, there is no other 
means of averting evil from the head of 
my dear Laura ; no other means of pre- 
serving two noble hearts from the mis- 
ery their unfortunate passion might pro- 
duce. Laura is a noble and virtuous 
girl, but she loves, and would not long 
be able to withstand the passionate en- 
treaties of her lover; she would hear 
no voice but that of him she loves.” 

“ This love is then returned ? ” asked 
the queen. 

“ Oh, your majesty, Laura’s maidenly 
pride would preserve her from an unre- 
quited love.” 

“ And still you call this love an un- 
fortunate one ? ” 

“ I call it so because there are insur- 
mountable obstacles in its way; an 
abyss lies between these lovers, across 
which they can never clasp hands. In 
order to be united they would have to 
precipitate themselves into its depths I 
Every word of love which these unfor- 


tunates utter is a crime -is high trea 
son.” 

“ High-treason 1 ” exclaimed the queen, 
whose eyes sparkled with anger. 
“ Ah, I understand you now. This 
proud, arrogant girl raises her eyes to 
a height to which a princess of the 
blood alone can aspire. In her pre- 
sumption this girl thinks to play the 
role of a La Vallifere or a Maintenon. 
Yes, I now comprehend every thing — 
her pallor, her sighs, her melancholy, 
and her blushes, when I told her I ex- 
pected the king and his court here to- 
day. Yes, it must be so. Mademoiselle 
von Pannewitz loves the — ” 

“Your majesty,” exclaimed Madame 
von Brandt, imploringly, “ have the 
goodness not to mention the name. I 
should have to deny it, and that would 
be an offence to your majesty ; but if I 
should acknowledge it, I would be false 
to my vow and my friendship. In 
your penetration, your majesty has di- 
vined what I hardly dared to indicate, 
and my noble queen now comprehends 
why an early marriage with Count Voss 
would be the best means of preserving 
the happiness of two noble but mis- 
guided hearts.” 

“Mademoiselle von Pannewitz will 
have to make up her mind to become 
the bride of Count Voss within the 
hour I ” exclaimed the queen, imperi- 
ously. “ Woe to her if in her arro- 
gance she should refuse to give up a 
love against which the whole force of 
my royal authority shall be brought to 
bear I ” 

“ May your majesty follow the sug- 
gestions of your wisdom in all things ! 
I only request that your majesty will 
graciously conceal from poor Laura 
that you discovered her unhappy se- 
cret through me.” 

“ I promise you that,” said the queen, 
w^ho, forgetful of her royal dignity, in 
her angry impatience turned around 
and advanced hastily toward her suite, 


PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 


123 


wlio, on her approach, remained staud- 
jjg in a respectful attitude. 

At this moment a lackey, dressed in 
the royal livery, was seen advancing 
from the palace; he approached the 
maid of honor then on duty. Mademoi- 
selle von Pannewitz, and whispered a 
few words in her ear. 

Hurrying forward, this young lady in- 
formed the queen that her majesty, the 
reigning queen, had just arrived, and 
desired to know if her majesty would 
receive her. The queen did not reply 
immediately. She looked scornfully at 
the young girl who stood before her, 
humbly and submissively, with down- 
cast eyes, and although she did not 
look up at the queen, she seemed to feel 
her withering and disdainful glances, 
for she blushed deeply, and an anx- 
ious expression was depicted on her 
countenance. 

The queen observed that the blush- 
ing Laura was wonderfully beautiful, 
and in her passionate anger could have 
trodden her under foot for this pre- 
sumptuous and treasondble beauty. She 
felt that it was impossible longer to re- 
main silent, longer to defer the de-; 
cision. The queen’s anger fairly flamed 
within her, and threatened to break 
forth ; she was now a passionate, reck- 
less woman, nothing more; and she 
was guided by her passion and the 
power of her angry pride alone. 

“ I am going to receive her majesty,” 
said Sophia Dorothea, with trembling 
lips. “ Her majesty has presented her- 
self unceremoniously, and I shall there- 
fore receive her without ceremony. 
All of you will remain here except 
Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, who will 
tccompany me.” 


CHAPTER XHI. 

PROPOSAL OP MARRIAGE. 

The greeting of the two queens was 
over; the inquiries of politeness and 
etiquette had been exchanged ; Sophia 
had oflered Queen Elizabeth her hand 
and conducted her into the small sa- 
loon, where she was in the habit of re- 
ceiving her family. 

The door leading to the conservatory 
was open, and the two maids of honor 
could be seen within, standing with Lau- 
ra, and asking questions in a low tone, to 
which she replied, almost in audibly. 
She felt that the decisive hour of her 
destiny was at hand, and she prayed 
that God would strengthen her for the 
coming trial. She trembled not for 
herself, but for her lover ; for his dear 
sake she was determined to bear the 
worst, and bravely meet the shock ; she 
would not yield, she would not die, for 
he would perish with her ; in her heart 
of hearts, she renewed the oath of eter- 
nal love and eternal faith she had taken, 
and nerved herself for persecution and 
endurance. Suddenly she heard the 
harsh voice of the queen-mother call- 
ing her name ; she looked up, and saw 
her standing in the door. 

“ I beg the maids of honor to join 
the ladies in the garden. You, made- 
moiselle, will remain here, I have a few 
words to say to you.” ^ 

The ladies bowed and left the con- 
servatory. Laura remained alone ; she 
stood with folded hands in the middle 
of the room; her cheek was deadly 
pale, her lips trembled, but her eyes 
were bright, and filled with an heroic 
and dreamy excitement. As Sophia 
called her name, Laura laid her hand 
upon her heart, as if to suppress its 
stormy beating, and with her head 
bowed meekly upon her breast she ad- 
vanced submissively at the call of her 
mistress. At the door of the second 


124 


FREDERICK THE GRE^VT AND HIS COURT. 


saloon she remained standing, and 
awaited the further commands of the 
queen. As Sophia did not speak, 
Laura raised her eyes and looked tim- 
idly at the two queens, who were 
seated on a sofa opposite the door ; they 
were both gazing at her — the queen- 
mother severely, with a proud and de- 
risive smile; but Queen Elizabeth re- 
garded with unutterable pity this poor 
girl, who reminded her of a broken 
lily. 

“ Mademoiselle von Pannewitz,” said 
Sophia, after a long silence, “ I have a 
matter of great importance to commu- 
nicate to you, and, as it admits of no 
delay, her majesty has allowed me to 
speak to you in her presence. Listen 
attentively, and weigh well my words. 
I have treated you with affectionate 
kindness; you have always found in 
me a friend and mother. I therefore 
require of you unconditional and silent 
obedience — an obedience that, as your 
queen and mistress, I have* a right to 
demand. You are ot a noble but poor 
family, and your parents cannot support 
you in the style suitable to your birth. 
I have adopted you, and will now es- 
tablish for you a future which will be 
both splendid and happy. A rich and 
gallant cavalier has proposed for your 
hand, and, as it is a most fitting and ad- 
vantageous ofier, I have accepted it for 
you, and promised your consent.” 

The queen cejised, and looked pier- 
cingly at the young girl, who was still 
leaning against the door, silent and de- 
jected. This dumb submission, this 
weak resignation, enraged the queen ; 
instead of softening her anger, she took 
this silence for defiance, this humility 
for stubbornness. 

“ You are not at all anxious, it ap- 
pears, to learn the name of your future 
husband,” she said, sharply ; “ perhaps 
the rapture of joy binds your tongue, 
and prevents you from thanking me 
for my motherly care.” 


“ Pardon, your maj( sty,” said Li.iira, 
raising her soft eyes to the harsh and 
severe countenance of the queen ; “ it 
was not joy that closed my lips, but 
reverence for your majesty ; I feel no 

joy.” 

“ You feel no joy ! ” cried the queen, 
with the cruel rage of the lion who 
seizes his prey and tears it in pieces 
when there is none to deliver. “ Well, 
then, you will marry without joy, that 
is decided ; and as you are too far 
above all womanly weakness to appear 
curious, I shall be obliged to name the 
happy man whose loving bride you are 
soon to be, that you make no mistakes, 
and perhaps, in the tenderness of your 
heart, render another than your ap- 
pointed husband happy in your em- 
braces.” Laura uttered a low cry of 
anguish, and her cheeks, colorless until 
now, were dyed red with shame. 

“ Have pity, your majesty,” mur- 
mured Elizabeth Christine, laying her 
hand softly on the shoulder of the 
queen ; “ see how the poor girl suffers.” 

Sophia shrugged her shoulders con- 
temptuously. “ Nonsense ! do we not 
all suffer ? have I not suffered ? Is 
there a woman on God’s earth whose 
heart is not half melted away with hot 
and unavailing tears ? ” 

“ It is true,” said Elizabeth ; “ we 
have but one exclusive privilege — to 
weep and to endure.” 

The queen-mother turned again to 
Laura, who had checked her tears, but 
was still standing bowed down, and 
trembling before her. 

“Well,” said Sophia, “it still does 
not suit you to inquire the name of 
your lover, then I shall name him ; 
mark well my words : it is Coimt Voss 
who has chosen you for his wife, and 
to him alone you have now to direct 
your heart and your tenderness.” 

Laura now raised her eyes and fixed 
them steadily upon her cruel mistress ; 
her glance was no longer soft and 


PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 


125 


pleading, but determined. The im- 
perious manner of the queen, instead 
of intimidating the pale and gentle 
girl, awakened her to the consciousness 
of her own dignity. “Majesty,” she 
said, with cool decision, “ love is not 
given by command, it cannot be be- 
stowed arbitrarily.” 

“By that you mean to affirm that 
you do not and cannot love Count 
Voss,” said the queen, suppressing her 
fury with difficulty. 

“ Yes, your majesty, I do not, I can- 
not love Count Voss.” 

“Well, then,” cried Sophia, “you 
will marry him without love, and that 
speedily 1 ” 

Laura raised her head passionately ; 
her eye met the queen’s, but this time 
not humbly, not timidly, but decisive- 
ly. From this moment, Sophia Doro- 
thea was to her no longer a queen, but 
a cruel, unfeeling woman, who was 
trampling upon her soul, and bindmg 
it in chains. 

“ Pardon, your majesty ; as I have 
said that I do not love Count Voss, it 
follows of course that I will never mar- 
ry him.” 

The queen sprang from her seat as 
if bitten by a poisonous reptile. “ Not 
marry him I ” she shrieked ; “ but I say 
you shall marry him ! yes, if you have to 
be dragged with violence to the altar ! ” 

“ Then at the altar I will say no ! ” 
cried Laura von Pannewitz, raising her 
young face, beaming with courage and 
enthusiasm, toward heaven. 

The queen-mother uttered a wild cry 
and sprang forward ; the lion was 
about to seize upon its prey and tear 
It to pieces, but Elizabeth Christine 
laid her hand upon the raised arm of 
Sophia and held her back. “ Majesty,” 
she said, “ what would you do ? You 
would not force this poor girl to marry 
against her will ; she does not love 
Count Voss, and she is right to refuse 
him.” 


“ Ha ! you defend her ? ” cried So 
phia, brought to extremities by the re- 
sistance of the queen-consort; “you 
have then no presentiment why she re- 
fuses the hand of Count Voss ; you do 
not comprehend that when a poor de- 
pendent maid of honor refuses to marry 
a rich and noble cavalier, it is because 
she believes she has secured her future 
in another direction — ^because in the 
haughtiness of her vain, infatuated 
heart, she hopes through her beauty 
and well-acted coquetry to secure for 
herself a more brilliant lot. But, mark 
me ! however charming and alluring 
that prospect may* appear outwardly, 
even in its success there would be found 
nothing but infamy I She can never 
have the madness to believe that any 
priest in this land would dare to bind 
with the blessings of the Holy Church 
a love so boldly impudent, so traitor- 
ous ; she can never hope to set her foot 
where only the lawful wife of a king 
can stand — where the sister of the 
King of England has stood I yes, where 
she still stands, and from whence she is 
resolved to repulse this miserable co- 
quette, who hopes to conquer a throne 
through her shameless allurements.” 

Laura uttered a piercing scream, and, 
with hands raised to heaven, she ex- 
claimed, “ My God ! my God ! can I 
bear this and live ? ” 

The queen-mother broke into a wild, 
mocking laugh. Elizabeth Christine 
looked, questioningly, at this scene, 
which she did not comprehend, but 
which touched her heart by its tragic 
power. 

“It is a hard and cruel accusation 
which your majesty is bringing against 
this young girl ; let us hope that Laura 
will know how to defend herself.” 

“Defend herself ! Look at her! look 
how my words have crushed her I how 
her proud, aspiring soul is checked I 
Believe me, Elizabeth, she, whom you 
so generously pity, understands ray 


126 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


words better than your majesty ; and 
she knows well of what I accuse her. 
But you, my daughter, shall know also ; 
you have a right to know.” 

“Mercy ! — your majesty, mercy ! ” 
cried Laura, falling upon her knees and 
raising her arms pleadingly toward the 
queen ; “ speak no more I humble me 
no farther I Do not betray my secret, 
which in your mouth becomes a denun- 
ciation I Let me remain even on the 
brink of the precipice, where you have 
dragged me ! that is appalling, but cast 
me not down ! So low and dust-trod- 
den a creatm-e is np longer worthy of 
the honor of approaching your majesty, 
I see that, and beg humbly for my dis- 
missal, not, as your majesty supposes, to 
lead an independent and' happy, if 
still a shameful life, but to flee to some 
corner of the world, where alone and 
unseen I may weep over the beautiful 
and innocent dreams of life, from which 
your majesty has awakened me so cru- 
elly.” 

She was wonderfully beautiful in this 
position ; those raised arms, that noble, 
transparently pale, tear-stained coun- 
tenance. Sophia Dorothea saw it, and it 
made her feel more bitter, more cruel. 

“Ah, she dares to reproach me,” she 
said, contemptuously ; she still has a 
slight consciousness of her shame ; she 
trembles to hear what she did not trem- 
ble to do ! Listen, my daughter, you 
that have for her so warm, so pitiful a 
heart ; you, who, when I have spoken, 
will detest and curse her, as I do, and 
as you are entitled to do. Believe me, 
Elizabeth, I know all your sufiering, 
all your sorrow ; I know the secret his- 
tory of your noble, proud, and silent 
heart. Ask that girl there of your grief 
and misery; ask her the reason of 
your lonely, tearful nights ; demand of 
her your broken happiness, your crushed 
hopes ; demand of her your husband’s 
love, your soul’s peace. Mademoiselle 
von Pannewitz can return them all to 


you, as she has taken them from you, for 
she is the mistress of the king.” 

“!Mistress of the king 1 ” said Elizor . 
beth, with a painful cry, while Laura 
let her hands glide from her face, and 
looked at the queen with an astonished 
expression. 

“Yes,” repeated Sophia Dorothea, 
whose hot blood rushed so violently 
through her veins, that her voice fal- 
tered, and she was scarcely able to re- 
tain an appearance of self-control ; “ yes, 
she is the mistress of the king, and 
therefore refuses to marry Count Voss ! 
But patience, patience, she shall not 
triumph I and if she dares to love my 
son, the son of the queen. King Freder- 
ick of Prussia, I will remind her of Dor- 
ris Ritter, who loved him, and was be- 
loved by him ! This Dorris was flogged 
through the streets of Berlin, and cast 
out from amongst men.” 

Laura uttered so loud and fearful a 
cry, that even the queen-mother was 
startled, and for a moment touched 
with pity for the poor, broken-hearted 
girl who lay at her feet, like a wounded 
gazelle in the agonies of death. 

But she would not give way to this 
pity nor betray a weakness of which 
she was ashamed. Taking the hand 
of the young queen, and casting a look 
of disdain at Laura, she said : “ Come, 
my daughter, we will no longer bear 
the presence of this person, whose tears, 

I hope, spring from repentance and ac- 
knowledgment of her offence. May she 
obtain our pardon by resolving to-day, 
of her own free will, and without for- 
cing us to harsher measures, to accept 
the hand of Count Voss! Come, my 
daughter.” 

The two queens stepped to the door. 
Sophia threw it open violently, and 
passed immediately into the boudoir, 
but Elizabeth did not follow her. She 
looked back at the poor, sobbing girl 
lying upon the floor. The pale and 
noble face touched her womanly heart. 


THE MISUNDERSTANDING. 


127 


“ Pardon, your majesty, if I do not 
follow immediately ; I should like to 
say a few words to Mademoiselle von 
Pannewitz. I think I have a right to 
do so.” 

The queen-mother experienced a cruel 
2 )leasure at these words. 

“Oh, my daughter, even your for- 
bearance is exhausted, and you feel that 
forgiveness is impossible. Yes, speak to 
her, and let her feel the whole weight 
of your righteous indignation. Words 
of reproach and accusation from your 
gentle lips will have a crushing power. 
But no delay — you know the king will 
soon be here.” 

The queen-mother closed the door. 
She wished to hear nothing that passed 
between Elizabeth and Laura ; she 
needed rest, in order to receive the king 
with composure. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

TIIE MISUNDERSTAXOBSTG. 

The young queen, the reigning queen, 
as she was called, was now alone with 
Laura von Pannewitz. She was for a 
moment speechless ; strange, tempest- 
uous feelings burned in the bosom of 
this gentle woman ; she felt all the tor- 
nients of rage and jealousy, and the 
humiliation of unrequited love. 

Leaning against the wall, she looked 
frowningly at Laura, who was kneeling 
before her, wringing her hands and 
weeping piteously. How could a wo- 
man weep who could call that hap- 
piness her own — to possess which Eliza- 
beth would cheerfuly give years of her 
life ? She had at last found the rival 
for whom she was despised; the de- 
stroyer of her happiness ; the envied 
woman loved by Frederick ! 

As she saw this woman bathed in 
tears at her feet, an exulting joy for 
one moment filled her heart. But this 


violent emotion Yery soon disappeared. 
Elizabeth was too true and noble a 
woman to give herself up long to such* 
resentment. She felt, indeed, a melan- 
choly pleasure in knowing that it was 
not coldness of heart, but love for 
another, which estranged the king from 
her ; in the midst of her wild grief she 
was still just ; and she acknowledged 
that this woman, whom Frederick 
loved, was more charming and more 
beautiful than herself. 

The love Elizabeth bore her husband 
was so unselfish, so resigned, so mag- 
nanimous, that she felt grateful to the 
woman who could impart a happiness 
to the king it had never been in her 
power to bestow. 

With a truly noble expression she ap- 
proached the maid of honor, who, un- 
conscious of the queen’s presence, was 
still lying on the fioor and weeping 
bitterly. 

“ Arise, Laura,” said Elizabeth, gen- 
tly. “ How can a woman loved by the 
king be sad, or shed tears ? ” 

Laura’s hands fell slowly from her 
face ; she checked her tears and looked 
piteously at the queen. “God, then, 
has heard my prayers,” she said ; “ He 
does not wish your majesty to despise 
and condemn me; He permits me to 
clear myself before you 1 ” 

“ Clear yourself,” said Elizabeth. 
“ Oh, believe me, in my eyes you need 
no justification. You are young, gay, 
beautiful, and witty ; you have the rare 
art of conversation ; you are cheerful 
and spirited. This has attracted Fred- 
erick ; for this he loves you ; in saying 
this, all is said. It is impossible for a 
woman to resist his love. I forgive you 
freely, fully. I have but one prayer to 
make you : resolve all your duties into 
one ; fill your soul with one thought, 
make the king happy 1 This is all. I 
have nothing more to say. Farewell I ” 

She was going, but Laura held her 
back. “ Oh, your majesty,” she cried 


128 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


imploringly, “ listen to me I do not 
leave me under this cruel misconcep- 
tion— these insulting suppositions. Do 
not think I am so degenerate, so base, 
so entirely without womanly feeling, 
as not to feel myself amenable to the 
laws of the land and of the Church, 
Oh, believe me, the husband of my 
queen is sacred in my eyes ! and even 
if I were so unhappy as to love the 
king, otherwise than as a true, devoted 
subject, I would rather die than cast 
one shadow on the happiness of your 
majesty. Unhappy and guilty as I am, 
I am no criminal. His majesty never 
distinguished me by word or look. I 
honored him, I revered him, and noth- 
ing more.” 

“ Alas I ” said the queen, “ you are 
faint-hearted enough to deny him. 
You have not the courage to be proud 
of his love ; you must, indeed, feel 
guilty.” 

“ My God ! my God I ” cried Laura, 
passionately, “ she does not believe 
me ! ” 

“No, I do not believe you, Laura. 

I saw how you trembled and paled 
when the queen charged you with your 
love to her son, but I did not hear you 
justify yourself.” 

“Alas, alas!” murmured Laura, in 
so low a voice as not to be heard by 
the queen, “I did not know her ma- 
jesty was speaking of her son Freder- 
ick.” 

“ Deny it no longer,” said Elizabeth ; 

“ acknowledge his love, for which all 
women will envy you, and for which I 
forgive you.” 

“ Do not believe what the queen- 
mother told you 1 ” cried Laura, pas- 
sionately ; “ I have done you no wrong, 

I have no pardon to ask ! ” 

“And I,” said Elizabeth — “ make no 
reproaches ; I do not wail and weep : I 
do not pass my nights, as the queen 
said, sleeplessly and in tears ; I do not 
mourn over my lost happiness. I am [ 


content ; I accept my fate — that is, if 
the king is happy. But if, perchance, 
this is not so, if you do not make his 
happiness your supreme object, then, 
Laura, I take back the forgiveness so 
freely given, and I envy you in my 
heart. Farewell.” 

“No, no, you must not, you shall 
not go ! Believe my words ! have 
some pity, some mercy on me ! — O 
Heavenly Father, ! have suffered enough 
without this I It needed not these 
frightful accusations to punish me for 
a love which, though unwise — yes, mad 
— ^is not criminal. As truly as God 
reigns, it is not the king I love. You 
turn away, you do not believe me still ! 
Oh, your majesty — ” She stopped, her 
whole frame trembled — she had heard 
her lover’s voice; God had sent him 
to deliver her, to clear her from these 
disgraceful suspicions. 

The door opened, and Prince Augus- 
tus William entered ; his countenance 
was gay and careless, he had come to 
see the queen-mother, and had been di- 
rected to this saloon. Already spor- 
tive and jesting words were on his lips, 
when he perceived this strange scene ; 
Laura on her knees, pale and trem- 
bling, before the proud queen, who left 
her disdainfully in her humble posi- 
tion. It was a sight that the proud 
lover could not endure. The hot blood 
of the Hohenzollerns was raging. For 
getful of all consequences, he sprang 
to her side, raised her from the floor, 
and clasped her to his heart. Then, 
trembling with anger, he turned to the 
queen. “ WTiat does this mean ? Why 
were you in that position ? Why were 
you weeping, Laura? You on your 
knees, my Laura! You, who are so 
innocent, so pure, that the whole world 
should kneel before and worship you ! 
—And you, madame,” turning to Eliz- 
abeth, “ how can you allow this angel 
to throw herself in the dust before 
you ? How dared you wound her 1 


THE MISUNDERSTANDING. 


129 


Wliat did you say to bring anguish to 
her heart and flood her face with tears? 
Madame, I demand an answer I I de- 
mand it in the name of honor, justice, 
and love. Laura is my bride, it is my 
right to defend her.” 

“Now, now,” said Laura, clinging 
wildly to her lover, “ she will no long- 
er believe that I love her husband.” 

“Your bride ! ” said the queen, with 
a sad, sweet smile; “how young and 
trusting you are, my brother, to believe 
in the possibility of such a marriage I ” 

“ She will be my wife ! ” cried he, 
passionately ; “ I swear it, and as truly 
as there is a God in heaven I will keep 
my oath I I have courage to dare all 
dangers, to trample under foot all ob- 
stacles. I do not shun the world’s 
verdict or the king’s power. My love 
is pure and honest, it has no need to 
hide and veil itself; it shall stand out 
boldly before God, the king, and the 
whole world I Go, then — go, madame, 
and repeat my words to the king ; be- 
tray a love which chance, undoubtedly, 
revealed to you. It was, I suppose, the 
knowledge of this love which led you 
to wound and outrage this noble wo- 
man.” 

“ It is true,” said the queen, gently ; 
“I did her injustice — I doubted her 
words, her protestations; but Laura 
knows that this ofience was involunta- 
ry, it all arose from a mistake of the 
dowager-queen.” 

“ How I my mother knows of our 
love ? ” said the prince, in amazement. 

“No, she is convinced that Laura 
von Pannewitz loves and is beloved by 
the king; for this reason she heaped 
reproaches upon her, and commanded 
her to marry Count Voss, who has just 
proposed for her hand.” 

The prince clasped Laura more firm- 
ly. “ Ah, they would tear you from 
me; but my arms will hold you and 
my breast will shield you, my darling. 
Do not tremble, do not weep, my Lau- 
9 


ra ; arm in arm we will go to the king. 
I will lead you before my mother and 
the court, and tell them that you are 
my betrothed — that I have sworn to be 
true to you, and will never break my 
oath.” 

“ Stop — ^be silent, for God’s sake ! ” 
said Elizabeth ; “ do not let your moth- 
er hear you — do not let the king know 
your sad, perilous secret. If he know? 
it, you are lost.” 

“Your majesty does not, then, in- 
tend to make known what you have 
heard ? ” said the prince. “ Have you 
the courage to conceal a secret from 
your husband ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” said the queen, with a sigh. 
“ my life, thoughts, and feelings, are a 
secret to him ; I will but add this new 
mystery to the rest. Guard this secret 
which will in the end bring you pain 
and sorrow. Be cautious, be prudent 
Let the dowager-queen still think that 
it is the king whom Laura loves — sh« 
will be less watchful of you. But now 
listen to my request: never speak to 
me of this love that chance revealed, 
and which I will seek to forget from 
this moment; never remind me of an 
engagement which in the eyes of the 
king and your mother would be un- 
pardonable and punishable, and of 
which it would be my duty to inform 
them. As long as you are happy — 
that will be as long as your love is un- 
der the protection of secrecy — I will 
see nothing, know nothing. But when 
disaster and ruin break over you, then 
come to me; then you, my brother, 
shall find in me a fond, sympathizinp 
sister, and you, poor, wretched girl, 
will find a friend who will open her 
arms to you, and will weep with you 
over your lost happiness.” 

“ Oh, my queen I ” cried Laura, 
pressing her hand to her lips; “how 
noble, how generous you are ! ” 

Elizabeth drew the poor trembling’ 
girl to her heart and kissed her pale, 


130 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


brow. “ For those who weep and suf- 
fer there is no difference of rank; a 
strong bond of human sympathy unites 
them. I am for you, not the queen, 
but the sister who understands and 
shares your griefs. When you weary 
of hidden agony and solitary weeping, 
come to me at Schonhausen ; you will 
find there no gayeties, no worldly dis- 
tractions, but a silent, shady garden, 
in which I sometimes seem to hear 
God’s voice comforting and consoling 
me. Here you can weep unnoticed, 
and find a friend who will not weary 
you with your questions.” 

“ I thank you, and I will come. Ah ! 
I know I shall soon need this comfort ; 
my happiness will die an early death ! ” 

“And may I also come, my noble 
sister ? ” said the prince. 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, smiUng, “you 
may also come, but only when Laura 
is not with me. I now entreat you, 
for your own safety, to close this con- 
versation. Dry your eyes, Laura, and 
try to smile, then go to the garden and 
call my maids of honor ; and you, 
brother, come with me to the queen- 
mother, who is in her boudoir.” 

“ No I ” said the prince, fiercely ; “ I 
cannot see her now, I could not con- 
trol myself. I could not seem quiet 
. and indifferent while I am suffering 
such tortures.” 

“ My brother,” said the queen, “ we 
princes have not the right to show how 
we suffer, it is the duty of all in our 
station to veil our feelings with a 
smile. Come, your royal mother, who 
is indignant and angry, will yet receive 
us with a smile ; and we, who are so 
sorrowful, will also smile. Come.” 

“ One word more to Laura,” said the 
prince; and leading the young girl, 
who was endeavoring to suppress her 
emotion, to another part of the room, 
he threw his arm around her slender 
form, and pressed a kiss upon her fair 
cheek. “Laura, my darling, do you 


remember your oath ? Will you b« 
true and firm ? Will my mother’s 
threats and commands find you strong 
and brave ? You will not falter ? You 
will not accept the hand of Count 
Voss ? You will let no earthly power 
tear you from me ? They can kill me, 
Laura, but I cannot be untrue to my- 
self or to you I ” Augustus laid his 
hand upon her beautiful head ; the 
whole history of her pure and holy love 
was written in the look and smile with 
which she answered him. “Do you 
remember that you promised to meet 
me in the garden ? ” 

“ I remember,” said she, blushing. 

“ Laura, in a few days we shall be 
separated. The king wishes to make 
an excursion incognito — he has ordered 
me to accompany him ; I must obey.” 

“ Oh, my God I they will take you 
from me I I shall never see you again ! ” 
“We shall meet again,” said he, en- 
couragingly. “ But you must grant 
me the comfort of seeing you once 
more before my departure, otherwise I 
shall not have the courage v to leave 
you. The day for our journey is not 
yet determined ; when it is fixed I will 
come to inform my mother of it in your 
presence. The evening before I will be 
in the conservatory and await you ; 
shall I wait in vain ? ” 

“No,” whispered Laura, “I will be 
there ; ” and, as if fleeing from her own 
words, she hurried to the garden. 

Prince Augustus William looked for 
his sister-in-law to accompany her to. 
the queen-mother; but she had with- 
drawn, she did not wish to witness the 
parting of the lovers. Seeing this, the 
prince was on the point of following 
Laura to the garden, when the beating 
of drums was heard from without. 


SOIRfiE OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER. 


131 


CHAPTER XV. 

SOmiE OP THE QUEEN-DOWAGEB. 

“The king is coming,” whispered 
Augustus William, and he stepped tow- 
ard the cabinet of the queen-mother. 
But the door was already opened, and 
the two queens hastened out; they 
wished to reach the garden saloon and 
there to welcome the king. 

The expression of both ladies was 
restless and anxious. Sophia Dorothea 
feared the meeting with her son, who 
would, perhaps, in the inflamed eyes 
of his beloved, read the history of the 
last hours ; his kingly anger would be 
kindled against those who brought 
tears to her eyes. The queen-mother 
confessed that she had gone too far — 
had allowed herself to be mastered by 
her scorn; she was embarrassed and 
fearful. 

Elizabeth Christine was not restless, 
but deeply moved ; her heart beat 
quickly at the thought of this meeting 
with her husband ; she had not seen 
him since the day of the coronation, 
had not exchanged one single word 
with him since the ominous interview 
in her chamber at Rheinsberg. Xot 
once, on the day of the coronation, had 
the king addressed her ; and only once 
had he taken her hand. After the 
coronation he led her in the midst of 
the assembled court, and said with a 
clear and earnest voice : “ Behold, this 
IS your queen I ” 

These ladies were so excited, so filled 
with their own thoughts, that they hast- 
ened through the saloons, scarcely re- 
marking the prince, who had stepped 
aside to allow them to pass. The 
queen - mother nodded absently and 
gave him a passing greeting, then 
turned again to Elizabeth, who had 
scarcely patience to conform her move- 
ments to the slow and measured steps 
Df the queen-mother; she longed to 


look upon her husband’s face once 
more. 

“ If Laura von Pannewitz complains 
to the king, we shall have a terrific 
scene,” said Sophia. 

“ She will not complain,” replied 
Elizabeth. 

“ So much the worse ; she will play 
the magnanimous, and I could lesta 
readily forgive that, than a complaint.” 

At this moment the door opened. 
The king, followed by his attendants 
and those of the two queens, entered 
the saloon. The two ladies greeted the 
king with smooth brows and thought- 
less laughter; nothing betrayed the 
restless anxiety reigning in their hearts. 
Frederick hastened to meet his mother, 
and bowing low he greeted her with 
loving and respectful words, and ten- 
derly kissed her hand ; then turning to 
his wife he bowed stiffly and ceremo- 
niously ; he did not extend his hand, 
did not utter a word. Elizabeth bowed 
formally in return, and forced back the 
hot tears which rushed into her eyes. 

The face of the queen-mother was 
again gay and triumphant. The king 
knew nothing as yet ; she must prevent 
him from speaking with Laura alone. 
She glanced around at the maid of 
honor, and saw that the young maiden, 
calm and unembarrassed, was con- 
versing with the Prince Augustus Wil- 
liam ; her majesty was more than 
happy to see her son William enter- 
taining the beautiful Laura. “ Ah I 
now I know how to prevent the king 
from speaking to her alone,” thought 
she. 

Sophia was never so animated, so 
brilliant; her sparkling wit seemed 
even to animate the king. There was 
a laughing contest, a war of words be- 
tween them ; piquant jests and intel- 
lectual 'hon-moU^ which seemed to the 
admiring courtiem like fallen stars, 
were scattered to right and left. Tlie 
queen would -not yield to her son, and 


132 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


indeed sometimes she had the advan- 
tage. 

Queen Elizabeth stood sad and silent 
near them, and if by chance the eye of 
the king fell upon her, she felt that his 
glance was contemptuous ; her pale 
cheeks grew paler, and it was with 
great effort she forc'ed her trembling 
lips to smile. 

The queen-mother proposed to her 
Ron and Elizabeth to walk in the gar- 
den, and then to have a simple dance in 
the brilliant saloons. The court mourn- 
ing would not allow a regular ball at 
this time. 

“ But why should we seek for flow- 
ers in the garden,” said the king ; “ can 
there be lovelier blossoms than those 
now blooming on every side ? ” His eye 
wandered around the circle of lovely 
maids of honor, who cast their eyes 
blushingly to the ground. 

Six eyes followed this glance of Fred- 
erick with painful interest. 

“He scarcely looked at Laura von 
Pannewitz,” thought the queen-mother, 
with a relieved expression. 

“ He did not once glance toward 
me,” thought Elizabeth, sighing heav- 

iiy- 

“ His eye did not rest for more than 
a moment upon any woman here,” 
thought Pollnitz ; “ so it is clear he has 
no favorite in this circle. I shall there- 
fore succeed with my beautiful Dor- 
ris.” 

Frederick wished to spare the queen- 
dowager the fatigue of a walk in the 
garden — she was lame and growing 
stout; he therefore led her to a seat, 
and, bowing silently, he gave his left 
hand to his wife and placed her by 
his mother. 

Sophia, who watched every move- 
ment and every expression of her royal 
son, observed the cruel silence which 
he maintained toward his wife, and she 
feh pity for the poor, pale, neglected 
queen. Sophia leaned toward the 


king, who stood hat in hand behind 
her divan, and whispered : 

“I believe, my son, you haVe not 
spoken one word to your wife 1 ” 

The king’s face clouded. “ Ma- 
dame,” said he, in a low but Arm tone, 
“ Elizabeth Christine is my queen, but 
not my wife I ” and, as if he feared a 
further explanation, he nodded to the 
Marquis Algarotti and Duke Chazot to 
come forward and take part in the con- 
versation. 

Suddenly a lady, who had not before 
been seen in the court circle, ap- 
proached the two queens. This lady 
was of a wondrous pallor ; she was 
dressed in black, without flowers or 
ornament ; her deep -sunken eyes were 
fllled with feverish Are, and a painful 
smile played upon her lips, which were 
tightly pressed together, as if to force 
back a cry of despair. 

No one recognized in this pale, ma- 
jestic, gentle lady, the “ Tourbillon,” 
the joyous, merry, laughing Madame 
von Morien; no one could have sup- 
posed that her fresh and rosy beauty 
could, in a few months, assume so ear 
nest and sad a character. This was 
the first time that Madame von Morien 
had appeared at the court of the queen- 
mother; she was scarcely recovered 
from a long and dangerous illness. No 
one knew the nature of her disease, but 
the witty and ill-natured courtiers ex- 
changed many words of mockery and 
double meaning on the subject. 

It was said Madame von Morien was 
ill from the neglect of the king. She 
suffered from a chill, which, strange to 
say, had attacked the king, and not the 
beautiful coquette. Her disease was a 
new and peculiar cold, which did not 
attack the lungs, but seized upon the 
heart ; the same disease, indeed, which 
prostrated Dido upon the departure of 
the cruel .^neas. 

The queen-mother received this pale 
but still lovely woman most graciouslv 


SOIREE OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER. 


133 


gave her the royal hand to kiss, and 
smiled kindly. 

“ It is an age since we have seen you, 
fair baroness ; it appears as if you will 
make yourself invisible, and forget en- 
tirely that we rejoice to see you.” 

“Your royal highness is most gra- 
cious to remind me of that,” said Ma- 
dame von Morien, in a low tone; 
‘‘ Death had almost made me forget it, 
and assuredly I had not dared to ap- 
proach you with this pale, thin face, 
had not your majesty’s flattering com- 
mand given me courage to do so.” 

There was something in the low, suf- 
fering voice of Madame von Morien 
which awakened sympathy, and even 
disarmed the anger of the Queen Eliz- 
abeth. What bitter tears had she 
shed, what jealous agony endured, be- 
cause of this enchanting woman ! She 
saw her now for the first time since the 
fete at Rheinsberg. Looking into this 
■worn and sorrowful face, she forgave 
her fully. With the instinct of a lov- 
ing woman, the queen understood the 
malady of her rival ; she felt that Ma- 
dame von Morien was suffering from 
unrequited affection, and that despair 
was gnawing at her heart. 

The king had now no glance, no greet- 
ing for his “ enchanting Leontine; ” he 
continued the conversation with Alga- 
rotti and Chazot quietly, and did not 
consider her profound and reverential 
salutation as worthy of the slightest no- 
tice. 

Elizabeth Christine was pitiful ; she 
gave her hand to be kissed, and spoke 
a few friendly, kindly words, which 
touched the heart of the beautiful Mo- 
rien, and brought the tears to her eyes. 
The king, although standing near, did 
not appear even to see her. 

“ I have some news to announce to 
your majesty,” he said, turning to the 
queen - mother. “We are about to 
make Berlin a temple of science and 
art, the seat of learning and knowledge. 


The Muses, should they desirt to leave 
Olympus, shall receive a most hospi 
table reception. Now listen to the 
great news. In Autumn, Voltaire will 
visit us; and Maupertius, the great 
scholar, who first discovered the form 
of the earth, will come, as president of 
our Academy; and Buncauson, who 
understands some of the mysteries of 
God, will also come to Berlin. The 
celebrated Eulert will soon belong to 
us.” 

“ This is indeed glorious news,” said 
Sophia; “ but I fear that your majesty, 
when surrounded with so many schol- 
ars, philosophers, and historians, will 
entirely forget the poor ignorant wo- 
men, and banish them from your 
learned court.” 

“ That would be to banish happi- 
ness, beauty, mirth, and the graces; 
and no one would expect such barbar- 
ism from the son of my noble and ex- 
alted mother,” said Frederick. “ Even 
the Catholic Church is wise enough to 
understand that, in order to draw men 
into their nets, the Trinity (Father, 
Son, and Holy Ghost) is not sufficient ; 
they have also called a lovely woman to 
their assistance, whose beauty and pure 
mysterious maidenhood is the finest, 
most piquant, and intoxicating perfume 
of their gaudy religion. And what 
would the great painters have been 
without women — without their lovely, 
their bewitching sweethearts, whom 
they changed into holy maidens ? 
From luxurious women were designed 
the modest, shrinking Magdalens, be- 
fore whose mysterious charms the wise 
children of men bow the knee in adora- 
tion. Ah, how many Madonnas has Ra- 
phael painted from his Fornarina I and 
Correggio had the art to change his be- 
witching wife into a holy saint. I must 
confess, however, we owe Correggio 
but small thanks ; I should have been 
more grateful had he painted us a 
glowing woman, radiant with beauty 


134 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


glace, and love. I, for my part, have 
a true disgust for weeping, sighing 
Magdalens, who, when wearied with 
earthly loves and passions, turn half 
way to heaven, and swear to God the 
same oaths they have a thousand times 
sworn to men and a thousand times 
broken. Now, if I were in God’s place, 
I would not accept these wavering 
saints. For my part, I hate these 
pale, tearful, sighing, self - destroying 
beauties, and the farcical exhibition of 
their sufferings would never soften my 
heart.” 

While the king was speaking, his eye 
turned for the first time toward Ma- 
dame von Morien, and his glance 
rested long, with a cold and piercing 
expression, upon her. She had heard 
every word he had spoken, and every 
word was like a cold-poisoned dagger 
in her heart; she felt, although her 
eyes were cast down, that his stern 
look rested upon her; she was con- 
scious of this crushing glance, although 
she saw it not; she had the power, not 
to cry out, not to burst into passionate 
tears, but to reply quietly to the queen, 
who in fact questioned her, only with 
the good-humored intention of drown- 
ing the hard and cruel words of the 
king. 

The queen wished to lead the con- 
versation from the dangerous topic of 
religion and give it another direction. 
“ My son,” she said, “ you have for- 
gotten to mention another great sur- 
prise you have prepared for us. You 
say nothing of the German and French 
journals which you have presented to 
our good city of Berlin ; but I assure 
you I await with true impatience the 
day on which these journals appear, 
and I am profoundly interested in these 
new and charming lectures which make 
of politics an amusing theme, and give 
us all the small events of the day.” 

“ Let us hope,” said Frederick, “ that 
these journals will also tell us in the 


future of great events.” Then assum 
ing a gay tone he said ; “ But your ma- 
jesty forgets that you promised the la- 
dies a dance, and see how impatiently 
the little princesses look toward us; 
my sister Amelia is trying to pierce me 
with her scornful glances, because I 
have forced her to sit in her arm- 
chair like a maid of honor, for such 
a weary time, when she longs to float 
about like a frolicsome zephyr. To 
put a stop to her reproaches I will ask 
her to give me the first dance.” The 
king took his sister’s hand and led her 
into the dancing-saloon. 

The queens and court followed. — 
“Now without doubt he wiU seek an 
opportunity to speak to Laura von 
Pannewitz,” thought the queen-mother ; 
“ I must take measures to prevent it.” 
She called Prince Augustus William to 
her side. “ My son,” said she, “ 1 have 
a favor to ask of you.” 

“ Oh, your majesty has only to com- 
mand.” 

“ I know that you are a good son, 
willing to serve your mother. Listen I 
I have important reasons for wishing 
that the king should not converse to- 
night, at least not alone, with Laura 
von Pannewitz ; I will explain my rea- 
sons to you another time. I beg you, 
therefore, to pay court to Laura, and 
not to leave her side should the king 
draw near. You will appear not to see 
his angry glances, but without embar- 
rassment join in the conversation, and 
not turn away from Laura until the king 
has taken leave. Will you do this for 
me, my son ? ” 

“I will fulfil your royal commands 
most willingly,” said the prince, “ only 
it will be said that I am maldng love to 
Laura von Pannewitz.” 

“ Well, let them say so, Laura is 
young and lovely, and does credit to 
your taste. Let the court say what it 
will, we will not make ourselves un- 
happy. But hasten, my son, hasten ; it 


SOIREE OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER. 


135 


appears to me the king is even now 
approaching Laura.” 

The prince bowed to his mother, and 
with joy in his heart he placed him- 
self by the side of his beloved. 

The queen-mother, entirely at ease, 
took her seat at the card-table with her 
daughter-in-law and their cavaliers, 
while the king amused himself in the 
ballroom, and danced a tour with al- 
most every lady. He did not dance 
with Leontine; not once did his eye 
meet hers, though her glances fol- 
lowed him everywhere with a tender, 
ueseeching, melancholy expression. 

“ So sad,” whispered Madame von 
Brandt, who, glowing with beauty and 
merriment, having just danced with the 
king, now took a seat by her side. 

Madame von Morien with a sigh 
held out her small hand. “Dear 
friend,” said she, in a low voice, “you 
were right. I should not have come 
here ; I thought myself stronger than I 
am; I thought my mourning would 
touch him, and awaken at least his 
pity.” 

“ Pity ? ” laughed Madame von 
Brandt; “men never have pity for 
women : they worship or despise them ; 
they place us on an altar or cast us in 
the dust to be trodden under foot. 
We must take care, dear Leontine, to 
build the altar on which they place us 
80 high that their arms cannot reach us 
o cast us down.” 

“ You are right ; I should have been 
more prudent, wiser, colder. But 
what would you ? I loved him, and 
believed in his heart.” 

“You believed in the heart of a 
man 1 Alas ! what woman can boast 
that she ever closed that abyss and 
always retained the key ? ” 

“ Yes, the heart of a man is an 
abyss,” said Madame von Morien; “in 
the beginning it is covered with flow 
rs, and we believe we are resting in 
Paradise ; but the blossoms wither, | 


and will no longer support us ; we fall 
headlong into the abyss with wounded 
hearts, to suffer and to die.” 

Madame von Brandt laid her hand, 
glittering with jewels, upon the shoul 
der of her friend, and looked deri- 
sively into the poor pale face. “ Dear 
Morien,” said she, “we cannot justly 
cast all the blame upon the men, when 
the day comes in which they make 
themselves free from the bonds of love. 
The fault is often the woman’s. We 
misuse our power, or do not properly 
use it. It is not enough to love and to 
be loved. With love we must also 
possess the policy of love. This policy 
is necessary. The women who do not 
know how to govern the hearts which 
love them, will soon lose their power. 
So was it with you, my dear friend ; in 
your love you were too much the wo- 
man, too little the politician and di- 
plomatist ; and instead of wisely making 
yourself adored, by your coldness and 
reserve you yielded too much to your 
feelings, and have fallen into that abyss 
in which, poor Leontine, you have for 
the moment lost your heal^th and 
strength. But that must not remain 
the case ; you shall rise from this abyss, 
proud, triumphant, and happy. I ofler 
you my hand ; I will sustain you : 
while you sigh I will think for you ; 
while you weep I will see for you.” 

Madame von Morien shook her head 
sadly. “You will only see that he 
never looks at me — that I am utterly 
forgotten.” 

“But when I see that, I will shut my 
eyes that I may not see it ; and when 
you see it, you must laugh gayly and 
look the more triumphant. Dear 
friend, what has love made of you? 
Where is your judgment and coquetry ? 
My God! you are a young maiden 
again, and sigh like a child for your 
first love. However tender we may be, 
we must not sacrifice all individuality ; 
besides, being a woman, you must still 


136 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


be a coquette, and in a corner of your 
most tender and yielding heart you must 
ever conceal the tigress, who watches 
and has her claws ready to tear in 
pieces those whom you love, if they 
ever seek to escape from you. Cease, then, 
to be the neglected, tear-stained Mag- 
dalen, and be again the revengeful, 
cruel tigress. You have, besides, out- 
side of your love, a glittering aim — a 
member of the Female Order of Virtue. 

,To wear the cross of modesty upon 
your chaste breast, what an exalted 
goal ! And you will reach it. I bring 
you the surest evidence of it ; I bring 
you, as you wished, a letter from the 
empress, written with her own hand. 
You see all your conditions are fulfilled. 
The empress writes to you and assures 
you of her favor ; she assures you that 
the Order of Virtue will soon be 
established. The king has not sep- 
arated from his wife, and for this reason 
you receive a letter from the empress. 
Now help to bring about the marriage 
of the Prince Augustus William W'ith 
the Princess of Brunswick, and you 
will be an honored member of the Aus- 
trian Order of Virtue. Here, take at 
once this letter of the empress.” 

Madame von Brandt put her hand in 
her pocket to get the letter, but turned 
pale, and said, breathlessly : “ My 

God! this letter is not in my pocket, 
and yet I know positively that I placed 
it there. A short time before I joined 
you I put my hand in my pocket, and 
distinctly felt the imperial seal. The 
letter was there, I know it. What has 
become of it ? Who has taken it away 
from me ? But no, it is not possible, it 
cannot be lost! I must have it; it 
must still be in my pocket.” 

Trembling wuth anxiety, with breath- 
less haste Madame von Brandt emptied 
Her pocket, hoping that the luckless 
letter might be sticking to her gold-em- 
broidered handkerchief, or fastened in 
the folds of her fan. She did not re 


member that her anxiety might be 
observed; and truly no one noticed 
her, all were occupied with their own 
pleasures. All around her was move- 
ment, life, and merry-making; who 
would observe her ? She searched 
again in vain, shook her handkerchief, 
mifolded the large fan ; the letter could 
not be found. An indescribable anx- 
iety overjDowered her ; had she lost the 
letter? had it been stolen from her? 
Suddenly she remembered that while 
engaged a short time before with P611- 
nitz, she had drawn out her fan ; per- 
haps at the same time the letter had 
fallen upon the floor, and Pollnitz 
might have found it, and might now 
be looking for Madame von Morien in 
order to restore it. She searched in 
every direction for Pollnitz. 

Madame von Morien had not re- 
marked the anguish of her friend, or 
had forgotten it. She was again lost 
in dreams; her eyes fastened on the 
face of the young king, she envied 
every lady whose hand he touched in 
the dance, to whom he addressed a 
friendly word, or gave a gracious smile. 
“ I see him no more,” said she, sadly. 

“ Who ? ” said Madame von Brandt, 
once more searching her pocket. 

“The king,” Morien answered, sur- 
prised at the question ; “ he must have 
left the saloon, I saw him a few mo- 
ments since in conversation with Poll 
nitz.” 

“ With Pollnitz ? ” said she eagerly, 
and she searched again in every direc- 
tion for him. 

Suddenly Madame von Morien uttered 
a low cry, and a rosy blush overspread 
her fair, pale face; she had seen the 
king, their eyes had met; the sharp, 
observant glance of the king was stead- 
ily and sternly flxed upon her. 

The king stood in a window corner, 
half hidden by the long, heavy silk 
curtains, and gazed ever steadily at the 
two ladies. 


SOIREE OF THE QUEENDOWAGER. 


“ I see the king,” murmured Madame 
ron Morien. 

“And I see Pollnitz standing near 
him,” said Madame von Brandt, whose 
eyes had followed the direction of her 
friend’s. She thrust her handkerchief 
into her pocket and opened her fan in 
order to hide her reddened face behind 
it; the king’s piercing look filled her 
with alarm. “ Let us walk through the 
saloons, dear Morien,” said she, rising 
up, “ the heat chokes me, and I would 
gladly search a little for the letter ; per- 
haps it may yet be found.” 

“What letter?” said Madame von 
Morien, indififerently. Her friend stared 
at her and said ; 

“ My God 1 you have not heard one 
word I have said to you I ” 

“Oh, yes, that you had a letter to 
give me from the Empress of Austria.” 

“Well, and this letter I have lost 
here in these saloons.” 

“ Some one will find it ; and, as it is 
addressed to me, will immediately re- 
store it.” 

“Dear Morien, I pray you in God’s 
name do not seem so quiet and indifier- 
ent. This is a most important afiair. 
If I did not leave this letter in my 
room, and have really lost it, we are in 
danger of being suspected ; in fact, in 
the eyes of the king we shall be con- 
sidered as spies of Austria.” 

At the name of the king, Madame 
von Morien was attentive and sympa- 
thetic. 

“But no one can read this letter. 
Was it sealed ? ” 

“Yes, it was sealed; but, look you, 
it was sealed with the private seal of 
the empress, and her name stands 
around the Austrian arms. Without 
opening the letter it will be known 
that it is from the Empress of Austria, 
and will awaken suspicion. Hear me 
further ; this letter was enveloped in a 
paper which had no address, but con- 
tained some words which will com- 


137 

promise us both if it is known that this 
letter was addressed to me.” 

“ WThat was written in this paper ? ” 
said Madame von Morien, still looking 
toward the king, who still stood in the 
window-niche, and kept his eyes fixed 
upon the two ladies. 

“ The paper contained only the fol- 
lowing words : ‘ Have the goodness to 
deliver this letter; you see the empress 
keeps her word — ^we must do the same, 
and forget not our promises. A happy 
marriage is well pleasing in the sight 
of God and man ; the married woman is 
adored, the man crowned with virtue.’ ” 
“ And was this letter signed ? ” 

“No, it was not signed; but if it 
falls into the hands of the king, he 
will know from whom it comes ; he is 
acquainted with the handwriting of 
Manteuffel.” 

“ Come ! come 1 let us look for it ! ” 
said Madame von Morien, now full of 
anxiety; “we must find this unfortu- 
nate paper ; come ! ” 

She took the arm of her friend and 
walked slowly through the saloons, 
searching everywhere upon the inlaid 
fioor for something white. 

“ You are right,” said the king, com- 
ing from the window and following the 
ladies with his eyes; “you are right. 
They are both searching anxiously, and 
it was surely Madame von Brandt to 
whom the outer covering of this letter 
was directed. Let them seek; they 
will find as little as the eleven thousand 
virgins found. But now listen, baron, 
to what I say to you. This whole 
affair remains a secret known to no one. 
Listen well, baron; known to no one! 
You must forget that you found this 
letter and gave it to me, or you will 
believe it to be a dream, and nothing 
more.” 

“Yes, your majesty,” said Pollnitz, 
smiling; “a dream, such as Eckert 
dreamed, when he supposed the house 
in Jager Street to be his, and awaked 


138 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND H/S JOURT. 


and found it to belong to your high- 
ness ! ” 

“You are a fool!” said the king, 
smiling. He nodded to Pollnitz and 
joined the two queens, who had now 
finished their game of cards and re- 
turned to the saloon. 

The queen-mother advanced to meet 
her son, and extended her hand to 
him ; she -wished now to carry out her 
purpose and fulfil the promise given to 
Duke Rhedern. She did not doubt 
that the king, who received her with 
so much reverence and affection, would 
grant her request, and the court would 
be again witness to the great influence, 
and indeed the unbounded power, which 
she had over her son. She stood with 
the king directly under the chandelier, 
in the middle of the saloon ; near them 
stood the reigning queen and the princes 
and princesses of the royal house. It was 
an interesting picture. It was curious 
to observe this group, illuminated by 
a sharp light, the faces so alike and 
yet so different in expression ; blossoms 
from one stem, and yet so unlike in 
greatness, form, and feature. The cour- 
tiers drew near, and in respectful si- 
lence regarded the royal family, who, 
bathed in a sqa of light; were in the 
midst of them, but not of them. 

“ My son,” said the queen, in a clear, 
silvery voice, “ I have a request to make 
of you.” The king kissed his mother’s 
hand. 

“Madame, you well know you have 
no need of entreaty ; you have only to 
command.” Sophia smiled proudly. 

“I thank your majesty for this as- 
surance 1 Listen, then : my chamberlain, 
Duke Rhedern, wishes to marry. I have 
promised him to obtain your consent.” 

“ If ray royal mother is pleased with 
the choice of her chamberlain, I am, 
of course, also content ; always pro- 
vided that the chosen bride of the duke 
belongs to a noble family. What is 
the rank of the bride ? ” 


The queen looked embarrassed, and 
smiling, said : “ She has no rank, your 
majesty.” 

The king’s brow darkened. “She 
was not born, then, to be a duchess. 
Your chamberlain would do better to 
be silent over this folly, than to force a 
refusal from me. I hate misalliances, 
and will not suffer them at my court.” 

These loudly-spoken and harsh words 
produced different impressions upon 
the family circle of the king: some 
were cast down, others joyful; some 
cheeks grew pale, and others red. So- 
phia blushed from pleasure ; she was 
now convinced that the king would 
not seek a divorce from his wife, in or- 
der to form a morganatic mariiage 
-with Laura von Pannewitz; and the 
queen-mother was of to(.> noble and 
virtuous a nature herself to believe in 
the possibility of a mistress at the 
court of Prussia. The love of the king 
for the beautiful Laura appeared now 
nothing more than a poetical idyl, 
which would soon pass away — nothing 
morel But the words of the king 
made a painful impression upon Au- 
gustus William ; his brow clouded, his 
features assumed a painful and threat- 
ening expression. He was in the act 
of speaking, and opposing in the name 
of humanity and love those cruel 
words of the king, as Elizabeth Chris- 
tine, who stood near him and observed 
him with tender sympathy, whispered 
lightly : 

“Be silent, my brother; be consid- 
erate.” 

The prince breathed heavily, and his 
glance turned for comfort toward the 
maids of honor. Laura greeted him 
with her eyes, and then blushed deeply 
over her own presumption. Strength- 
ened by this tender glance from his 
beautiful bride, Augustus was able to 
assume a calm and indifferent mien. 

In the mean time the queen-mother 
was not silenced by the words of the 


SOIREE OF THE QUEEX-DO WAGER. 


13& 


king. Her pride rebelled against this 
prompt denial in the face of her family 
and the court. Besides, she had given 
her royal word to the count, and it 
must be redeemed. She urged, there- 
fore, her request with friendly earnest- 
ness, but the king was immovable. 
Sophia, angry at the opposition to her 
will, was even the more resolved to 
carry out her purpose. She had potent 
arguments in reserve, and she now de- 
cided to bring them forward. 

“ Your majesty should, without 
doubt, protect your nobles from un- 
worthy alliances ; but there are excep- 
tional cases, where the interest of the 
nobility would be promoted by allow- 
ing such a union.” Sophia Dorothea 
drew nearer to her son, and whispered 
lightly : “ Count Khedern is ruined, and 
must go to the ground if you forbid 
this marriage.” 

The king was now attentive and 
sympathetic. “ Is the lady very rich ? ” 

“ Immensely rich, sire. She will 
bring the duke a million dollars ; she 
is slaughter of the rich silk merchant 
Orguelin.” 

“Ah, Orguelin is a brave man, and 
has brought much gold into Prussia by 
his fabrics,” said the king, who was 
evidently becoming more yielding. 

“ It would be a great pity if this gold 
should be lost to Prussia,” said the 
queen. 

“ What do you mean, madame ? ” 

“ This Mademoiselle Orguelin, thanks 
to her riches, has many lovers, and at 
this time a young merchant from Hol- 
land seeks her hand; he has the con- 
sent of her father, and will also ob- 
tain hers, unless the count knows how 
to undermine him,” said the queen- 
mother, thus springing her last mine. 

“ This must not be,” said the king ; 
“ this Orguelin shall not marry the rich 
Hollander I Those millions of crowns 
shall not leave Prussia I ” 

“But your majesty cannot prevent 


this girl from marrying the man of her 
choice, and you cannot forbid her fa- 
ther to give her a portion of his for- 
tune.” 

The king was silent "a moment, and 
appeared to consider. He then said 
to his mother : “ Madame, you are an 
eloquent advocate for your client, and 
no man can withstand you. I give 
way, therefore ; Count Rbedern has my 
consent to marry the Orguelin.” 

“But even that is not sufficient,” 
said the queen ; “ there is yet another 
condition, without the fulfilling of 
which this proud miUionnaire refuses 
to give her hand to the duke.” 

“ Ah, look you, the little bourgeois e 
makes conditions before’ she will wed 
a count ! ” 

“ Yes, sire, she will become the wife 
of the count only with his assurance 
that she will be presented at court, 
and be received according to her new 
rank.” 

“Truly,” said the king, with ironi- 
cal laughter, “ this little miUionnaire 
thinks it an important point to appear 
at my court.” 

“ It appears so, sire ; it seems that 
this is a greater glory than to possess a 
count for a husband.” 

The king looked thoughtfully before 
him, then raised his eyes to his mother 
with a mocking smile. “ Madame, you 
know I can refuse you nothing ; and, as 
you wish it. Mademoiselle Orguelin, 
when she is married, shall be received 
at my court as a nmly-lahed countess. 
But petition for petition, favor for fa- 
vor. I promise you to receive this 
new-baked countess if you will pledge 
me to receive the Count NSal at your 
court.” 

“ Count N6al ! ” said the queen-moth- 
er; “ your majesty knows — ” 

“I know,” said the king, bowing, 
“ I know that Count ISTSal is of as good 
family as the new Countess of Rhedem 
that he possesses many millions which 


140 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


I have secured to Prussia by granting 
him his title. So we understand each 
other. The new-baked countess will 
be as well received at my court as 
Count NSal will at yours.” 

Frederick gave the queen-mother his 
hand ; she laid hers unwillingly within 
it, and whispered : “ Ah, my son, you 
have cruelly overreached me ! ” 

“Madame,” replied the king, “we 
secure in this way three millions for 
Prussia, and they weigh more than a 
few countly ancestors. The Prussia 
of the future will triumph in battle 
through her nobles ; but she will be- 
come greater, more powerful, through 
the industry of her people than by vic- 
tory on the battle-field.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

UNDER THE LINDENS. 

Linden Street, of Berlin, which is 
now the most brilliant and most beau- 
tiful thoroughfare of that great city, 
was, in the year 1740, a wild and deso- 
late region. 

Frederick 'William the First loved 
pomp and splendor. His wife, when 
told upon her death-bed how much the 
king would mourn for her, said, smil- 
ing: “He will occupy himself in ar- 
ranging a superb funeral procession; 
and, if this ceremony is very brilliant, 
he will be comforted.” 

Frederick the First planted the trees 
from which this street takes its name, 
to render the drive to the palace of 
Charlottenburg more agreeable to the 
queen, and to conceal as much as pos- 
sible the desolate appearance of the 
surroundings ; for all this suburb, lying 
between the arsenal and the zoological 
garden, was at this time a desolate and 
barren waste. The entire region, ex- 
tending from the New Gate to the far- 
distant Behren Street, was an immense 


mass of sand, whose drear appearance 
had often offended Frederick while he 
was still the prince royal. Nothing 
was to be seen, where now appear ma- 
jestic palaces and monuments, the 
opera-house, and the catholic church, 
but sand and heaps of rubbish. Fred- 
erick William the First had done much 
to beautify this poor, deserted quarter, 
and to render it more fitting its near 
neighborhood to the palaces, which 
were on the other side of the fortifica- 
tions; but the people of Berlin had 
aided the king very little in this effort. 
None were willing to banish themselves 
to this desolate and remote portion of 
the city, and the few stately and pala- 
tial buildings which were erected there 
were built by the special order of the 
king, and at his expense. Some wealthy 
men of rank had also put up a few 
large buildings, to please the king, but 
they did not reside in them, and the 
houses themselves seemed almost out of 
place. One of these large and stately 
houses had been built, not by a Count 
Dohna, or a Baron von Pleffen, or any 
other nobleman, but by the most honor- 
able and renowned court tailor Pricker * 
and for the last few days this house had 
rejoiced in a new and glittering sign, on 
which appeared in large gilt letters, 
“ Court tailor to her majesty the dowa 
ger-queen, and to her majesty the reign 
ing queen.” But this liouse, with its 
imposing inscription, was also sur- 
rounded by dirty, miserable cabins. In 
its immediate neighborhood was the 
small house which has already been 
described as the dwelling of poor Anna 
Schommer. 

A deep and unbroken silence reigned 
in this part of Berlin, and the equi- 
pages of the royal family and nobility 
were rarely seen there, except when the 
king gave an entertainment at Charlot- 
tenburg. 

But on this day a royal caniage wa? 
driven rapidly from the palace through 


UNDER THE LINDEN. 


141 


this desolate region, and toward the* 
Linden Avenue. Here it stopped, and 
four gentlemen alighted. They were 
the king; the royal architect. Major 
Knobelsdorf ; the grand^chamberlain. 
Von Pbllnitz ; and Jordan, the head of 
the police and guardian of the poor. 

The king stood at the beginning of 
the Linden Avenue, and looked earnest- 
ly and thoughtfully at the large, des- 
olate surface spread out before him; 
his clear, bright glance flew like light- 
ning here and there. 

“ You must transform this place for 
me, Knobelsdorf; you must show your- 
self a very Hercules. You have the 
ability, and I will furnish the money. 
Here we will erect a monument to our- 
selves, and make a glorious something 
of the nothing of this desert. We will 
build palaces and temples of art and of 
religion. Berlin is at present destitute 
of every thing which would make it a 
tempting resort for the Muses. It is 
your affair, Knobelsdorf, to prepare a 
suitable reception for them.” 

“ But the Muses are willing to come 
without that,” said Pollnitz, with his 
most graceful bow, “ for they would dis- 
cover here the young god Apollo, who, 
without doubt, found it too tiresome in 
heaven, and has condescended to be- 
come an earthly king.” 

The king shrugged his shoulders. 
“Pollnitz,” he said, “you are just fitted 
to write a book of instructions for 
chamberlains and court circles ; a book 
which would teach them the most 
noneyed phrases and the most grace- 
ful flatteries. Why do you not com- 
pose such a work ? ” 

“ It is absolutely necessary, your ma- 
jesty, in order to write a book, to have 
a quiet study in your own house, where 
you can arrange every thing according 
to your own ideas of comfort and con- 
venience. As I do not at present pos- 
sess a house, I cannot write this 
book.” 


The king laughed, and said : “ Well 
perhaps Knobelsdorf can spare a small 
spot here, on which to erect your Tus- 
culum. But we must first build the 
palace of the queen-mother, and a few 
other temples and halls. — Do you not 
think, Jordan, that this is a most suita- 
ble place on which to realize all those 
beautiful ideals of which we used to 
dream at Rheinsberg ? Could we not 
erect our Acropolis here, and our temples 
to. Jupiter and Minerva ? ” 

“ In order to convince the world that 
it is correct in its supposition,” said 
Jordan, smiling, “ that your majesty is 
not a Christian, but a heathen, who 
places more faith in the religion of the 
old Greeks than in that of the new 
Church fathers.” 

“ Do they say that ? Well, they are 
not entirely wrong if they believe that 
I have no great admiration for popery 
and'the Church. This Church was not 
built by Christ, but by a crafty priest- 
hood. — Knobelsdorf, on this spot must 
stand the temple of which I have so 
often dreamed. There is space to ac- 
complish all that fancy could suggest 
or talent execute.” 

“ Then the palace of the dowager- 
queen must not be placed here ? ” asked 
Knobelsdorf. 

“ No, not here ; this place has anoth- 
er destination, of which I will, speak 
further to you this evening, and learn 
if my plan has your approval. I dare 
say my most quarrelsome Jordan will 
make some objections. Eh bien^ nous 
verrons. We will proceed, and seek a 
situation for the palace of the queen. ” 

“ If your majesty will permit me,” 
said Pollnitz, while the king with his 
three companions passed slowly down 
the Linden Avenue, “ I will take the 
liberty of pointing out to you a spot, 
which appears most suitable to me for 
this palace. It is at the end of the 
avenue, and at the entrance to the park , 
it is a most beautiful site, and there 


142 


FREDEBICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


would be sufficient room to extend the 
buildings at will.” 

“ Show us the place,” said the king, 
walking forward. 

“ This is it,” said Pollnitz, as they 
reached the end of the avenue. 

“ It is true,” said the king, “ here is 
space enough to erect a palace. Kno- 
belsdorf, what do you think, will this 
place answer ? ” 

“We must begin by removing all 
those small houses, your majesty; that 
would, of course, necessitate their pur- 
chase, for which we must obtain the 
consent of the possessors, many of 
whom would be left shelterless by this 
sudden sale.” 

“ Shelterless ! ” said the king, as he 
glanced toward his much-loved friend, 
“ since Jordan has become the father of 
the poor, none are shelterless. This 
spot seems most suitable to me. The 
palace might stand on this side; on 
that a handsome public building, per- 
haps the library, and uniting the two a 
lofty arch in the Grecian style. We 
will convert that wood into a beautiful 
park, with shady avenues, tasteful par- 
terres, marble statues, glittering lakes, 
and murmuring streams.” 

“Only a Frederick would dream it 
possible to convert this desolate spot 
into such a fairy-land,” said Jordan, 
smiling. “ For my part, I see nothing 
here but sand, and there a wood of mis- 
erable stunted trees.” 

The king smiled. “ Blessed are they 
who believe without having seen I ” he 
said. “Well, Knobelsdorf, is there 
room here to carry out our extensive 
plans ? ” 

“ Certainly ; and if your majesty will 
furnish me with the requisite funds, the 
work can be begun without a day’s de- 
lay.” 

“ What amount will be required ? ” 

“ If it is all executed as your majesty 
proposes, at least a million.” 

“ Very well, a million is not too much 


to prepare a pleasure for the queen- 
mother.” 

“ But,” said Pollnitz, “ will not your 
majesty make those poor people ac- 
quainted with their fate, and console 
them by a gracious word for being 
compelled to leave their homes? It 
has only been a short time since I was 
driven by the rain to take shelter in one 
of those houses, and it made me most 
melancholy, for I have never seen such 
want and misery. There were starving 
children, a woman dying of grief, and 
a drunken man. Truly as I saw this 
scene I longed to be a king for a few 
moments, that I might send a ray of 
happiness to brighten this gloomy 
house, and dry the tears of these wretch- 
ed people.” 

“ It must have been a most terrible 
sight if even Pollnitz was distressed by 
it,” cried the king, whose noble coun- 
tenance was overshadowed with sorrow, 
— “ Come, Jordan, we will visit this 
house, and you shall assist in allevia- 
ting the misery of its inhabitants. — 
You, Knobelsdorf, can occupy yourself 
in making a drawing of this place. — 
Lead the way, Pollnitz.” 

“ My desire is at last attained,” 
thought Pollnitz, as he led the king 
across the common. “ It has been most 
difficult to bring his majesty here, but 
I am confident my plan will succeed. 
Dorris Ritter doubtlessf expects us ; she 
will have considered my words, and, 
yielding to her natural womanly co- 
quetry, she will have followed my 
counsel, and have made use of the 
clothing I sent her yesterday.” 

They now stood before the wretched 
house which Pollnitz had indicated. 

“ This house has truly a most gloomy 
appearance,” said the king. ^ 

“Many sad tears have been shed 
here,” said Pollnitz, with an appearance 
of deep sympathy. 

The door of the shop was merely 
closed; the kmg pushed it open, and 


UNDER THE LINDEN. 


143 


entered with his two companions. No 
one came forward to meet them, silence 
reigned in the deserted room. 

“ Permit me, your majesty, to go into 
that room and call the woman; she 
probably did not hear us enter.” 

“No, I will go myself,” said the 
king ; “ it is well that I should occa- 
sionally seek out poverty in its most 
wretched hiding-place, that I may learn 
to understand its miseries and tempta- 
tions.” 

“Ah ! my king,” said Jordan, deeply 
touched, “ from to-day your people will 
no longer call you their king, but their 
father.” 

The king stepped quickly to the door 
which Pollnitz had pointed out; the 
two gentlemen followed, and remained 
standing behind him, glancing curious- 
ly over his shoulder. 

Frederick crossed the threshold, and 
then stood motionless, gazing into the 
room. “ Is it possible to live in such a 
den ? ” he murmured. 

“Yes, it is possible,” replied a low, 
scornful voice ; “ I live here, with mis- 
ery for my companion.” 

The king was startled by this voice, 
and turned toward that side of the 
room from which it proceeded; only 
then seeing the woman who sat in the 
farthest comer. She remained motion- 
less, her hands folded on her lap ; her 
face was deadly pale, but of a singularly 
beautiful oval ; the hair encircling her 
head in heavy braids was of a light, 
shining blond, and had almost the ap- 
pearance of a halo surrounding her 
clear, pale face, which seemed illumined 
by her wonderful eyes. • 

“ She has not made use of the 
things which I sent,” thought Poll- 
nitz ; “ but I see she understands her 
own advantages. She is really beauti- 
ful ; she looks like a marble statue of 
the Virgin Mary in some poor village 
church.” 

The king still stood gazing, with an 


earnest and thoughtful expression, at 
this woman, who looked fixedly at him, 
as if she sought to read his thoughts. 
■But he remained quiet, and apparently 
unmoved. Did Frederick recognize 
this woman? did he hear again the 
dying melodies of his early youth ? 
was he listening to their sweet but 
melancholy tones? Neither Pollnitz 
nor Dorris Ritter could discover this in 
his cold, proud face. 

Jordan broke this silence by saying 
gently, “ Stand up, my good woman, it 
is the king who is before you.” 

She rose slowly from her seat, but her 
countenance did not betray the least 
astonishment or pleasure. 

“ The king,” she said ; “ what does 
the king desire in this den of poverty 
and misery ? ” 

“ To alleviate both poverty and mis- 
ery if they are undeserved,” said the 
king, softly. 

She approached him quickly, and 
made a movement as if she would offer 
him her hand, “ wretchedness is unde- 
served,” she said, “ but not even a king 
can alleviate it.” 

“ Let me, at least, attempt to do so. 
In what can I assist you ? ” 

She shook her head sadly. “If 
King Frederick, the son of Frederick 
William the First, does not know, then 
I do not.” 

“ You are poor, perhaps in want ? ” 

“ I do not know — it is possible,” she 
said, absently ; “ how can I, among so 
many pains and torments, distinguish 
between despair and anguish, and 
want and privation ? ” 

“ You have children ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, shuddering, “ I have 
children, and they suffer from hunger ; 
that I know, for they often pray to me 
for bread, when I have non^ to give 
them.” 

“ Why does not their father take 
care of them ? Perhaps he is not liv- 
ing ? ” 


144 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“He lives, but not for us. He is 
wiser than I, and forgets his grief in 
drink, while I nourish the gnawing 
viper at my heart.” 

“You have, then, nothing to ask of 
me ? ” said the king, becoming indig- 
nant. 

She gazed at him again long and 
searchingly, with her great, piercing 
eyes. “ No,” she said harshly, “ I have 
nothing to ask.” 

At this moment the door was thrown 
open, and the two children, Karl and 
Anna, ran in, calling for their mother ; 
but they became silent on perceiving 
the strangers, and crept shyly to her 
side. Dorris Ritter was strangely 
moved by the appearance of her chil- 
dren; her countenance, which, had 
borne so hard an expression, became 
mild and gentle. She grasped the 
hands of the two children, and with 
them approached the king. 

“ Yes, your majesty, I have a petition 
to make. I implore your pity for my 
children. They are pure and innocent 
as God’s angels ; let not the shame and 
misery of their parents fall upon their 
heads. King Frederick, have pity on 
my children ! ” 

And overcome by her emotions and 
her anguish, this unhappy wbman sank 
with her children at the feet of the king. 
Frederick regarded her thoughtfully, 
then turned to Jordan. 

“Jordan,” said he, “to you I intrust 
the care of these children.” 

The wretched woman started to her 
feet, and pressed her children to her 
arms with an expression as terrified 
and full of agony as that of the noble 
and touching statue of the Greek Ni- 
obe. 

“Ah! you would tear my children 
from me I No, no, I ask nothing ; we 
need no mercy, no assistance; we will 
suffer together; do not separate us. 
they would cease to love me; they 
would learn to despise me, their mother, 


who only lives in their presence ; who in 
the midst of all her sorrow and grief, 
thanks God daily upon her bended 
knees that He gave her these children, 
who alone have saved her from despair 
and death I ” 

“You have uttered very wild and 
godless words,” said the king. “ You 
should pray to God to make your heart 
soft and humble. To be poor, to suffer 
from hunger, to have a drunken hus- 
band, are great misfortunes, but they 
can be borne if you have a pure con- 
science. Your children shall not be 
parted from you. They shall be 
clothed and taught, and I wdll also 
see what can be done for you. And 
now farewell.” 

And the king, bowing slightly, turned 
toward the door, and in doing so 
placed a few pieces of gold on the ta- 
ble. Dorris had watched every move- 
ment. She started wildly forward 
and seized the gold, which she handed 
to the king. 

“Your majesty,” she said, with 
flashing eyes, “I only implored mercy 
for my children ; I did not beg for my- 
self. My sufferings cannot be wiped 
out with a few pieces of gold.” 

The countenance of the king assumed 
a most severe expression, and he threw 
an annihilating glance on this bold 
woman who dared to oppose him. 

“ I did not give the gold to you, but 
to your children,” he said ; “ you must 
not rob them.” He then continued 
more gently : “ If you should ever need 
and desire assistance, then turn to me ; 
I will remember your 2:>overty, not your 
pride. Tell me -your name, therefore, 
that I may not forget.” 

The poor, pale woman glanced 
searchingly at him. “ My name,” she 
said, thoughtfully, as if to herself, 
“ King Frederick wishes to know my 
name. I am called— I am called Anna 
Schommer.” 

And as she replied, she placed her 









THE POLITICIAN AND THE FRENCH TAILOR. 


145 


hand upon the head of her little 
daughter as if she needed a support. 
Thus she stood trembling, but still up- 
right, with head erect, while the king 
and his suite turned toward the door. 
Her son, who had kept his eyes upon 
the king, now followed him and 
lightly touched his mantle. 

His mother saw it, and raising her 
arm tureateningly, while with the 
other she still supported herself by 
leaning on her ^hild, she cried ; “ Do 
not touch him, my son. Kings are sa- 
cred.” 

Frederick, already standing on the 
threshold, turned once more ; his great, 
luminous eyes rested inquiringly on this 
pale, threatening figure. An inde- 
scribably sad smile played upon his 
features, but he spoke no word ; and, 
slowly turning, he passed through the 
door, and hurried silently from the 
shop. 

Dorris Ritter uttered a low cry when 
she no longer saw him; her hands slid 
powerless from the head of her daugh- 
ter, and hung heavily at her side. The 
child, thus set at liberty, hurried out to 
gaze at the king and his escort. 

The poor woman was all alone — 
alone with her grief and painful mem- 
ories. She stood for a long time mo- 
tionless and silent, as if unconscious ; 
then a dull, heavy groan escaped from 
her breast, and she fell as if struck by 
lightning. ‘‘He did not even know 
me,” she cried. For him I suffer pain 
and misery, and he passes by, and 
throws me the crumbs of benevolence 
which falls from his bountiful table.” 
For many minutes she lay thus broken 
and trembling ; then, suddenly ex- 
cited by pride and revenge, she arose, 
with a wild gleam in her eyes. She 
raised her hand as if calling upon God 
to witness her words, and said sol- 
emnly ; “ He did not recognize me to- 
day, but a day will come on which he 
shall recognize me — the day on which 
10 


I avenge my wretched and torrr.ented 
life ! He is a royal king and I a poor 
woman, but the sting of a venomous 
insect suffices to destroy even a king. 
Revenge I will have — revenge for my 
poisoned existence ! ” 


CHAPTER Xm 

THE POLITICIAN AND THE FBENCH 
TAILOR. 

Without, the scene had changed in 
the mean while. The attention of the 
people had been attracted to the king’s 
presence by the royal equipage which 
was slowly driving down the street, 
and one and all hurried from their 
houses to see and greet their handsome 
young monarch. Men and women, 
young and old, were running about 
confusedly, each one inquiring of his 
neighbor why the king had come, and 
where he might now be, as his carriage 
was apparently awaiting him. And 
why was that fat man, who was seated 
on the sidewalk, sketching this sandy 
place with its poor little houses ? 

Even the proud and self-satisfied 
Herr Pricker had not considered it be- 
neath his dignity to descend to the 
street door, and take his stand, surround- 
ed by his assistants and apprentices. 

“It is said the king has gone into 
the house of Schommer, the grocer,” said 
one of his assistants, returning from a 
reconnoissance he had made among the 
noisy and gossiping multitude. 

Herr Pricker shook his head graveiy. 
“ He must have been misinformed, for 
he undoubtedly intended coming to 
this house and paying me a visit, an 
intention which would be neither novel 
nor surprising in my family. None of 
the rulers of the house of Hohenzollern 
have as yet neglected to pay a visit to 
the house of Pricker. The present 
king will not fail to observe this noble 
custom, for — >” 


146 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


The worthy Herr Pricker was inter- 
rupted by the shouts of the people. 
The king had appeared upon the 
streets, and was greeted with vociferous 
cheers, amid the waving of hats and 
handkerchiefs. 

Herr Pricker, observing with intense 
satisfaction that the king had turned 
and was advancing in the direction of 
his house, stepped forward with a self- 
gratulatory smile, and placed himself 
immediately at the side of the mon- 
arch’s path. But Frederick passed by 
without noticing him. On this occa- 
sion he did not return the greeting of 
the people in quite so gracious a man- 
ner as usual ; his eye was dim, and his 
brow clouded. Without even favoring 
the smiling and bowing Pricker with 
a glance, he passed on to the carriage 
which awaited him in front of the 
court dressmaker’s. The king entered 
hastily, his cavaliers following him, 
and the carriage drove off. The 
shouting of the populace continued, 
however, until it disappeared in the 
distance. 

“ Why do these poor foolish people 
shout for joy ? ” grumbled Herr Pricker, 
shrugging his shoulders. Now that 
the king had taken no notice of him, 
this man was enraged. “What do 
they mean by these ridiculous cries, 
and this waving of hats ? His majesty 
regarded them as discontentedly as if 
they were vermin, and did not even 
favor them with a smile. How low- 
spirited he is I His not recognizing 
me, the court dressmaker of his wife, 
shows this conclusively. It must have 
been his intention to visit me, for his 
carriage had halted immediately in 
front of my door ; in his depression he 
must have entirely forgotten it.” 

The crowd had begun to disperse, 
and but a few isolated groups could 
now be seen, who were still eagerly en- 
gaged in discussing the king’s appear- 
ance. 


At a short distance from Hen 
Pricker were severa. grave and digni- 
fied citizens, dressed in long coats or- 
namented with immense ivory buttons, 
and wearing long cues, which looked 
out gravely from the three-cornered 
hats covering their smooth and pow- 
dered hair. 

Herr Pricker observed these citizens, 
and, with a friendly greeting, beckoned 
to them to approacln “My worthy 
friends, did you also come to see the 
king ? ” 

“ No, we were only passing, but re- 
mained standing when we saw the king.’’ 

“ A very handsome young man.” 

“A very wise and learned young 
king.” 

“ And still — ” 

“ Yes, and still — ” 

“Yes, that is my opinion also, 
worthy friends,” sighed Herr Pricker. 

“The many innovations and ordi- 
nances ; it terrifies one to read them.’ 

“ Every day something new.” 

“ Yes, it is not as it was in the good 
old times, under the late lamented 
king. Ah, we then led a worthy and 
respectable life. One knew each day 
what the next would bring forth. He 
who hungered to-day knew that he 
would also do so on the morrow. He 
who was rich to-day knew that he 
would still be so on the morrow. Ours 
was an honest and virtuous existence. 
Prudence and propriety reigned every- 
where; as a husband and father, the 
king set us an exalted example.” 

“ It is true, one ran the risk of being 
struck occasionally ; and, if a man had 
the misfortune to be tall, he was m 
danger of being enrolled among the 
guards,” said another. “ But this was 
all. In other respects, however, one 
lived quietly enough, smoked his pipe, 
and drank his pot of beer; and in 
these two occupations we could also 
consider the king as our model and 
ideal.” 


THE POLITICIAN AND THE FRENCH TAILOR. 


“ But now ! — ” 

“ Yes, now I Every thing changes 
with the rapidity of the wind. He 
who but yesterday was poor, is rich to- 
day ; the man who was rich yesterday, 
is to-day impoverished and thrown 
aside; this was the fate of the Privy 
Councillor von Eckert. I worked for 
him, and he was a good customer, for 
he used a great many gloves, almost a 
dozen pair every month; and now I 
have lost this good customer by the 
new government.” 

“ But, then, Eckert deserved it,” said 
the fat beer-brewer. “ He oppressed 
the people, and was altogether an arro- 
gant, puflfed-up fellow, who greeted 
nobody, not even myself. It serves him 
right that the king has taken the new 
house in Jager Street away from him ; 
there was justice in that.” 

“But the late lamented king had 
given it to him, and his last will should 
have been honored.” 

“ Yes, that is true ; the last will of 
the late lamented monarch should have 
been honored,” they all exclaimed with 
earnest gravity. 

“Oh, we will have to undergo a 
great many trials,” sighed Herr Pricker. 
“ Could you believe, my friends, that 
they contemplate depriving us of our 
respectable cue, and replacing it with a 
light, fantastic, and truly immoral 
wig ? ” 

“ That is impossible ! That can 
never be ! We will never submit to 
that ! ” exclaimed the assembled group, 
with truly Grecian pathos. 

“ They wish to give us French 
fashions,” continued Pricker ; “ French 
fashions and French manners. I can 
see the day coming when we shall have 
French glovemakers and shoemakers, 
French hair-dressers and beer-brewers ; 
yes, and even French dressmakers. I 
see the day coming when a man may 
with impunity hang out a sign with 
French inscriptions over his shop door, 


14'S 

and when he who intersperses his hon- 
est German with French phrases will 
no longer be well beaten. Ah, the 
present king will not, like his lamented 
predecessor, have two girls arrested be- 
cause they have said ‘ cTiarmant ; ’ he 
will not, with his own hands, belabor 
the young lads who have the assurance 
to appear on the streets in French cos- 
tumes, as the deceased king so often did. 
Every thing will be ditferent, but not 
better — only more French.” 

“Yes, could it be believed,” ex- 
claimed the fat beer-brewer, “that 
they think of crying down beer, the 
favorite beverage of the late lamented 
king, which, at all events, should be 
holy in the sight of his son ! At court 
no more beer will be drunk, but only 
French wines ; and he who wishes to 
be modern and acceptable at court will 
turn up his nose at the beer-pot, and 
drink mean and adulterated wines. 
Yes, even coffee is coming into fashion, 
and the coffee-house keeper in the 
pleasure-garden, who, up to the pres- 
ent time, was only permitted to make 
coffee for the royal family and a few 
other rich people at court, has not 
alone received permission to serve cof- 
fee for everybody, but every innkeeper 
may do the same thing.” 

“And have you heard,” asked the 
glovemaker, gloomily, “ that the two 
hotel-keepers in Berlin, Nicolai and St. 
Vincent, have their rivals, and will no 
longer keep the only houses where a 
good dinner can be had for money? 
Two French cooks have already ar- 
rived, and one of them has opened a 
house in Frederick Street, the other in 
King Street, which they call ‘Restau- 
ration.’ ” 

“Yes,” said the shoemaker with a 
sigh, “ I went to the French house in 
Frederick Street yesterday, and ate a 
meal out of curiosity. Ah, my friends, 
I could have cried for rage, for I am 
sorry to say that it was a better meal 


148 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT 


than we could ever get at Nicolai’s or 
St. Vincent’s ; moreover, I paid less for 
it.” 

“ It is a shame I A Frenchman 
comes here and gives a better and 
cheaper dinner than a native of Ber- 
lin,” said Herr Pricker. “I tell you 
we shall all have much to endure ; and 
even my title is insufficient to protect 
me from insult and humiliation, for it 
might happen that — ” 

Herr Pricker suddenly became silent 
and stared toward the centre of the 
street, astonishment and curiosity de- 
picted on his countenance and on that 
of his friends, who followed the direc- 
tion of his glances. 

And in truth a very unusual specta- 
cle presented itself to these worthy 
burghers. A carriage was slowly pass- 
ing along the street drawn by two 
weary and smoking horses. This car- 
riage was of the elegant and modern 
French make, now becoming fashiona- 
ble at court, and was called a chaise. 
As the top was thrown back, its occu- 
pants could very well be seen. 

On the front seat were three persons. 
The first was a man of grave and ear- 
nest demeanor and commanding ap- 
pearance. His tall and well-made fig- 
ure was clad in a black velvet coat 
with little silver buttons, ornamented 
on the sleeves and breast with elegant 
lace ruffies. His hair, which was turn- 
ing gray, was twisted in a knot at the 
back of his head, from which a ribbon 
of enormous length was pendent. A 
small three-cornered hat, of extraordi- 
nary elegance, rested on the toupet of 
curls which hung down on either side 
ot his head and shaded the forehead, 
which displayed the dignity and sub- 
limity of a Jupiter. 

At his side sat two females, the mid- 
dle one an elderly, grave-looking lady ; 
the other a beautiful young girl, with 
smiling lips, glowing black eyes, and 
rosy cheeks. The elegant and grace- 


ful ‘attire of these ladies was very dif- 
ferent from the grave and sober cos- 
tume of the women of Berlin. Their 
dresses were of lively colors, with wdde 
sleeves bordered with lace, and with 
long waists, the low cut of which in 
front displayed in the one the beauty 
and freshness of her neck ; and in the 
other, the richness of a guipure scarf, 
with which her throat was covered. 
Their heads were covered with im- 
mense toupets of powdered hair, sur- 
mounted by little velvet hats, from 
which long and waving ribbons hung 
down behind. 

On the back seat were three other 
young ladies dressed in the same style, 
but less richly. This first carriage was 
followed by a second, which contained 
six young men in French costumes, who 
were looking around with lively curi- 
osity, and laughing so loudly, that the 
worthy burgher who stood in front of 
Pricker’s house could hear every word 
they uttered, but unfortunately could 
understand nothing. 

“ Frenchmen I ” murmured Pricker, 
in a contemptuous tone and wdth a 
slight shudder. 

“ Frenchmen ! ” echoed his friends, 
staring at this novel spectacle. 

But how I Who was that standing 
by the first carriage wdiich had halted 
in front of Herr Pricker’s house ? Who 
was that speaking with the young girl, 
who smilingly leaned forward from the 
carriage and was laughing and jesting 
with him? How! Was this young 
man really the son and heir of Herr 
Pricker? Was he speaking to these 
strangers, and that, too, in French ? 
Yes, Herr Pricker could not deceive 
himself, it was his son ; it was William, 
his heir. 

“ How ! Does your son speak 
French ? ” asked the glove-maker, in a 
reproachful tone. 

“ He so much desired to do so,” said 
Herr Pricker, with a sigh, “ that I wa? 


THE POLITICIAN AND THE FRENCH TAILOR. 


149 


forced to consent to give him a French 
teacher.” 

William, who had observed his fa- 
ther, now hurried across the street. 
The young man’s eyes glowed ; his 
handsome face was enlivened with joy; 
his manner denoted eagerness and ex- 
citement. 

“Father,” said he, “come with me 
quickly ! These strangers are so anx- 
ious to speak with you. Just think 
how fortunate! I was passing along 
the Charlottenburg road when I met 
the travellers. They addressed me in 
French, and inquired for the best ho- 
tel in Berlin. It was lucky that I un- 
derstood them, and could recommend 
the ‘ City of Paris.’ Ah, father, what 
a beautiful and charming girl that is ! 
how easy and graceful ! In the whole 
city of Berlin there is not so beautiful 
a girl as Blanche. I have been walk- 
ing along by the side of the carriage 
for half an hour, and we have been 
laughing and talking like old friends ; 
for when I discovered who they were, 
and why they were coming to Berlin, 
I told them who my father was direct- 
ly, and then the old gentleman became 
60 friendly and condescending. Come, 
father. Monsieur Pelissier longs to make 
your acquaintance.” 

“ But I do not speak French,” said 
Herr Pricker, who, notwitstanding his 
antipathy to Frenchmen, still felt flat- 
tered by this imj^atience to make his 
acquaintance. 

“I will be your interpreter, father. 
Come along, for you will be astonished 
when you hear who this Monsieur Pe- 
lissier is.” And William drew his 
father impatiently to the carriage. 

Herr Pricker’s friends stood immov- 
able with curiosity, awaiting his re- 
turn with breathless impatience. At 
last he came back, but a great change 
had taken place in the court tailor. 
His step was uncertain and reeling ; his 
lips trembled, and a dark cloud shaded 


his brow. He advanced to his friends 
and regarded them with a wild and 
vacant stare. A pause ensued. The 
hearts of all beat with anxiety, and an 
expression of intense interest was de- 
picted on every countenance. At last 
Herr Pricker opened his trembling lips, 
and spoke in deep and hollow tones: 

“ They are Frenchmen ! yes, French- 
men ! ” said he. “ It is the new tailor, 
sent for by the king. He comes with 
six French assistants, and will work 
for the king, the princes, and the cav- 
aliers of the court. And he is not only 
a tailor, but also makes ladies’ cloth- 
ing, and his wife and daughter are the 
most celebrated dressmakers of Paris ; 
they are also accompanied by three fe- 
male'assistants, and expect to work for 
the queen, the princesses, and the en- 
tire court.” 

“ But that is impossible,” exclaimed 
his friends. “The laws of our guild 
protect us. No woman can carry on 
the business of a tailor.” 

“ Nevertheless they will do so,” said 
Pricker ; “ the king has accorded them 
this privilege. Yes, every thing will 
now be difierent, handsomer, and better. 
The king summons these French dress- 
makers to Berlin, and the monsters ask 
my advice. They wish to know from 
me how they are to demean themselves 
toward the members of the guild. The 
new French dressmaker asks advice of 
me, of the court dressmaker Pricker ! 
Ha, ha, ha ! is not that laughable ? ” 
And Herr Pricker broke out into a 
loud, wild laugh, which made his 
friends shudder, and then sank slowly 
into the arms of the glover. His son 
William, who had been a witness of this 
scene, hurried to his father’s assistance, 
and carried him into the house. 

From his carriage Monsieur Pelissier 
looked proudly down upon the poor 
tailor. “ The good master has faint- 
ed,” said he -with an Olympic smile. 
“And he has good reason, for ruin is 


150 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS COURT. 


before him. He is a lost man ; for how 
could he, an unknown German tailor, 
dare to compete with Pelissier, the son 
of the celebrated tailor of Louis the 
Fourteenth? That would evince an 
assurance and folly with which I could 
not credit even a German brain.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE DOUBLE RENDEZVOUS. 

The little maid of honor, Louise von 
Schwerin, was walking with quick 
steps up and down her room ; she had 
locked her door to secure herself from 
interruption. She wished to read once 
more the mysterious note found yester- 
day in the bunch of flowers, and again 
to meditate undisturbed upon its con- 
tents. Louise knew the note was from 
the handsome gardener Fritz Wendel ; 
from him came the beautiful flowers 
she found daily upon the sill of her 
window, and he only could have con- 
cealed the note amongst them. There 
were but a few lines, entreating her to 
meet him that night at eight o’clock, in 
the grotto of the conservatory, where 
she should learn an important and dan- 
gerous secret. 

“What can the secret be?” asked 
Louise of herself, after reading the note 
again and again. “ Perhaps,” she said, 
with a roguish smile, “perhaps he 
thinks that his love for me is a secret. 
Dangerous it certainly is for him and 
for me, but a secret it is not. I am 
certain that he loves me, but it must be 
very sweet to be told so ; to hear his 
lips confess at last what until now I 
have only read in those eloquent eyes. 
Alas 1 is it not fearful, intolerable, to 
wait so long for a declaration of love ? 
Two mouths so near each other, but not 
one moment of sweet, unrestrained in- 
tercourse ; always hemmed in by this 
cold, ceremonious, stupid court life; 


surrounded by spies and eavesdroppci‘8 
never alone, never free I Is it not ter- 
rible to have a sweetheart, and never to 
have refused him a kiss, because he has 
never had the opportunity to demand 
one ? They say there is rapture in the 
first kiss of your lover — ^in his first em- 
brace. I must 'know this for myself, 
that they may no longer laugh and say 
I am a silly child without experience. 
I will have my experience I I wiU have 
my love-affairs as well as the other la- 
dies of the court, only mine shall be 
more extraordinary, more romantic. 
To be loved by a baron, or a count, is 
indeed commonplace ; but to be adored 
by a gardener, who is beautiful as the 
god Apollo, and whose obscure bfrth 
is his only fault — this is original, this is 
piquant. Ah, Madame von Brandt 
laughed at me yesterday, at my stupid- 
ity and innocence ; she was merry at 
my expense, because I had never been 
kissed, never received a stolen embrace, 
which she declared to be the most 
charming event in a woman’s life. All 
the ladies laughed at me as she said 
this, and called me an unbaked roll left 
out in the cold — which never felt the 
fire. They shall laugh at me no long- 
er,” cried Louise, with spiteful tears in 
her eyes and stamping her little foot. 
“ No one shall mock at me again ; and 
if they do I will tell them that I too 
have a lover ; that I have had a decla- 
ration of love, and have received my 
lover’s first kiss. I must be able to say 
this, and therefore I will meet Fritz this 
evening in the grotto of the conserva- 
tory.” Even while saying this she was 
seized with a cold trembling ; one mo- 
ment her heart stood still, and then al- 
most suffocated her with its rapid beat- 
ing. A soft voice seemed to warn her 
against this imprudence ; she seemed 
to see the pale face of her mother, and 
to hear her living counsels : “ Do not 
go, Louise; Fritz Wendel is no lover 
for Louise von Schwerin.” Her guar 


THE DOUBLE REXDEZVOUS. 


161 


dian angel spread once more his white 
wings around her, longing to protect 
and save. But, alas ! she heard another 
voice, breathing ’flattering words and 
sweet promises She saw a beautiful 
youth with his soft, large, hazel eyes 
fixed imploringly upon her. Louise 
felt the irresistible charm of the for- 
bidden, the disallowed, the dangerous. 
Louise closed her ear to the warning 
voice, her good genius had no power 
over her. “ I will go,” she said, and a 
rosy blush suffused her childish cheeks; 
“ nothing shall prevent me I ” Louise 
w^as now quite resolved ; but she was 
not at peace with herself, and from 
time to time she hoped some unex- 
pected occurrence, some unconquerable 
obstacle, would prevent her from taking 
this imprudent step. No difficulty 
arose; chance seemed to favor her 
meeting with her obscure lover. 

Sophia Dorothea was to visit her 
daughter-in-law at Schonhausen, not as 
a queen, but without pomp and splen- 
dor, The two eldest maids of honor 
only would accompany her. Neither 
Louise von Schw^erin nor Laura von 
Pannewitz were to be of the party. 
Sophia was glad that at least for a few 
hours she would not see the lovely, sad 
face, and soft melancholy eyes of Laura, 
nor hear the low and plaintive tones of 
her accusing voice. The king had 
gone to Potsdam, it was therefore un- 
necessary to watch Laura. Indeed, of 
late the queen - mother scarcely be- 
lieved in this love, of which she had 
been so confident; she had tried in 
vain to discover any trace of an under- 
standing between Laura and the king. 
Frederick scarcely noticed Laura, and 
had spoken to her but once since that 
stormy day; then he had laughingly 
asked her why she was so pale and 
.anguishing, and if it was an unhappy 
love which made her look so mournful. 
Since that day the queen-mother no 
longer believed in the passion of the 


king for Laura, and she reproached 
Madame von Brandt with having mis- 
led her. 

Madame von Brandt smiled myste- 
riously. “ I did not say, your majesty, 
that the king loved Laura ; your sus- 
picions fell upon him, and I did not 
undeceive you.” 

“ And why not ? ” asked Queen So- 
phia, angrily; “ why did you not make 
known to me the name of Laura’s 
lover?” 

“ Because I had solemnly sworn not 
to disclose it,” replied Madame von 
Brandt. 

“ Is it not the king ? Then all the 
better for my poor Laura.” 

“ Still, I venture to implore your ma- 
jesty to induce my dear young friend to 
accept the hand of Count Voss ; she 
will thus perhaps be cured of her un- 
happy and hopeless passion.” 

Sophia was resolved to follow this 
advice ; she therefore drove to Schbn- 
hausen to see the young queen, and con- 
sult with her as to the most efficacious 
means of accomplishing this result. 
Louise von Schwerin thought the 
queen-mother might still change her 
mind and command her to accompany 
her; she hoped and feared this at the 
same time. She would have wept bit- 
terly at this result, but she knew it 
would be best for her. Between anx- 
iety and hope, doubts and fears, the 
time passed slowly. 

“There rolls a carriage from the 
court,” said Louise. She heard the 
loud cries of the guard and the beat- 
ing of the drums. 

It was the queen-dowager leaving 
for Schonhausen. Louise was now free, 
now unobserved ; nothing could pre- 
vent her from going to the grotto. 
With trembling steps and a quickly- 
beating heart she slipped through the 
dark alleys of the garden and entered 
the conservatory. All was still and 
wrapped in a sweet twilight. The de 


152 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


lightfiil odor of orange-blossoms filled 
the place, wbich, like the subtle va- 
por of opium, intoxicated her senses. 
Breathless with fear and expectation 
she entered the grotto ; her eyes were 
blinded by the ^ sudden darkness, and 
she sank to the ground. 

“ Thank God,” she murmured softly, 
“ I am alone, he is not here I I shall 
have time to recover, and then I 
can return ; I am so frightened — I 
ought not to have come. Perhaps the 
ladies of the court have arranged this 
practical joke at my expense. Yes, 
that is it. It was folly to believe he 
would dare to ask me to meet him ; he 
is too timid — too humble. Yes, it is a 
trap laid for me, and I have fallen into 
it.” 

She rose hastily to fiy back to the 
palace ; but it was too late, a strong 
arm was gently thrown around her neck, 
and she was drawn back to her seat. She 
tried to free herself, but could not ; she 
heard the loud beating of his heart, 
which found an echo in her own ; she 
felt his lips pressed to hers, but her 
childish modesty was aroused; she 
found she had the wish and courage to 
free herself. 

“ Let me go ! ” she cried breathlessly ; 
“ let me go 1 do not hold me a moment I 
I will go I I will go this instant 1 How 
dare you treat me in this manner ? How 
and why did you come ? ” and Louise, 
who was now free, remained standing 
to hear his reply. 

“How did I come here?” said the 
handsome gardener, in a submissive, 
but pleading tone. “Every night for 
four weeks I have worked upon this 
subterranean alley; this dark path, 
which would lead me here unseen. 
While others slept and dreamed I 
worked, and also dreamed with waking 
eyes. Mine were happy dreams. My 
work was done, and I could reach this 
consecrated spot unseen. I saw in my 
vision an angel, whom X adore, and to 


whom I have consecrated every hour, 
every moment of my life. Look, made 
moiselle, at the opening behind that 
large orange-tree, that is the way to my 
paradise ; through that opening I can 
reach a staircase, leading to a small 
cellar; another pair of steps takes me 
to a trap-door leading directly to my 
room. You can well imagine it re- 
quired time, and strength, and courage 
to prepare this way.” 

Louise approached the opening cu- 
riously. This strange path made for 
her sake affected her more than all 
Fritz Wendel’s words. Only a mighty 
love could have moved a man in dark- 
ness and alone to such a task. Louise 
wished to conquer her confusion and 
to hide her embarrassment with light 
mockery and jesting. 

“Truly,” she said, laughing, “this 
is a dark and mysterious passage, but 
any one with a light would discover it. 
You know her majesty has the saloon 
illuminated occasionally in the evening, 
and takes her tea here.” 

“No one will find this opening,” 
said the gardener. He pushed the 
wooden tub, in which the orange-tree 
grew, with his foot ; it gave way to a 
slight touch, and turned round over 
the opening. “Look, mademoiselle, 
the tree covers my secret.” 

“Open it, open it, I pray you — I 
must see it ! ” 

“ I will do so if you promise me not 
to leave me immediately.” 

“ I promise I I promise 1 ” 

Fritz Wendel pushed back the 
orange-tree, then, lifting Louise gently 
in his arms, he carried her to the grass- 
plot, and, seating her, he threw him- 
self on his knees before, her and bowed, 
as if in adoration. 

“ You are my queen, the sovereign of 
my soul I I lay myself at your feet, as 
your slave. You alone can decide mj 
fate. You can raise me to the heaven 
of heavens, or cast me in the d ist, 


THE DOUBLE RENDEZVOUS. 


Say only the little words ‘ I love you I ’ — 
this will give me strength and power to 
brave the whole world. I will acquire 
fame and honor, and at no distant day 
before God and the whole world I will 
demand your hand I If you say, ‘ Re- 
main where you are, at my feet is your 
proper place ; I despise the humble gar- 
dener, who dares to love the high-born 
lady I ’ then I will die ; if I live I shall 
go mad. My poor brain reels at the 
thought of such wretchedness. I can 
die now, and bless you in dying ; if I 
live in my madness I shall curse you for 
your cruelty.” 

He ceased, and raised his handsome 
face pleadingly to hers. Louise was 
speechless ; she was intoxicated with the 
music of his voice and impassioned 
words. 

“ You do not answer me ! Oh I be- 
fore you cast me off consider my agony. 
The heart you despise contains a treas- 
ure of love and tenderness. No other 
man can love you as I do. You are my 
light and life. You are beautiful and 
fascinating. Many will love you and 
seek your hand. Who but the poor 
gardener will die for you if you say 
no? To me you are more than the 
most lovely of women, you are a god- 
dess! Oh, you know not what you 
have already made of me ! what you 
can still make of me ! When I saw 
you for the first time I was a poor, ig- 
norant gardener, loving ncithing but 
my flowers; knowing no language. 
The great book of Nature was my only 
study. Since that glorious day in 
which I looked upon you as a radiant, 
heavenly vision, I have realized my 
poverty; I have blushed at my igno- 
rance. My life has been one great ef- 
fort to make myself worthy of you. 
Now, Louise, command me. What 
shall I do ? Wliat shall I become ? If 
you do not despise and laugh at my 
passion, if you love me a little in return, 
if you have hope, courage, and patience I 


153 

to wait, dear mademoiselle, I will be 
worthy of you ! ” 

“ Alas 1 ” said Louise, “ this is the 
dream of a madman. The king and 
my noble and proud family would 
never consent that I should become 
your wife.” 

“As to the king,” said Fritz, care- 
lessly, “ I would find means to obtain 
his consent, and honor and distinction 
at his hands.” 

“I understand,” said Louise, “the 
secret you intended to tell me — tell it 
now,” she exclaimed, with a child’s 
eager curiosity. 

“ Listen,” said he, rising from his 
knees — “ listen, but do not let us betray 
ourselves by loud words or exclama- 
tions.” 

“ I hear steps,” said Louise. “ Oh, 
if we should be discovered I ” 

“ Fear nothing ; look there, Louise ! ” 
Her eye followed the direction of his 
hand. 

Under the laurel-tree sat Laura von 
Pannewitz, and before her knelt Prince 
Augustus William, radiant with happi- 
ness and covering her hands with 
kisses. 

“ Laura, my bride, my darling, when 
will the day come in which I can call 
you mine to all eternity ? ” 

“That day will come when I am 
dead,” said Laura, with a sad smile. 
“ Yes, my prince, only when I am dead 
shall I be free to love you, and to pray 
for you. My freed spirit shall hover 
around you as your guardian angel, 
and protect you from all dangers. Oh, 
if I could die now, and fulfil this noble 
mission ! ” 

Louise was so absorbed in' this scene 
that she did not notice Fritz Wendel 
as he drew near and again threw his 
arm around her. 

“ Look at them,” he murmured ; “ he 
is a royal prince, and she only a poor 
maid of honor ; he loves her, and she 
accepts his love , and fears no shame.” 


154 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Louise laid her hand impatiently 
upon his lips and whispered, “ Hush I ” 
he covered her hand with kisses ; they 
listened with subdued breathing to the 
pure and ardent vows of the two lov- 
ers. 

For one moment Laura, carried away 
by her own feelings and the earnest 
words of her lover, allowed him to 
press his lips to her cheek, and returned 
his vows of love and constancy. But 
at this moment Louise heard the soft 
voice of Laura entreating her lover to 
leave her, and not to make her blush 
for herself. 

“ Promise me,” she cried, “ never 
again to embrace me; our love must 
remain pure, and only when we fear 
not God’s holy eye, dare we pray to 
Him for assistance. Let us retain the 
right to shed innocent tears over our 
unhappy love, and lay it as a sacrifice 
at the foot of God’s throne in that day 
when the world shall separate and de- 
spise us.” 

“ No one shall dare do that, Laura ; 
you are my future wife; I shall be ever 
near to defend you with my life’s blood I 
But I promise what you ask ; I will re- 
strain my heart ; only in dreams will I 
embrace you ; I swear this, my beloved. 
But the day will come when you will 
cancel this vow — the day when I will 
claim you before God and man as my 
wife I ” 

Laura took his hand with a sweet, 
confiding smile: “I thank you, dar- 
ling ; I thank you, but now we must 
part.” 

“ Part I alas, we shall not meet again 
for weeks. I am commanded to ac- 
company the king on a pleasure-trip ; 
for me there is but one earthly pleas- 
ure, to see you— to be at your side.” 


“ Go,” she said, smiling ; go with- 
out fear ; we can never forget each oth- 
er ; how^ever widely separated, you ar*, 
always before me ; lam ever with you, 
although you see me not.” 

“Yes, Laura, there is not one mo 
ment of my life in which I do not set 
and hear you I ” 

“ Well, then, go cheerfully with th® 
king. Our hearts understand each oth- 
er ; our souls are inseparable.” 

The prince took her hand and pressed 
it to his heart, then silently they left 
the saloon. 

Louise had long since freed herself 
from her lover, and she now arose, re- 
solved to return to the palace. Fritz 
Wendel tried to detain her, but the 
weak and foolish child had gathered 
courage from the modest words and 
dignified example of Laura. 

“If you touch me again, you have 
seen me for the last time ! I will never 
again return to this grotto 1 ” Fritz 
Wendel was encouraged by her words; 
he had not asked her to return, and she 
had half promised to do so. 

“ I will not dare to touch you again,” 
he said, humbly; “but will you not 
promise me to come again ? ” 

“Well, I suppose I shall have to 
come again to hear the end of poor 
Laura’s romance.” 

“ This romance can be of great use 
to us,” he said, seizing her hand and 
pressing it to his lips ; “ if mademoi- 
selle accepts my love and allows me to 
hope I may one day become her hus- 
band, I will sell this secret to the king, 
and thus obtain his consent.” 

“ You would not be so cruel as to 
betray them to the king ? ” 

“ Yes, there is nothing I would not 
do to obtain your hand.” 


BOOK III 


CHAPTER I. 

THE INTRIGUING COURTIERS. 

“You are right,” said Baron P611- 
nitz, “ yes, you are right, dear Freders- 
dorf ; this is not tlie way to vanquish 
our Hercules or to influence him. He 
has no heart, and is not capable of love, 
and I verily believe be despises wo- 
men.” 

“He does not despise them,” said 
Fredersdorf, “ he is wearied with them, 
which is far worse. Women are al- 
ways too ready to meet him ; too many 
hearts have been given him unasked; 
no woman will ever have power over 
him.” 

“ How I what then, my dear friend ? ” 
cried Pollnitz. “There are means to 
tame every living creature ; the ele- 
phant and the royal lion can be tamed, 
they become under skilful hands gen- 
tle, patient, and obedient : is there no 
way to tame this king of beasts and 
hold him in bondage ? Unless we can 
ensnare him, we shall be less than noth- 
ing, subject to his arbitrary temper, 
and condemned to obey his will. Ac- 
knowledge that this is not an enviable 
position; it does not correspond with 
the proud and ambitious hopes we have 
ioth been for some time encouraging.” 

“ Is it possible that when the king’s 


chamberlain and a cunning old cour- 
tier like myself unite our forces, the 
royal game can escape our artful and 
well-arranged nets ? ” 

“Dear Fredersdorf, this must not, 
this shall not be. It would be an ever- 
lasting shame ujion us both.” 

“What an * unheard-of enormity, a 
king without a powerful and influen- 
tial favorite I ” 

“ Frederick shall have two, and as 
these places are vacant, it is but nat- 
ural that we should strive to occupy 
them.” 

“Yes,” said Fredersdorf, “we will 
seize upon them and maintain our po- 
sition. You called the king a young 
Hercules — ^well, this Hercules must be 
tamed.” 

“ Through love of Omphale ? ” 

“ No, not exactly, but Omphale must 
lead him into a life of luxury, and put 
him to sleep by voluptuous feasts. Call 
to mind how the Roman Emperor He- 
liogabalus killed the proud and ambi- 
tious senators who wished to curtail 
his absolute power.” 

“ I am not so learned as you are, my 
dear friend, and I confess without blush- 
ing that I know nothing of Heliogab- 
alus.” 

“ Listen, then : Heliogabalus was 
weary of being but the obedient func- 
tionary of the senate; he wished to 


156 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


rule, and to have that power which the 
senate claimed as its own. He kept 
his ambitious desires to himself, how 
ever, and showed the senators a con- 
tented and submissive face. One day 
he invited them to a splendid feast at 
his villa; he placed before them the 
most costly meats and the choicest 
wines. They were sitting around this 
luxurious table, somewhat excited by 
drink, when the emperor arose and said 
with a peculiar smile ; ‘ I must go now 
to prepare for you an agreeable sur- 
prise and practical joke, which you will 
confess has the merit of originality.’ 
He left the room, and the tipsy sena- 
tors did not observe that the doors 
were locked and bolted from without. 
They continued to drink and sing mer- 
rily; suddenly a glass door in the ceil- 
ing was opened, and the voice of Helio- 
gabalus was heard, saying : ‘ You were 
never satisfied with your power and 
glory, you were always aspiring after 
new laurels ; this noble thirst shall 
now be satisfied.’ A torrent of laurel 
VTreaths and branches now fell upon 
the senators. At first they laughed, 
and snatched jestingly at the fl^dng 
laurels. The most exquisite flowers 
were now added, and there seemed to 
be no end to the pelting storm. They 
cried out, ‘Enough, enough,' in vain; 
the wreaths and bouquets still poured 
upon them in unceasing streams; the 
floor was literally a bed of roses. At 
last, terror took possession of them; 
they wished to escape, and rushed to 
the doors, but they were immovable. 
Through the sea of flowers, which al- 
ready reached their knees, they waded 
to the window, but they were in the 
second story, and below they saw the 
Roman legions with their sharp weap- 
ons pointed in the air. Flight was 
impossible ; they pleaded wildly for 
mercy, but the inexorable stream of 
flowers continued to flow. Higher and 
higher rose the walls around them. 


they could no longer even pleac. foi 
pity; they were literally buried in lau- 
rels. At last nothing was tc» be seen 
but a vast bed of roses, of which not 
even a fragrant leaf was stirred by a 
passing breeze. Heliogabalus had not 
murdered his senators; he had suffo- 
cated them with sweets, that was all. 
Well, what do you think of my story ? ” 
said Fredersdorf. 

“ It is full of interest, and Heliogab- 
alus must have been poetical ; but I 
do not see the connection between the 
emperor and ourselves.” 

“You do not?” said his friend im- 
patiently ; “ well, let us follow his ex- 
ample. We will intoxicate this mighty 
king with enervating pleasures, we 
will tempt him with wine and women, 
we will stifle him with flowers.” 

“ But he has no taste for them,” said 
Pollnitz, sighing. 

“ He does not care for the beauty of 
women, but he has other dangerous 
tastes : he has no heart, but he has a 
palate ; he does not care for the love of 
women, but he enjoys good living — 
that will make one link in his fetters. 
Then he loves pomp and splendor ; he 
has so long been forced to live meanly, 
that wealth will intoxicate him; he 
will wish to lavish honors, and rain 
gold upon his people. Frederick Wil- 
liam has stowed away millions; we 
will help the son to scatter them.” 

“This will be a new and thrillingly 
agreeable pastime, in the ordering of 
which he could not have a better ad- 
viser than yourself, baron.” 

“ While Frederick and yourself are 
building new palaces and planning 
new amusements, I will rule, and help 
his majesty to bear the burden of state 
affairs.” 

“ You will help him to scatter millions, 
and I will collect from the good Prus- 
sians new millions for him to scatter. 
It is to be hoped that some heavy drops 
from this golden shower will fall mtc 


THE INTRIGUING COURTIERS. 


tny i)urse,” said Pollnitz. “ My finances 
are in an unhealthy state, and my land- 
lord tlireatens to sell my furniture and 
my jewels, because for more than a 
year I have not paid my rent. You see 
now, Fredersdorf, that I must have 
that house in the Jager Street. I 
count upon it so surely that I have al- 
ready borrowed a few thousand dollars 
from some confiding, noble souls, whom 
I have convinced that the house is 
mine.” 

“You shall have it,” said Freders- 
dorf ; “ the king will give it to you as a 
reward for the plans you have drawn 
tor the new palaces.” . 

“ Has he seen them ? ” 

“ Yes, and approves them. The pa- 
pers are in his desk, and need but his 
royal signature.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Pollnitz, “ if they were 
but signed! Wliat a glorious life 
would commence here ! we would re- 
alize the Arabian Nights; and Europe 
would gaze with dazzled eyes at the 
splendor and magnificence of our court. 
How vexed the treasurer, Boden, will 
be when the king commands him to 
disburse for our revels and vanities the 
millions which he helped the late king 
to hoard together for far different pur- 
poses I This Boden,” continued Poll- 
nitz, thoughtfully, “ will be our most 
dangerous opponent : you may believe 
this ; I am somewhat versed in physi- 
ognomy. I have studied his counte- 
nance ; he is a bold, determined man, 
who, wdien irritated, would even brave 
the king. All the other ministers agree 
with our plans, and will not stand in 
our way. They are not dangerous ; I 
have made a compromise with them ; 
they have resolved to think that all we 
do is right. But Boden was inflex- 
ible ; he would not understand my se- 
cret signs or hints; flattery has no 
power over him, and he is alike indif- 
ferent to promises and threats. All 
my dexterously-aimed arrows rebounded 


ISV 

from the rough coat-of-mail with which 
his honesty has clothed him.” 

“ Do not concern yourself about Bo- 
den,” cried Fredersdorf, “ he is a lost 
man ; he falls without any aid from us. 
The king hates him, and is only wait- 
ing for an opportunity to dismiss hhn. 
Have you not noticed how contemptu- 
ously he treats him — never speaks to 
him or notices him, while he loves to 
chat with his other ministers ? Fred- 
erick did not dismiss him from office at 
once, because the old king loved him, 
Boden was his treasurer and confiden- 
tial friend, from whom he had no se- 
crets; the king has therefore been pa- 
tient; but his sun is set, of that you 
may be convinced. The king, though 
he seems not to notice him, watches 
him closely ; one incautious movement, 
and he will be instantly dismissed. 
This may happen this very day.” 

“ How' ? ” said Pollnitz. 

“The king has adopted the plan, 
which he had ordered Knobelsdorf to 
sketch for him, for the new palace cf 
the dowager-queen. It is to be a co- 
lossal wonder — the capitol of the 
north I the building of wffiich will cost 
from four to five millions 1 These mil- 
lions must come from Boden’s treas- 
ury ; he must respect the royal order. 
If he does he is an unscrupulous officer, 
and the king can no longer put faith 
in him. If he dares oppose the royal 
command, he is a traitor, and the king, 
who demands silent and unconditional 
obedience from his officers, will dismiss 
him. The king feels this himself, and 
when he gave me these documents, he 
said, with a peculiar smile, ‘ This is a 
bitter pill for Boden — we will see if he 
is able to swallow it.’ You see, now, 
that our good Boden stands between 
two pitfalls, from both of which he 
cannot hope to escape alive.” 

“ Ah, if this be true,” said Pollnitz, 
gayly, “our success is assured. The 
house in Jager Street will be mine, and 


158 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


you will be an inj3uential minister. 
We will govern the ruler of Prussia, 
and be mighty in the land. Only 
think how all the courtiers will bow 
before us I The king will do nothing 
without our advice. I will make more 
debts. I will be as generous as Fou- 
quet, and as lavish and luxurious as 
Lucullus; and if at last all my re- 
sources fail, I will do as Heliogabalus 
did : if my creditors become trouble- 
some, the old Roman shall teach me 
how to silence them by some refine- 
ment in hospitality.” 

“ And I, the lowly born,” said Fre- 
dersdorf, “who have so long been a 
slave, will now have power and influ- 
ence. The king loves me ; I will be a 
true and faithful servant to him. I 
will be inflexible to those who have 
scorned me; those proud counts and 
barons, who have passed me by unno- 
ticed, shall now sue to me in vain. 
The king’s heart is mine, and I will be 
sustained by him. This tamed lion 
shall be drawn by prancing steeds in 
gilded chariots ; we will anoint him 
with honey and feed him with nightin- 
gales’ tongues ; he shall bathe in La- 
chrymae Christi, and all that the most 
fantastic dream and the wildest flights 
of fancy can imagine shall be set before 
him. Those good epicurean Romans, 
who threw young maidens into their 
ponds for their eels to feed upon, in 
order that their meat might be tender 
and juicy, were sickly sentimentaHsts 
in comparison with what I shall be — ” 
He stopped, for the door opened, and 
Boden, their hated enemy, stood be- 
fore them. They looked upon him 
indifferently, as a doomed adversary. 
Boden approached quietly, and said to 
Fredersdorf : 

“ Have the kindness to announce me 
to his majesty.” 

“ Has his majesty sent for you ? ” said 
Fredersdorf, carelessly. 

“ He has not sent for me, but please 


say to his majesty that I am come to 
speak with him on important busi- 
ness.” 

Fredersdorf stepped into the adjoin- 
ing room, and returned quickly, say- 
ing, with a triumphant and malicious 
smile : “ The king says he will send for 
you when he wishes to speak with you. 
These were his exact words ; accommo- 
date yourself to them in future.” 

The minister’s countenance was per- 
fectly calm ; his lip slightly trembled ; 
but he spoke in his usual grave, com- 
posed manner : “ The king may not de- 
sire to see me ; but I, as an officer and 
minister of state, have the most urgent 
reasons for desiring an audience. Go 
and tell him this.” 

“These are proud and disrespectful 
words,” said Pollnitz, smiling blandly. 

“Which I will faithfully report to 
his majesty,” said Fredersdorf. 

“I fear your excellency will pay 
dearly for this speech,” whispered Poll- 
nitz. 

“ Fear nothing for me,” said Boden, 
with a quiet smile. 

“ His majesty awaits you,” said Fre- 
dersdorf, still standing at the door. 
Boden walked proudly by Fredersdorf, 
casting upon him a look of contempt, 
the latter returning it with a mocking 
grin. 

“ The fox is caught,” he whispered, 
as the door closed upon him. 

“ Do you think so ? ” said Pollnitz. 
“I am surprised and somewhat anx- 
ious at the king’s receiving him.” 

“ Fear nothing, he is but received to 
be dismissed. The king’s eye flamed, 
and his brow, usually so clear, was 
heavily clouded ; this betokens storms. 
May they break upon Boden’s devoted 
headl Come, let us watch the tem- 
pest ; there is nothing more instructive 
than a royal hurricane.” 

“ Let us proflt by the occasion, then,” 
said Pollnitz. 

The two courtiers slipped noiselessly 


THE KING AND THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASHRY. 


159 


to the door and pushed the curtains 
carefully to one side, so as to see and 
hear clearly. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE KING A2ro THE SECRETARY OF 
THE TREASURY. 

The king received the secretary 
with a solemn and earnest bcw. He 
stood leaning upon his writing-table, 
his arms folded, and his eyes fixed 
I upon Boden. Many a bold man had 
trembled at the eagle glance of Freder- 
ick, but Boden looked up clear, and 
betrayed neither confusion nor hesita- 
tion. 

“ Y'ou insisted positively upon seeing 
me,” said Frederick, sternly ; “ let me 
hear now what you have to say.” 

I “ I have much to say, and I must be- 
speak patience and indulgence ; I fear 
that my words will seem dry and tedious 
to your majesty.” 

“ Speak ; I will myself determine how 
far I can grant you patience and in- 
dulgence.” 

“Your majesty is a fiery but noble 
and learned gentleman; besides this, 
you are young, and youth has a daring 
will — ^it can renew the old and lumber- 
ing wheel and push the world forward 
iu her progress. Your majesty, will, 
can, and must do this ; God has given 
you not only the jDower, but the intel- 
lect and strength. Your majesty will 
change many things and inaugurate 
new measm-es. The old times must 
give way before the new era. I saw 
[ that the first time I looked into my 
f young king’s eye — ^in that bold eye in 
which is written a great and glorious 
t future for Prussia; I understood that 
we, who had served the sainted king, 
might not appear worthy or young 
enough to carry out the purposes of the 
*oyal successor of Frederick William. 


I waited, also, for my dismissal ; but it 
came not. Your majesty did not re- 
move me from my office, and I confess 
this gave me pleasure. I said to my- 
self, ‘ The king will not destroy, he 
will improve ; and if he believes that 
his father’s old servants can help him 
in that, so wiU we serve him and carry 
out his purposes with a holy zeal. I 
know the secret machinery of state. 
Frederick William concealed nothing 
from me. I will explain all this to the 
young king ; I will make him ac- 
quainted with this complicated and 
widely-spread power ; I will have the 
honor of making known to him my 
knowledge of the revenue and its uses.’ 
I rejoiced in the hope that I might yet 
serve my fatherland.” 

“ These are very friendly and per- 
haps well-meant propositions which 
you are making me,” said the king, 
with a light laugh. “ Happily, how- 
ever, I do not need them. I know al- 
ready what is necessary, and as I have 
found amongst the papers of my father 
all the accounts of the states-general, 
you can understand that I know exact- 
ly what I receive as revenue and what 
I am to disburse. Besides all this, I 
will not fatigue myself in minute de- 
tails on this subject ; I do not deem it 
of sufficient importance. My time is 
much occupied, and I have more im- 
portant and bcitter things to do than to 
weary myself over dull questions of 
finance.” 

“JNo, your majesty,” cried Boden, 
“ you have nothing more important or 
better to do. The finances are the 
blood - vessels of the state, and the 
whole body would sicken and die if 
these vessels should be choked or ir- 
regular in their action.” 

“ Then must we call the lancet to our 
aid,” said the king. “ I am the phy- 
sician of this revenue, you are the sur- 
geon only when I need the lancet; 
then will you strikd the vein, and allow 


160 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


so mucli golden blood to flow as I think 
good and necessary.” 

“ No, this will I not do ! ” said Bo- 
den, resolutely ; “ your majesty can 
dismiss me, but you cannot force me to 
act against my conscience.” 

“ Boden I ” cried the king, in so loud 
and angry a tone, that even the two 
listening courtiers trembled and turned 
pale. 

“This man is already a corpse,” 
whispered Pollnitz. “ I already smell, 
even here, the refreshing fragrance of 
his body. We will bury him, and be 
his smiling heirs.” 

“ Look, look at the fearful glance of 
the king. I ” whispered Fredersdorf; 

his eyes crush the over-bold, even as 
the glance of Jove crushed the Titans. 
Yes, you are right, Boden is a dead 
man. The king is so filled with scorn, 
he has lost the power of speech.” 

“ No, he opens his lips, let us listen.” 

“ Boden,” said the king, “you forget 
that you speak with the son, and not 
with the father. You were the favor- 
ite of Frederick William, but you are 
not mine ; and I will not suffer this in- 
considerate and self-confident manner. 
Remember that, and go on.” 

“ So long as I am in your service,” 
said the minister, with a slight bow, 
“ it is my first and my holiest duty to 
express my opinions freely to your ma- 
jesty, to give you counsel according to 
the best of my strength and my ability. 
It remains with your majesty to reject 
my advice and to act differently, but 
still according to the constitution of the 
state.” 

“ The first duty of a servant is to give 
his counsel only when it is demanded. 
As I did not desire yours, you might 
have spared yourself this trouble.” 

“Your majesty did not ask my coun- 
sel, that is true,” said the minister ; 
“you only remembered me when you 
had commands to give as to the empty- 
ing of the royal treasury. Your majesty 


thought you had no use for your finance: 
minister, as you had all the papers relat- 
ing to the states-general. Every one of 
your majesty’s ministers is acquainted 
with these matters, and yet they would 
not feel able to decide the question ot 
the disbursing of the kingly revenue ; to 
say under what circumstances, and con- 
formably to the 230wers ot the states, 
this revenue should be disposed of. 
This, my king, requires a special knowl- 
edge ; and I, as minister of finance, 
dare boast that I understand this mat- 
ter.” 

The king’s brow became more and 
more clouded. “ That may be,” said 
he, impatiently, “ but I am not willing 
to be restrained in my operations by 
narrow-minded laws; I will not live 
meanly like my father, and think only 
of gathering millions together.” 

“Nor did King Frederick William 
live for that,” said the minister, boldly ; 
“he lived economically, but where 
there was want, he knew how to give 
with a truly royal hand ; this is proved 
by the provinces, by the cities and vil- 
lages which he built out of dust and 
ashes; this is proved by the half mil- 
lion of happy men who now inhabit 
them in peace and comfort. More than 
three millions of dollars did the king 
give to Lithuania, which was a howling 
wilderness, filled with famine and pes- 
tilence, until relieved by the generosity 
of their monarch ; and while doing this 
he watched with close attention the ac- 
counts of his cook and spent but little 
money on the royal table. No ! The 
king did not only gather millions to- 
gether — he knew how to disburse them 
worthily.” 

“ This man must be crazy,” whispered 
Pollnitz ; “ he dares to praise the dead 
king at the expense and in the teeth of 
the living ; that is indeed bold folly, and 
must lead to his destruction. The kin" 

O 

has turned away from him ; see, he goes 
to the window and looks without; he 


THE KING AND THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY. 


161 


will give himself time to master his 
scorn and conquer the desire which he 
feels to crush this daring worm to the 
earth. I tell you,” added Pollnitz, 
“ I would give Boden a hundred glasses 
of champagne from my cellar in the 
Jager Street if I could see the king 
punish him with his own hands.” 

The king turned again to the minis- 
ter, who looked at him like a man who 
dared all and was resigned to all ; he 
thought, with Pollnitz and Fredersdorf, 
that the king would crush him with 
his wrath. But Frederick’s face was 
calm, and a strangely mild glance 
beamed in his eye. 

“ Well, if you praise my father for 
iisbursing millions, so will you also be 
content with me, for it is my purpose 
zealously to imitate him. I will begin 
by putting my court upon a truly royal 
footing ; I will live as it becomes the 
King of Prussia. The necessary prep- 
arations are already commenced, and 
a detailed plan lies now upon the ta- 
ble ; I will sign it to-day.” 

“May I read it, your majesty ? ” said 
Boden. 

The king nodded. Boden took the 
paper and glanced hastily over it, 
while the king folded his arms behind 
him and walked backward and for- 
ward. 

“ I find the king wondrously weari- 
some and patient,” murmured Freders- 
dorf ; “ it is not his manner generally 
to withhold so long his crushing 
glances.” 

“And with what derisive laughter 
that man there reads my plan,” said 
Pollnitz, gnashing his teeth ; “ truly 
one might think he was making sport 
of it ! ” 

“ Have you read it ? ” said the king, 
standing still before Boden, and look- 
ing at him sharply. 

“ Yes, your majesty, I have read it.” 

“ Well, and what think you of it ? ” 

“ That only Pollnitz, who it is well 
11 


known has no gold, and is only ac- 
quainted with debt, could have drawn 
out such a plan, for the realization of 
which, not only Prussian gold, but a 
fountain of gold from the Arabian 
Nights, would be necessary.” 

“I swear I will break this fellow’s 
neck I ” said Pollnitz. 

A faint smile might be seen on the 
lips of Frederick. “ You do not ap- 
prove of this plan ? ” said he. 

“ Your majesty, we have no strong box 
from which this sum can be abstracted ; 
and if you are resolved to take from 
the state treasury the sum necessary for 
this purpose, so will this also be ex- 
hausted during the first year.” 

“ Well, let us leave this plan for the 
present, and tell me how you stand as 
to the means necessary to build the 
palace of the queen-mother. Have you 
received my instructions ? ” 

“ I have received them.” 

“And you have disbursed the sum 
necessary ? ” 

“ No, sire, I cannot.” 

“ How 1 cannot, when I your king 
and lord command it ? ” 

Boden bowed respectfully. “Your 
majesty, there is a greater lord — that is, 
my conscience ; and that forbids me to 
take this sum from the strong box desig- 
nated. You require four millions of 
dollars, and you desire that this sum 
shall be taken from the money set 
apart for the maintenance of the army 
and the assistance of famished and suf- 
fering villages and towns. I acknowl- 
edge that the court of his sainted ma- 
jesty was somewhat niggardly, and 
that you, sire, may justly find some 
changes necessary. If, however, it is 
determined to use for this purpose the 
funds set apart for other important ob- 
jects, then must your majesty impose 
new and heavy taxes upon . your* sub^- 
jects, or you must diminish the ar-t 
my.” 

“Diminish my army,?:””- said* the.- 


162 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS CODRT. 


king; “never, never shall that be 
done ! ” 

“ Then, sire, if the building of a pal- 
ace is absolutely necessary, take the 
sum for this purpose from your royal 
treasury; it contains now seven mil- 
lions of dollars, and as there is no war 
in prospect, you may well use four mil- 
lions of the seven in building a castle.” 

“ No, this will not do ! ” said Fred- 
erick. “ This money is set apart for 
other objects ; you shall take these four 
millions from the designated sources.” 

“I have had already the honor to 
show your majesty the consequences 
of such a course. You declare you will 
not diminish the army : it only remains 
then to impose a new tax.” 

“ Do that, then,” said the king, in- 
differently ; “ write a command for a 
new tax ; that is your affair.” 

The minister looked at the king in 
painful surprise, and a profound sor- 
row was painted in his face. 

“ If this must be so, your majesty,” 
said he, with a deeply-moved voice, 
“ then is the hour of my dismissal at 
hand, and I know what I have to do ; 
I am no longer young enough to bear 
the burden of a portfolio ; I belong to 
the old and cautious time, and my 
ideas do not suit the young era. I ask 
your majesty, in all humility and sub- 
mission, to give me my dismissal. Here 
is the paper which contains the plan 
of the palace ; you wdll readily find an- 
other who will obey your commands. 
I am not sufficiently grown for this 
post of finance minister. I beg also for 
my dismissal.” 

“.di lastf said the king, with glis- 
tening eyes. 

“ At last I ” repeated Pollnitz ; “ truly 
it was a long time before this coward- 
ly man could be brought to the point.” 

“Did I not tell you that the king 
was resolved to get rid of Boden ? ” 
said Fredersdorf ; “ but let us listen I 
rc, why should we listen. Boden has 


handed in his resignation, and the 
king has accepted it. I confess my 
back aches from this crouching posi- 
tion ; I will go and drink a glass of 
champagne to the health of the new 
minister of finance.” 

“ You must not go. The king asked 
for you as Boden was announced, and 
commanded that we should wait here 
in the anteroom until called, as he had 
something of importance to communi- 
cate. Without doubt he will present 
me to-day with the deed of the house 
in Jager Street. Look I in the last 
window-niche I see a pair of very invi- 
ting chairs ; let us make ourselves com- 
fortable.” 

The king had said “At last!” as 
Boden offered his resignation; after a 
short silence he added: “It seems to 
me that you hesitated a long time be- 
fore resigning.” 

o o* 

“ It is true,” said Boden, sadly ; “ I 
certainly had occasion to take this step 
earlier, but I still hoped I might b« 
useful to my king.” 

“And this hope has not deceived 
you,” said Frederick, drawing near to 
Boden, and laying his hand on his 
shoulder ; “ I cannot accept your resig- 
nation.” 

Boden looked up amazed. The 
king’s face was beautiful to behold — a 
touching and gentle expression spoke 
in every noble feature; his light-blue 
eye beamed with gladness and good- 
ness. 

“ How ! Your majesty will not ac- 
cept my resignation ? ” 

“ No, it would be great folly in me,” 
said Frederick, in a tone which brought 
tears to the eyes of the minister ; “ it 
would be great folly to deprive myself 
of so noble and faithful a servant. No, 
Boden, I am not so great a spendthrift 
as to cast away such a treasure. Now 
in order that you may understand your 
king, I will make you a confession. 
You had been slandered to me, and my 


THE KING AND THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY. 


163 


distrust awakened. It was said of you 
that you filled the state treasury while 
the people hungered ; it was said of 
you that you were resolved to hold on 
to your office, and therefore carried out 
the commands of the king, even though 
unjust to the people. I wished to 
prove you, Boden, to see if you had 
been slandered or justly charged; I 
handled you, therefore, contemptuous- 
ly ; I gave you commissions which were 
oppressive; I drew upon the treasury 
! so as to exhaust it fully ; I wished to 
know if you were only a submissive 
servant or an honest man. I had long 
to wait, and your patience and forbear- 
ance were great. To-day I put you to 
|1 the extremest proof, and, by Heaven I if 
you had carried out my unjust and un- 
li wise instructions, I would not only 
i have deprived you of your office, but I 
I would have held you to a strict ac- 
count. You would have been a dis- 
honest servant, who, in order to flatter 
the king, was willing to sin against the 
people. The welfare of my people is 
I holy to me, and they shall not be op- 
pressed by new taxes. Praised be 
“ God! I can say I understand my du- 
ties; may every ruler do the same! 
i May they keep their eyes steadily fixed 
. upon their great calling; may they 
j feel that this exaltation, this rank of 
.■ which they are so proud, so jealous, is 
! the gift of the people, whose happiness 
t is intrusted to them ; that millions of 
' men have not been created to be the 
'i slaves of one man, to make him more 
, *. terrible and more powerful ! The peo- 
1 pie do not place themselves under the 
yoke of a fellow-man to be the mar- 
f tyrs of his humor and the playthings of 
f his pleasure. No, they chose from 
I amongst them the one they considered 
j the most just, in order that he may 
■ govern them ; the best^ to be their father ; 
the most humane, that he may sympa- 
thize with and assist them; the brav- 
est, to defend them from their enemies ; 


the wisest, that they may not be drag- 
ged without cause into destructive wars 
— the man, in short, who seems to them 
the best suited to govern himself and 
them ; to use the sovereign power to 
sustain justice and the laws, and not to 
play the tyrant. These are my view* 
of what a king should be, and I will 
fulfil my calling, so help me, God 1 
You, Boden, must stand by and give 
me honest help.” 

In the eyes of the minister might be 
seen joyful tears and a noble ambition ; 
he bowed low and kissed the extended 
hand of the king. 

“ How gracious has God been to my 
fatherland in giving it such a prince I ” 

“You will not, then, insist upon 
your resignation ? ” said the king. 

You are content to serve me, provided 
I do not diminish my army, and do not 
impose new taxes upon the people ? ” 

“ I shall be proud and happy to serve 
my king,” said Boden, deeply moved. 

“ I must tell you, Boden, this will be 
no light service, and my ministers will 
be hereafter less important personages 
than they have supposed themselves to 
be ; I shall closely observe them all, and 
shall require much work of them, but I 
myself will be diligent. It seems to me 
an idle prince is a poor creature, that 
the world has little use for. I am re- 
solved to serve my country with all my 
powers ; but I will stand alone, inde- 
pendent, self-sustaining. My minis- 
ters will only be my instruments to 
carry out my purposes ; they will have 
much to do, and have no influence. I 
will have no favorite, and never con- 
sult any other will than my own ; but 
I shall require of them to express their 
opinions frankly and without fear in 
answer to my questions, and that they 
shall not fail to call my attention to 
any errors I may permit, either through 
haste or want of judgment,” 

“All this I will do,” said Boden 
with deep emotion. “ With God’s blesa 


164 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


ing I will serve my king and my father- 
land faithfully to the end I ” 

“ We are agreed, then,” said Freder- 
ick ; “ you will remain my minister. If 
you had not demanded your dismissal, 
I should have given it to you. I should 
have seen that you were justly accused, 
and were determined to retain your 
position at any price. Thank God, you 
have proved to me that you are an hon- 
est man 1 But,” added the king, “you 
are not only an honest man, but a bold, 
unterrified, truthful man ; a true friend, 
grateful for benefits received, you do 
cease to love your king and benefactor, 
even after his death. You have had 
the courage to defend the dead monarch, 
and to reproach his successor. The 
king cannot thank you for this ; but as 
a son, I thank you — I say, ‘ Come to 
my heart, true and faithful servant.’ 
We kings are too poor to reward our 
servants in any other way than by con- 
fiding love.” Frederick opened his 
arms and pressed Bodeu to his heart, 
who wept aloud. “And now,” cried 
the king, “ we understand each other, 
and know what we have to expect, and 
that is always a great gain in this 
world, full of disappointment, hypoc- 
risy, and cunning. I will now give 
you a proof that I do not close my ear 
to the reasonable counsels of my minis- 
ter, and that I am ready to offer up my 
personal wishes : I will not build this 
palace for my mother — you have con- 
vinced me that I have not the income to 
do so. I cannot take four millions from 
the state treasury. This money will 
soon be needed for a more important ob- 
ject. But some changes are absolutely 
necessary in the royal palace ; it must 
be made more worthy of a king. Take, 
therefore, these plans and designs ; strike 
from them what you consider superflu- 
ous. Let me know what additions you 
think it best to adopt, and whence we 
can draw the necessary funds.” * 


CHAPTER III. 

THE XmDECErVED C©HRTIEB. 

At the time when the king was pla 
cing the extravagant plans, which Bar 
von Pollnitz had drawn up, into the 
hands of his minister of finance, the 
baron was waiting in the anteroom, in 
a state of smiling security, entertaining 
his friend Fredersdorf with an account 
of his own future splendor and magnifi- 
cence, speaking especially of the enter- 
tainments which he intended giving in 
his new house in Jager Street. When 
at length the door of the royal cabinet 
was opened, and the minister of finance 
entered the anteroom, Pollnitz and 
Fredersdorf stood up — not, however, to 
greet the minister, but to pass him with 
a cold, contemptuous smile, on their way 
to the door of the cabinet. The smile 
died suddenly on Pollnitz’s lips, and 
he stood as if transfixed before the min- 
ister. 

“ What are those papers which you 
hold ? ” he asked, extending his hand 
as if he would tear them from Baron 
von Boden. 

The minister pushed him back, as he 
carelessly shrugged his shoulders. — 
“ These are papers which his majesty 
handed me, that I might examine their 
contents, and see if they contain any 
thing but folly.” 

“ Sir,” said Pollnitz, beside himself 
with rage, “ these papers — ” But he be- 
came suddenly silent, for the door of 
the cabinet was opened again, and the 
king entered the room. 

He glanced scornfully at Pollnitz, 
who was scarcely able to conceal his an- 
ger, and approached Baron von Boden. 
“ One thing more, minister,” said the 
king — “ I had forgotten that I had pre- 
pared a little surprise for you ; I am 
aware that you are not rich, although 
you are the minister of finance, and I 
1 understand that you live in a limited 


* Thl6bault, “ History of Berlin.’ 


THE UNDECEIVED COURTIER. « 


way, scarcely worthy of your rank. 
We must alter this, and happily I know 
a house whigh even Baron von Poll- 
nitz declares is worthy a nobleman. I 
present this house to you, with its en- 
tire contents. From this moment it is 
yours. Baron von Pollnitz must go 
with you, and show it to you ; he can 
point out to you all the advantages and 
conveniences which he has so often 
prais to me."’ 

Pollnitz stood pale, trembling, and 
confused. “I do not know of what 
house your majesty speaks,” he stam- 
mered — “ of what house I can have said 
that it was worthy of the minister of 
finance.” 

“ Not of the minister of finance, but 
of a nobleman, and Boden is a noble- 
man, not only in name but in reality ; 
and is entirely worthy to possess the 
house which I have presented to him. 
You are well acquainted with it, Poll- 
nitz ; it is the house which my father 
had built for Eckert, the beautiful 
house in Jager Street.” 

“ The house in Jagei Street ! ” cried 
Pollnitz, forgetting the restraint which 
the presence of the king usually im- 
posed. “No, no, your majesty is 
pleased to jest. You do not mean the 
house in Jager Street, — that house 
which — ” 

“ That house,” interrupted the king, 
in a stern voice, “that house which 
pleased you so well, that you, as foolish 
children sometimes do, confused reality 
with your dreams, and imagined that 
this house already belonged to you, 
merely because you desired that it 
should do so. I would have smiled at 
this childish folly, if it had remained an 
amusement for your unemployed fancy ; 
but you have deceived others as well as 
yourself, and that is an unpardonable 
fault, and one which you must repair 
immediately if you do not wish to be 
dismissed from my service.” 

“I do not understand your majesty; 


165 

I do not know how I have forfeited 
the favor of the king.” 

The king glanced angrily at the 
pale, trembling courtier. “ You under- 
stand perfectly, Baron von Pollnitz, of 
which fault, among the many that you 
daily and hourly commit, I speak. You 
know it has pleased you to declare that 
the house, which I have just present- 
ed to Boden, is yours, and that you 
have found credulous people who have 
loaned you money on that representa- 
tion.” 

“ Will your majesty grant me a fa- 
vor?” said Minister von Boden, glan- 
cing kindly at Pollnitz, who stood near 
him crushed and trembling. 

The king consented by bowing si- 
lently, and the minister proceeded : 

“Your majesty has just made me 
most rich and happy, and I consider it 
my duty, as it is my pleasure, to share 
both riches and happiness with my fel- 
low-creatures. Baron von Pollnitz, by 
the commands of the late king, exe- 
cuted the plans for the house which 
your majesty has so kindly presented 
to me : he also selected the decorations 
and furniture, and this may have led 
him to believe that the house, which 
had been built and furnished according 
to his taste, might become his own. I 
am much indebted to Pollnitz, for a 
man so plain and simple as I “am would 
never have been able to make this 
house so tasteful and elegant. Permit 
me, therefore, your majesty, to liqui- 
date this debt by considering the small 
mortgage which Baron von Pollnitz 
has put upon this house, as my af- 
fair.” 

“What reply do you make to this 
proposition?” said the king, turning 
to Pollnitz. 

“ That if your majesty allows me I 
will accept it "with pleasure, and I 
merely wish to ask the minister wheth 
er he wiH only take up those mort- 
gages which I have already put upon 


168 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


the house, or the others which I intend 
putting ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the king laughing, 
“ you are incorrigible. If poor Boden 
is to satisfy not only your old creditors 
but your new ones, the present I have 
made him would probably reduce him 
to beggary in a few months. No, no, 
this one mortgage is sufficient, and as 
it amounts to only a few thousand dol- 
lars, it shall be paid from my purse ; 
and that my gift to you, Boden, may 
have no drawback, Pollnitz may con- 
sider himself thus repaid for his trou- 
ble about the plans and arrangements 
of your house. — But woe to you, Poll- 
nitz, if I should again hear of such 
folly and deceit; and if you do not 
give up such disgraceful conduct, and 
act in a manner becoming your rank 
and office, this is the last time that I 
will show any mercy for your folly! 
If there is a repetition of it, I vrill be 
inexorable — only a stem judge and 
king.” 

“Your majesty plunges me into an 
abyss of despair,” said Pollnitz, wring- 
ing his hands. “You demand that I 
shall create no new debts ; and how is 
it possible to avoid that, when I have 
not even the money to pay the old 
ones? If your majesty desires that I 
should lead a new life, you should 
have the* kindness to pay my old 
debts.” 

The king paced the room silently for 
a short time, and then stood before 
Pollnitz, and said : 

“You are so shameless and absurd, 
that I must either drive you away, or 
content myself with laughing at you. 
I will, however, remember that my fa- 
ther and grandfather laughed at you, 
and for the present I will also laugh, 
as I laugh at the silly pranks of merry 
Baths, my monkey. But even Baths 
was punished yesterday because he was 
too daring with his monkey tricks. 
Mark this, Baron yon Pollnitz, I will 


pay your debts this time; but if it 
should occur to you to make new ones, 
I will forget that you were the jester 
of my father and grandfather, and 
only remember that so reckless an indi 
vidual cannot remain in my service. 
Now accompany the minister to the 
Jager Street, and show him his house. 
— Your audience is at an end, gentle- 
men.” 

After the two barons had left the 
room, the king stood for a long time 
as if lost in thought. He did not ap- 
pear to be aware that he was not alone 
— that Fredersdorf was standing in the 
window, to which he had withdrawn 
on the appearance of the monarch, and 
had been a trembling, despairing wit- 
ness to this scene, which had disturbed 
his plans and hopes. Suddenly the 
king walked rapidly through the 
room, and stood before Fredersdorf— 
his eyes, usually so clear and bright, 
veiled as with a cloud, and an expres- 
sion of deep melancholy upon his noble 
face. 

“Fredersdorf,” he said, with a voice 
so mild and gentle, that his hearer 
trembled, and a deadly pallor over- 
spread his countenance — “ Fredersdorf, 
is it really true that you all think of 
me only as a king, never as your fel- 
low-man? that you have no love for 
your sovereign, only envy and hatred, 
only malice and cunning ? And you, 
also, Fredersdorf, you whom I have 
loved, not as a master loves his ser- 
vant, but as a dear friend, with whom 
I have often forgotten that I ’was a 
prince, and only remembered that I 
was with a friend, who had a feeling 
heart for my cares and sorrows, and 
entertained a little love not for the 
prince but for the man ! Are you all 
determined to make me cold-hearted 
and distrustful? are you laboring to 
turn my heart to stone — to cut off my 
soul from faith and love ? A day will 
come when you will call me (‘.old and 


- THE BRIDAL PAIR. 


relentless, and no one will say tliat it 
was those I loved and trusted who 
made me thus.” 

“ Mercy 1 mercy ! my king,” prayed 
i Fredersdorf, sinking to the feet of 
Frederick. “ Kill me I destroy me 
1 . with your anger ! only do not show me 
such kindness and love. Oh I your 
j majesty does not know how I love you, 
^ how my heart is bound up in yours ; 
I but I have a wild and ambitious heart, 

I and in the thirst of my ambition I was 
not satisfied to remain the servant of 
my king. I wished to become power- 
ful and influential. I longed to mount 
high above those who now look down 
upon and despise me because I am a 
servant. This, sire, is my whole crime, 
the remorseful confession of my guilt.” 

“ You did not wish to betray your 
king, you only desired to be the lord 
of your lord. You wished to reign 
through me. Poor Fredersdorf, do 
you think it such happiness to be a 
king? Do you not know that this 
royal crown, which seems so bright to 
you, is only a crown of thorns, which 
is concealed with a little tinsel and a 
few spangles ? Poor Fredersdorf, you 
are ambitious; I will gratify you in 
this as far as possible, but you must 
conquer the desire to control my will, 
and influence my resolutions. A king 
is only answerable to God,” proceeded 
Frederick, “ and only from God can he 
receive control or commands. I am 
the servant of Him, but the master of 
men. I will gratify your ambition, 
Fredersdorf, I will give you a title. 
You shall no longer be a mere servant, 
but a private secretary ; and that you 
may be a master as well as a servant, I 
present you the estate Czernihon, near 
Kheinsbeig. There you will be lord 
ol your peasants and workmen, and 
learn if it is not a thankless office to 
rule. Are you satisfied, my poor Fre- 
flersdorf?” 

Fredersdorf could not answer; he 


167 

pressed his lips to the hand of the king 
and wept aloud. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BRIDAL PAIR. 

Joy and exultation reigned in the 
house of the rich manufacturer Or- 
guelin. The proud daughter had con- 
sented to become the wife of Count 
Rhedern ; she had at last accepted him, 
and the happy father, delighted at the 
prospect of soon becoming father-in- 
law to a count, busied himself with 
the preparations for the approaching 
wedding festivities, which were des- 
tined to excite the admiration and as- 
tonishment of the entire city by their 
magnificence and prodigal splendor. 
At this festival the future Countess 
Rhedern was to appear for the last 
time in the circle of her old friends, 
and then to take leave of them for- 
ever ; for, as a matter of course, the 
Countess Rhedern would have to fonn 
new friendships and seek other society 
than that to which she had been accus- 
tomed as Mademoiselle Orguelin. But 
M. Orguelin desired to exhibit to his 
associates, the manufacturers and mer- 
chants, this splendid nobleman who 
had now become his son ; he wished to 
excite the envy and admiration of his 
friends by the princely magnificence of 
his house. 

All this, however, was far from being 
agreeable to Count Rhedern, who had 
other plans. His creditors and his pov- 
erty compelled him to marry this rich 
merchant’s daughter, but he had no de- 
sire or intention of entering into any 
association or connection with the 
friends and relations of his wife ; and 
even if‘ it should be necessary to recog- 
nize his rich father-in-law, it did not 
follow that he would appear at his 
fetes^ to add lustre to the entertain- 


i68 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


ment and be shown oiT as a highly 
ornamental acquisition. He trembled 
when he thought of the ridicule of the 
court cavaliers, to whom it would be 
an inexhaustible subject of jest, that he, 
the marshal of the queen, and a cava- 
lier of the old nobility, had played this 
role at a fUe of the bourgeoisie^ and had 
conversed, eaten, and danced, with 
manufacturers and tradespeople. That 
could not and should not be ! To pre- 
serve the prestige of his house, a noble- 
man might marry the daughter of a 
merchant, if she possessed a million, 
but he could not stoop so low as to 
consider himself a member of her fam- 
ily, and to recognize this or that rela- 
tive. Count Rhedem thought of some 
plan by which he could frustrate this 
scheme of his father-in-law in regard to 
the wedding festivities, which would 
bring him into such undesirable and 
disagreeable association with persons 
beneath his rank, as he desired to avoid 
as far as possible all eclat in this mis- 
alliance. With a smiling countenance 
he entered one morning into the mag- 
nificent parlor of his affianced, who 
with her father’s assistance was en- 
gaged in making out a list of the wed- 
ding-guests. The count seated him- 
self near his future bride, and listened 
with inward horror to the terrible and 
barbarous names which were placed on 
the list, the possessors of which could 
never appear at a knightly tournament 
or court festival, and were consequently 
excluded from all the joys and honors 
of the gay and fashionable world. 

“Well,” said the father, exultingly, 
“ what do you think of our fete ? It 
will be perfectly magnificent, will it 
not ? The richest merchants of Berlin 
will be present; and if one were to es- 
timate us by our wealth, it would be 
found that more millions would be as- 
sembled there than Germany has inhab- 
itants. You will reaaily understand, 
cny dear son, that in order to do honor 


to such guests, great preparations are 
necessary, for it is not easy to excite 
the astonishment and admiration of 
these proud merchants. It is quite 
easy to surprise one of your barons o 
counts ; you are delighted when enter 
tained with champagne or fine Holstein 
oysters, but a rich merchant turns 
scornfully from turtle-soup and Indian 
birds’-nests. Nevertheless, my proud 
guests shall be surprised; they shall 
have a dinner, the like of which they 
have never seen. For this purpose I 
have ordered two of the best cooks 
from Paris, who will arrive in a few 
days. They have written that they 
will need at least two weeks to make 
the necessary preparations for the wed- 
ding-dinner. For their services I shall 
pay them a salary which is perhaps 
equal to the half-yearly pay of a mar- 
shal or chamberlain. Moreover we 
shall have fireworks, illuminations, 
splendid music; yes, I have even 
thought of having a stage erected, and 
of engaging a French company to 
amuse our guests with a few comedies.” 

“lam only afraid that but few of our 
guests will understand a word of these 
French plays,” exclaimed his daughter, 
laughing. 

“ That is quite possible ; neverthe- 
less French is now the rage, and it will 
attract attention if we have a French 
play.— And you, my dear son, what do 
you say to all this ? You look almost 
vexed.” 

“ I sigh because you wish to defer the 
wedding for so long a time.” 

“ Ah, that is a compliment for you, 
my daughter. Lovers are always im- 
patient.” 

“ But I did not sigh only because I 
would so long be deprived of the hap- 
piness of leading my dear Caroline to 
the altar, but because I should thereby 
lose the pleasure of presenting her to 
the court as my wife, on the occasion 
of the large and most magnificent court 


THE BltlDAL PAIR. 


169 


:)all with which the season will be 
opened.” 

“A court ball is to take place ? ” 
asked Caroline Orguelin, with vivacity. 
“ The king has, I believe, not yet re- 
turned from his journey.” 

“ But will do so in a few days, and as 
the court mourning is now at an end, 
the king will give a brilliant masquerade 
ball, which will probably be the only 
one given this winter.” 

“ A masquerade ball I ” exclaimed his 
bride ; “ and I have never seen one ! ” 

“ And this is to be a most magnifi- 
cent one. Moreover, the queen-mother 
has already promised me an invitation 
for my wife, and requested me to pre- 
sent her to the entire court on this oc- 
casion.” 

“ And it is impossible to have Jie 
wedding any sooner ? ” asked Caroline, 
impatiently. 

“ Quite impossible,” said M. Orguelin. 

“And why impossible?” said the 
count. “ Could we not have the wed- 
ding at an early day, and the festival 
later ? Could we not, as is now custom 
ary in high circles, be married quietly, 
and have the festival at a later day ? 
These noisy weddings are a little out of 
fashion at the present day, and it would 
be said at court that the wealthy and 
highly-cultivated M. Orguelin showed 
his disregard for the customs of our 
young and modern court, by adhering 
to those of the old regiineP 

“ God forbid that I should do that I ” 
exclaimed M. Orguelin, in a terrified 
voice. 

“ Father, I detest noisy merry-mak- 
ings, and insist on a quiet marriage. It 
shall not be said at court that Made- 
moiselle Orguelin, with all her acquaint- 
ances, had rejoiced over the inestima- 
ble happiness of becoming the wife of 
a count. I will be married quietly; 
afterward the count may give a fHe in 
honor of our marriage, which you, my 
father, can return.” 


As usual, M. Orguelin submitted ta 
his daughter’s will, and it was deter- 
mined that a quiet wedding should take 
place in a few days, to be followed on 
a later day by a magnificent fete m the 
house of the father-in-law. 

“ At which I shall certainly not be 
present,” thought Count Rhedern, while 
he expressed his entire satisfaction with 
this arrangement. 

Mademoiselle Orguehn’s proudest 
wishes were about to be accomplished. 
She was to be introduced at court, and 
the queen-mother had graciously de- 
clared her intention of presenting her 
to the king at the approaching mas- 
querade. There was now wanting but 
one thing, and that was a suitable cos- 
tume for this important occasion ; and 
Count Rhedern assured her, with a 
sigh, that it would be very difficult to 
prepare it, as it would be almost im- 
possible to find a tailor who would un- 
dertake to make, in so short a time, the 
gold-brocaded train which was neces- 
sary. 

“Pelissier, the new French tailor, 
has even refused to make a little cloak 
for me,” said Count Rhedern, “ and his 
female assistants, who are the most 
fashionable dressmakers, have been 
deaf to all entreaties for the last week. 
They take no more orders for the mas- 
querade, and it was only yesterday that 
I met Countess Hake, who had been 
with the pretty Blanche while I was 
with her* father, descending the steps, 
wringing her hands and bathed in 
tears, because the proud dressmakers 
had replied to her prayers and entrea- 
ties with a cruel ‘ Impossible I ’ ” 

“ I know, however, that Herr Pricker, 
the court dressmaker of the two queens, 
would not make me tliis reply,” said 
Caroline Orguelin, proudly, “ but that 
he would furnish whatever is necessary, 
even if he should be forced to take sev- 
eral additional assistants.” 

“ Then let us drive to Herr Pricker,” 


170 


FREDERICK THE GREAT Ai;j) HIS COURT. 


said her affianced, smiling; “but we 
must go at once, for we have no time 
to lose, and you can well imagine that 
I should be inconsolable, if, after our 
marriage, I could not present you to 
the court as my wife on tlie first suita- 
ble occasion.” 

“ Yes, we have no time to lose,” re- 
peated Caroline, ringing a bell, and 
ordering her carriage. When, after a 
few minutes, Caroline Orguelin and 
the count were alone in the carriage, 
she turned to him with a mocking 
smile, and remarked: “The \yedding 
is, then, to take place the day after to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Yes, my dearest Caroline, and on 
that day I shall be the happiest of 
men.” 

“ Your creditors,” said she, shrugging 
her shoulders, “ were then becoming so 
pressing that you suddenly experienced 
an ardent longing for my dowry.” 

“ My creditors ? ” asked the count ; 
“I do not understand you, dearest 
Caroline.” 

“ You understand me very well,” 
said she, with cutting coldness ; “it is, 
moreover, time that we understand 
each other, once for all. Know, there- 
fore, my dear sir, that I have not al- 
lowed myself to be deceived either by 
your tender protestations or by the role 
of an impatient lover, which you have 
acted so well. I am neither young nor 
pretty enough to awaken a passion in 
the breast of so noble and excellent a 
cavalier as Count Rhedern. You are 
poor, but rich in debts, and you needed 
therefore a rich wife; and as I hap- 
pened to have more money than any 
of the beautiful and noble ladies of the 
court, you determined to marry me, 
deeming my rich dowry a sufficient 
compensation for the disgrace inflicted 
on your noble house. In a word, you 
chose me because you were tired of be- 
ing dunned by your creditors, and of 
living in a state of secret misery ; and 


I — I bought Count Rhedein with mj 
million, in order that I might appear 
at court.” 

“Well, truly, these confessions are 
very curious, highly original,” said 
Count Rhedern, with a forced smile. 

“ They are, however, necessary. We 
need no longer trouble ourselves with 
this useless acting and hypocrisy. It 
is also but just that I should inform 
you why I so ardently desire to become 
a lady of quality, that is, why I wish 
to be able to appear at court, for I 
hope you do not consider me silly 
enough to buy a count for the mere 
sake of being called countess ? ” 

“ I should consider this wish by no 
means a silly one,” murmured the 
count. 

“No,” continued his bride, “I de- 
sired to become a countess that I might 
obtain access to court and enjoy a hap- 
piness of which thousands would be 
envious, although like the moth I could 
only flutter round the brilliant and 
dazzling light until it burned me to 
death. I told you I was no longer 
young. I, however, still have a young 
heart, a fresher heart perhaps than all 
your proud and beautiful ladies of the 
court, for mine was as hard and clear 
as crystal, until — ” 

“ Well, conclude,” said the count, as 
she hesitated ; “ continue these little 
confessions, which are certainly rarely 
made before, but generally after mar- 
riage. You spoke of your heart hav- 
ing been as hard and clear as crystal, 
until — ” 

“ Until I had seen the king,” con- 
tinued his bride, blushing, “ until I had 
gazed in those wondrous eyes, until 1 
had seen the smile, so proud, and yet 
so mild and gentle, with which he 
greeted his people from the balcony.” 

“ It was then at the coronation that 
you formed the genial resolution of 
loving the king ? ” 

“ Yes, it was on the coronation dai 


THE BRIDAL PAIR. 


171 


that I for the first time comprehended 
how grand, how noble and sublime, a 
true man could be. And my soul 
bowed in humility and obedience ber 
fore the commanding glance of this 
Titan, and my heart bowed in adora- 
tion at the feet of this man, whose smile 
was so wondrous, and whose eyes spoke 
such great things. Oh I had I been 
near him as you were, I would have 
fallen at his feet and have said to him : 
‘ I accept you as my master and my 
divinity ; you are my ideal, and I will 
adore you as such with a pure and 
noble worship.’ But I was far off, and 
could only pray to him in thought. 
I determirfed that I would be near him 
at some day ; and I, who had wished 
to remain single, determined in this 
moment to marry — but to marry only 
a cavalier of the court. I inquired of 
my companion the names of the cava- 
liers who stood behind the king, and 
the most of them were married, but 
you were not, and I was told that you 
possessed a great many debts and very 
small means of paying them. On this 
day I told my father : ‘ I wish to mar- 
ry Count Ehedern, I desire that you 
should purchase him for me, as you 
recently purchased the handsome set 
of Nuremberg jewelry.’ ” 

“ Really, a very flattering and ingen- 
ious view of the matter,” said the 
count, with a forced laugh. 

Caroline continued : “ My father in- 
trusted this affair to a broker who had 
irequently done business for him be- 
fore, and who proved to be an apt 
trader on this occasion, for you see he 
purchased the goods we desired, and 
the business transaction has been con- 
cluded. Count Rhedem, you will now 
understand why I made the condition 
that I should be admitted at court, and 
recognized as your countess, before I 
determined to become your wife.” 

“I understand perfectly well,” said 
the count, peevishly ; “ you made 


use of me as a bridge over which you 
might pass from your father’s shop to 
the royal palace, as I will make use of 
you to pay my debts, and to enable me 
to live a life worthy of a nobleman. 
Ah, now that we understand one another 
so well, we shall be perfectly at ease, and 
live a free and unconstrained life with- 
out annoying each other.” 

“ Still, my dear Rhedern, you will 
sometimes experience a slight annoy- 
ance at my hands,” said the daughter 
of the millionnaire, gently placing her 
hand on the count’s shoulder. “ It 
was not only on account of your cred- 
itors that you desired so early a mar- 
riage, but mainly because the count 
considered it beneath his dignity to 
take part in the festivities of manufac- 
turers and merchants. But I must in- 
form you, dear sir, that I shall never 
forget that my father is a merchant, 
and that all my friends are the daugh- 
ters of manufacturers and merchants. 
I will be a grateful daughter and a 
true friend, and I will compel you to 
show the same respect to my father 
and friends that I will show to yours.” 

“ Compel I ” exclaimed the count, 
“ you will compel me ? ” 

“ I said ‘ compel,’ and you will soon 
perceive that it is in my power to do 
so. Listen: my father promised you 
that my dowry should be a million, out 
of which, however, your debts, and 
the expense of my trousseau^ are to be 
defrayed. Your debts, including the 
mortgage on your estates, amount to 
two hundred thousand, and my trous- 
seau^ diamonds, and the furnishing of 
my house will cost about the same sum. 
There will remain, therefore, but six 
hundred thousand, of which you will 
enjoy the benefit, according to our 
marriage contract. But you will read- 
ily understand that the interest of this 
small capital wdll not support the 
daughter of a rich merchant respecta- 
bly, and that if I should desire to en- 


n2 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


tertain tlie king in my Rouse, I would 
perhaps expend in one evening the 
half of my income.” 

The count regarded his bride with 
admiration, almost with reverence. — 
“You then think that we could not 
live on the interest of six hundred thou- 
sand dollars ? ” asked he. 

“ I do not only think so, but am sure 
of it,, for I needed as much when a 
girl. Ah, my dear count, a great deal 
of money is necessary to gratify one’s 
humors and caprices. My father is 
well aware of this fact, and has, there- 
fore, given me as pin money a second 
million ; this will, however, remain in 
his business, and I shall only receive the 
interest in monthly payments. I must, 
however, remark that this interest is not 
a part of my dowry, but is my personal 
property, with which I can do as I see 
fit. I can, if I wish, giye fetes with 
this money, pay your debts, purchase 
horses and equipages for you, or I can 
give it to my father, who can make 
very good use of it in his business. 
And now, pay attention : whenever you 
choose to neglect the proper and duti- 
ful attention due to your wife, her 
father, or her friends, I will relinquish 
my pin money to my father, and you 
must look to some other source for the 
necessary funds.” 

“ But I shall always be an attentive 
and grateful husband, and a dutiful son 
to your father,” exclaimed the count, 
charmed with the prospect of a second 
million. 

“Then you will do well,” said his 
bride, gravely, “ for your monthly in- 
come will thereby be increased by four 
thousand dollars. You see I am a true 
merchant’s daughter, and understand 
accounts. I have bought you, and 
know your worth, but I also desire to 
be properly esteemed and respected by 
you. You must never think you have 
honored me by making me a countess, 
but must always remember that my 


father is a millionnaire, whose onlj 
daughter and heiress pays you for yoiu 
amiability, your title, and her admis- 
sion to court. And now enough of 
these tedious affairs. The carriage has 
stopped, and we have arrived at om’ 
destination; let us put on our masks 
again, and be the fond lovers who 
marry for pure love and tenderness.” 

“And in truth you deserve to be 
loved,” exclaimed the count; pressing 
her hand to his lips. “You are the 
most discreet and charming of women, 
and I have no doubt that I shall love 
you ardently some day.” 

“Poor count,” said she, laughing, 
“on that day you will deserve com- 
miseration, for I shall certainly never 
fall in love with you. A heart like 
mine loves but once, and dies of that 
love.” 

“ I hope that this death will at least 
be a very slow one,” said the count, 
jumping out of the carriage, and as- 
sisting his bride-elect to descend. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE FRENCH AND GERMAN TAILORS, OR 
THE MONTAGUES AND CAPULETS OF 
BERLIN. 

Herr Pricker stood at his win- 
dow ; his face was sad, and he looked 
with a troubled gaze at the house on 
the other side of the street. This was 
the house of the new French tailor, Pe- 
lissier. Many splendid equipages were 
drawn up before the door, and crowds 
of gajly-dressed men and women were 
passing in and out. Alas for earthly 
grandeur I alas for popular applause ! 
Pricker stood at his window; no one 
had rung his bell, not a carriage had 
been seen at his door, since the arrival 
of the French tailor. Pricker was a 
lost man, wounded in his ambition, his 
most sacred feelings trampled upon. 


THE FRENCH AND GERMAN TAILORS. 


173 


and his just claim to the gratitude of 
his generation disallowed. What ad- 
vantage was it to him to be the ac- 
knowledged tailor of two queens ? 
Since, in the ardor of his patriotism, he 
had refused to employ French hands, 
not one of all those ladies who had 
formerly confided to him the secrets of 
their toilets, remembered his discretion 
or his ability to hide their defects, or 
supply their wants. The fickle and 
ungrateful world had forsaken him. 
Even the Hohenzollerns had forgotten 
the great deeds and still greater ser- 
vices of the Prickers, and no longer 
knew how to reward true merit. Since 
Pelissier took the opposite house. 
Pricker’s heart was broken ; night and 
day he was ponsumed with anguish ; 
but he made no complaint, he suffered 
in Spartan silence, and like a hero cov- 
ered his bleeding wounds. One soft 
eye, one kindred heart, discovered his 
silent sorrow; she, too, sorrowed as 
those without hope ; she had not even 
the courage to offer consolation. In this 
hour of extremity poor Pricker some- 
times thought of selling his house, but 
the next moment he would blush at his 
weakness and cowardice in thus aban- 
doning the field to his foe. 

In spiteful arrogance the French 
tailor had settled himself in the oppo- 
site house. It was a challenge for life 
or death given him by Pelissier, and it 
should not be said that a Pricker igno- 
miniously declined the contest. Pricker 
must remain, he must defy his adver- 
sary, and yield only in direst extremity 
to this dandy Frenchman; he would 
therefore remain in those ancestral 
halls, which had so long sheltered the 
tailor of the two queens. He remained, 
out the death-worm was gnawing at 
Ms heart. Pricker still gazed across 
he street, and with an added pang he 
r>iw another carriage rolling in that di- 
rection ; but no, this time the carriage 
turned to his side of the street. In the 


first joy of his heart he sprangforward 
to open the door and aid the ladies in 
descending; he checked himself in 
time, however, remembering that this 
would comprc^ise the dignity of his 
house. 

In a few moments the Frau Pricker 
announced the rich Mademoiselle Or- 
guelin and her future husband. Pricker 
advanced to meet them with calm com- 
posure, but there was tumultuous joy in 
his heart. 

“You will be surprised, my dear 
Pricker, that we did not send for you, 
but we should have lost time by that, 
and our affairs demand the greatest 
haste.” 

Pricker bowed proudly. “ My house 
is accustomed to receive noble persons ; 
my grandfather had once the happiness 
to welcome a prince. In what can I 
serve you ? ” 

“ I need two complete court toilets,” 
said Mademoiselle Orguelin — “ the 
robes for a first presentation, and then 
for a great court ball.” 

“ Then you wish a robe with a bro- 
cade train ; I would choose blue velvet, 
it is most becoming to blondes, and 
throws a heavenly light upon their 
complexions.” 

“ Then we will take sky blue,” said 
the millionnaire’s daughter, “ with a 
train of silver. For the ball dress, mj 
father has given me a dress woven in 
velvet and gold.” 

“Your toilets will be superb, and 
the appearance of the Countess Rhe- 
dern will do honor to the house of 
Pricker.” 

“ You must promise to be ready in 
eight days.” 

“ In four, if necessary,” said Pricker, 
taking the long measure from his wife 
and approaching the lady. 

“I leave the trimmings entirely to 
your taste, but of course my dress must 
be of the newest French cut.” 

Pricker had laid the measure arouno 


174 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


the slender waist of Mademoiselle Or- 
guelin ; he now removed it violently. 
“ You desire your dresses made after the 
latest French style ? ” he said, harshly. 

“ Of course ; that is surely under- 
stood ; no decent tailor would work in 
any other style. I should indeed be 
ridiculous to appear at court in a stiff 
old German costume 1 Yon must make 
me the tight-fitting French waist, the 
long points in front, the narrow sleeves 
reaching to the elbow and trimmed 
with rich lace.” 

Pricker folded his measure with he- 
roic determination and laid it upon the 
table. “ Your dress cannot be made in 
the house of Pricker, mademoiselle.” 

“ What ! you refuse to work for 
me?” 

“ I will not adopt the French fash- 
ions; that would be an insult to my 
ancestors ! I will remain true to the 
good old German customs.” 

“ Reflect,” said Count Rhedern, “ how 
much this obstinacy will cost you. 
You will lose all the patronage of the 
court ; all the world adopts the new 
French fashions.” 

“That is true,” said the sorrowful 
Pricker. He approached and pointed 
through the window to the house op- 
posite. “ Once all those carriages stood 
before my door ; once I dressed all those 
noble people ; a wink would be sufficient 
to recall them. Would I be false to the 
customs of my fathers, would I employ 
French workmen, all those carriages 
would be arrrayed before my door. I 
hold the destiny of that contemptible 
Frenchman in my hands ; a word from 
me, and he would be ruined ; but I will 
not speak that word. Let him live to 
the disgrace and shame of the Germans 
who abandon the time-honored customs 
of their fatherland 1 ” 

The count offered his arm to his 
bride, and said, mockingly : “ I thank 
you for your addresa I see that a Ger- 
man tailor may be a consummate fool ! 


— Come, my dear Caroline, we will go 
to Monsieur Pelissier.” 

Pricker remained alone; grand and 
proud he stood in the middle of the 
saloon, and looked up, like a conquer- 
mg hero, at the grim portraits of his 
ancestors. “ Be satisfied with me,” he 
murmured ; “ I have made a new sac- 
rifice to your manes. My house is Ger- 
man, and German it shall remain.” 

At this moment there arose on the 
air the clear, full voice of his daughter, 
who was practising with Quantz a fa- 
vorite Italian air of the king. 

giomi felice rkordgti da sang 
the beautiful Anna, while Father 
Pricker ran, like a madman, up and 
down the room, and stopped his ears, 
that he might not hear the hateful 
sound. He cursed himself for allow- 
ing the monster Quantz to come to the 
house. 

“ Alas I alas ! I have closed my lieart 
to the new era and its horrors, but I 
shall lose my children ; they will not 
wish to wander in my ways.” 

At this moment Anna entered the 
room, with sparkling eyes and rosy 
cheeks. “Father,” she said, hastily, 
“ the supreme desire of my heart will 
now be fulfilled. Quantz has at last 
promised that I shall sing at the next 
comrt concert. In eight days the king 
returns, and a concert will be arranged, 
at which I, your happy daughter, will 
sing an Italian song.” 

“ Italian ! ” 

“ She will sing Italian,” murmured 
Quantz, who was listening at the door. 
“ She will give all the world an oppor- 
tunity to laugh and ridicule her, and I 
shall be responsible; I would rather 
die!” 

Anna was greatly excited, and did 
not notice her teacher ; and, as her 
mother entered the room, she embraced 
her warmly. “ Mother, mother, Quantz 
has pronounced me worthy to sing at 
the court. I shall cover myself with 


THE FRENCH AND 

glory, and the daughter of the tailor 
will fill all Germany with her fame ! ” 

“Unhappy child, do you not know 
that your father is present ? ” 

“ Oh, my father shall be proud of 
me ! ” cried Anna. 

The Frau Pricker was frightened at 
the grave looks of her husband. Anna 
scarcely noticed her parents ; she said : 
“Father, it is high time to think of 
my dress; it must be new and ele- 
gant.” 

“ You shall have it,” said her father, 
solemnly ; “ it is an honor to sing before 
the king. I will make you a magnifi- 
cent dress out of your mother’s bridal 
robe.” 

Anna laughed contemptuously. “ No, 
no, father ; the time is passed when 
we dared to wear the clothes of our 
great-grandmothers. The day is gone 
by for family relics. How the ladies of 
the court would laugh at my mother’s 
old flowered robe ! Besides, the dress 
is too narrow for a modem hoop robe, 
the only style now tolerated.” 

“ A hoop robe ! ” cried the father, in 
tones of horror ; “ she wishes to wear a 
hoop robe ! ” 

“Yes, and why not?” said Anna. 
“ Does not the beautiful Blanche wear 
one ? and have not all the court ladies 
adopted them? no fashionable lady 
dare now appear without a hoop robe.” 

“ Wlio is Blanche ? ” cried Herr 
Pricker, rising from his chair and 
looking threateningly at Anna, “ who 
is Blanche ? ” 

“Do you not know, father? Oh, 
you are only pretending not to know 1 
Dearest Blanche, whom I love like a 
sister, and to whom I can only pay 
stolen visits, for her father is furious 
that you have not returned his visit, 
and has forbidden any of his family to 
enter our house.” 

“ He did right ; and I also forbid you 
to cross his threshold. I thought, 
Anna, you had too much pride to enter 


GERMAN TAILORS 175 

the house of your father’s enemy, or 
speak to his daughter.” 

Anna shrugged her shoulders silently, 
and now quick steps were heard ap 
preaching. 

“ 0\ quel plaisir d’etre amoureuse ! ” 
sang a fresh, manly voice. 

“ French ! ” cried Pricker, wild with 
rage. “ William singing French ! ” 

The door was hastily opened, and 
William, heir to the house of Pricker, 
stood upon the threshold. He was 
arrayed in most charming costume. A 
tight-fitting coat, short - waisted and 
long -tailed, wide sleeves, and large 
mother-of-pearl buttons ; the cuffs and 
high - standing collar were richly em- 
broidered in silver ; his vest was “ cou- 
leur de chair and instead of a long 
plait, William had covered his hair 
with a powered wig. A small three- 
cornered hat, worn jauntily to one side, 
was embroidered with silver, and orna- 
mented with a black feather : in his 
hand he held a slight, graceful cane. 
William appeared before his father a 
complete model of a new-fashioned 
French dandy. Rage and l\orror 
choked the old man’s utterance. 

“ Well, father, do I please you ? Is 
not this attire worthy of a nobleman ? 
Only, I cannot wear the white feather, 
which they say belongs exclusively to 
the nobility.” 

“Where did you get these clothes, 
William ? ” said his father, approaching 
him slowly : “ who gave you the money 
to pay for them ? It is a fool’s cos- 
tume I Who made it for you ? ” 

“ Well, you gave me the money, dear^ 
father,” said William, laughing ; “ that 
is, you will give it to me. This hand- 
some suit has not yet been paid for. 
The name of Pricker has a silvery 
sound ; Pelissier knows that, and cred- 
ited me willingly; though at first he 
refused to work for me, and I thank 
Blanche that I have a costume from 
the celebrated shop of Pelissier.” 


176 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Old Pricker uttered a cry of rage, 
and seizing, with feverish violence, the 
long tails of his son’s coat, he dragged 
him to and fro. 

“ So Pelissier made this I • He has 
dared .to array my son, the son and 
heir of the house of Pricker, in this ri- 
diculous fashion! And you, William, 
you were shameless enough to receive 
this suit from your father’s enemy. 
Alas!' alas! are you not afraid that 
your ancestors will rise from their 
graves to punish you ? ” 

“ Dear father,” said William, “ the 
style of a prince’s dress is only a cus- 
tom, and has nothing to do with char- 
acter or principle.” 

“ Never will I allow my son to be 
lost to me in this manner,” cried Prick- 
er ; “ and if in the blindness of his 
folly he has lost himself, I will bring 
him back with violence, if necessary, 
to the right path. OflF, then, with this 
absurd coat! off with this fool’s cap! 
off with all this livery ! ” 

Pricker now began to pull and tear 
madly at his son’s clothes ; he knocked 
his hat off, and trampled it under his 
feet ; he seized with both hands the 
lace collar, and grimly smiled when 
the shreds remained in his hands. 
William was at first dumb with terror, 
but the loud laugh of his sister, who 
found this scene amusing, restored his 
presence of mind ; with mad violence 
he pushed his parent from him. 

“ Father,” he cried, “ I am no longer 
a boy ! I will not bear this treatment ; 

I will dress as I like, and as the fash- 
ions require.” 

“Well spoken, my brother,” said 
Anna, laughingly, springing to his side ; 

we are children of the new era, and 
will dress as it requires. Why did our 
parents give us modern educations, if 
they wished us to conform to old-fash- 
ioned prejudice ? ” 

“ ‘ Honor thy father and thy mother, 
that thy days may be long in the land 


which the Lord thy God giveth 1 nee, 
said Pricker, solemnly. 

‘‘ Another Bible verse,” said Anna, 
mockingly. “ The book is no longer 
fashionable ; and it is not half so amus- 
ing as Voltaire.” 

“ Enough, enough,” said Pricker ; 
“now listen to my last determination. 
I command you to live and dress as 
your father and mother have dressed be- 
fore you ! Woe to you if you despise 
my commands ! woe to you if you defy 
my authority ! I will disown you — and 
my curse shall be your inheritance ; re- 
member this. If you ever enter that 
house again, or speak to any of its in- 
mates — if I ever see you in this French 
livery again, or if you, Anna, ever ap- 
j^ear before me in a hoop robe and 
toupet, from that moment you cease to 
be my children.” 

The father and mother left the room ; 
the brother and sister remained alone. 

“ Well,” said Anna, “ do you intend 
to obey these commands? Will you 
wear the queue and the naiTow, coarse 
frock-coat ? ” 

“Nonsense!” said William, “that 
Blanche may ridicule me, and all the 
world may laugh at me. You do not 
know, Anna, how much Blanche and 
myself love each other ; we have vowed 
eternal love and faith, and she is to be 
my wife ! ” 

“ You will then become an honorable 
tailor, as your fathers were ? ” 

William laughed. “ I follow a trade ! 
I who have received the education of a 
noblemen ! no, no, Anna, you are not 
in earnest ; you cannot believe that.” 

“Take care, William, you will be 
disinherited ; father is in earnest.” 

“ Oh, he will have to submit, as old 
Pelissier must do ; he will also be fu- 
rious when he first learns that I am the 
husband of Blanche ; he has threatened 
her with his curse if she marries me. 
But in spite of all this we intend to 
marry; they must at last be recon- 


IN RIIEINSBERG. 


177 


ciled. Oh, Blanche is beautiful as an 
angel 1 ” 

“ Nevertheless she is a tailor’s daugh- 
ter,” said Anna. 

“Yes, like my beautiful and amiable 
sister Anna.” 

“ But I shall become a celebrated 
singer, and the wife of a nobleman.” 

“Well, and who says that Blanche 
will not be the wife of a celebrated 
man, and that you will not be proud 
of me ? ” 

“ Will you be a man or a woman, 
dressmaker ? ” 

“Neither the one nor the other I I 
shall be an actor ; but silence, this is 
my secret, and I must keep it I ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN RHEINSBENG. 

The quiet castle of Rheinsberg was 
again alive with noise. Its halls re- 
sounded wuth music and laughter ; gay 
and happy faces were everywhere to be 
seen ; bright jests were heard on every 
side. The charming days of the past, 
when Frederick was prince royal, seem- 
ed to have returned. The same com- 
pany now filled the castle ; the same 
sports and amusements were enjoyed. 
All was the same, and yet every thing 
was changed, transformed. Nearly all 
those who had left Rheinsberg with 
such proud hopes, such great desires, 
were again there, but with brighter 
hopes. They had all expected to 
reign ; they had claimed for themselves 
honor and power, but the young king 
had allowed to none the privilege of 
mounting the throne by his side. They 
were all welcome companions, loved 
friends, but no one dared overstep the 
boundary of dependence and submission 
which he had drawn around them, and 
m the centre of which he stood alone, 
trusting to his own strength and will. If 
12 


they had gained nothing from the crown 
which rested upon Frederick’s noble 
head, neither had they lost any thing. 
They returned to Rheinsberg not hum- 
bled, though not exalted. 

But one heart was broken, one heart 
was bleeding from unseen pain. It was 
the heart of Elizabeth, the poor reject- 
ed woman w’ho was called the reigning 
queen. 

The king, on returning from his ex- 
cursion to Strasburg, had reminded her 
of her promise to follow* him with her 
court to Rheinsberg. And the poor 
sufferer, though she knew that the 
presence of Frederick would be for her a 
continual torment, an hourly renuncia- 
tion, could not find strength to resist 
the desire of her own heart. She had 
followed her husband, saying to her- 
self with a painful smile: “I will at 
least see him, and if he does not speak to 
me I will still hear his voice. My suf- 
ferings will be* greater, but I shall be 
near him. The joy will help me to 
bear the pain. Soffrietaci ! Eliza*- 
beth Christine was right ; the king neve* 
spoke to her, never fixed those bril- 
liant blue eyes, which possessed for her 
the depth and immensity of the skies, 
upon her pale countenance. With a 
silent bow he welcomed her daily at 
their meals, but he did not no w lead her 
to the table and sit beside her. The pres- 
ence of the Margrave and Margravine 
of Baireuth seemed to impose upon him 
the duty of honoring his favorite sis- 
ter, who was his guest, more than his 
wife the queen. He sat, therefore, be- 
tween his sister and her husband the 
count, at whose side the queen was 
placed. He did not speak, to her, but 
she saw him, and strengthened her 
heart by the sight of his proud and 
noble countenance. 

She’ suffered and was., silent. She 
veiled her pain by a soft', smile; she 
concealed the paleness of her cheek 
with artificial bloom; she, covered the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


178 

furrows, that care already showed in 
lier lovely and youthful face, with 
black “ beauty-spots,” which were then 
the fashion. No one should think that 
slie suffered. No one should pity her, 
not even the king. Elizabeth Christine 
joined in all the pleasures and amuse- 
ments at Rbeinsberg. She laughed at 
Bielfeld’s jests, at Pollnitz’s amusing an- 
ecdotes ; she listened with beaming eyes 
to Knobelsdorf’s plans for beautifying 
the royal residence ; she took part in 
the preparations for a drama that w^as 
to be performed. Voltaire’s “ Death of 
Caesar,” and “ The Frenchman in Lou- 
don,” by Boissy, had been chosen by 
Frederick to be played at Rheinsberg, 
and in each piece she played a promi- 
nent role. The young queen, as it 
seemed, had become an enthusiastic ad- 
mirer of the theatre ; she was never 
missing at any of the rehearsals, and 
aided her beautiful maids of honor in 
the arrangements of their costumes. 

The king was now seldom to be 
seen in the circle of his friends and 
companions, and the tones of his flute 
were rarely to be heard. He passed 
the day in his library ; no one dared 
disturb him, not even Quantz. Ma- 
dame von Brandt, who had accom- 
panied the court to Rheinsberg, said, 
in one of her secret meetings with 
Count Manteuflel: “The king is un- 
faithful to his last sweetheart : he has 
abandoned and rejected his flute.” 

“But with what does his majesty 
occupy himself the entire day ? ” asked 
the count. “ What is it that takes him 
from his friends and fills up all his 
time ? ” 

“ Nothing but scientific studies,” 
said Madame von Brandt, shrugging her 
shoulders. “ Fredersdorf told me that 
he busies himself with maps and plans,. 
18 surrounded by his military books, 
and is occupied like an engineer with 
astrolabes and land-surveyors. You 
now see that these are very innocent oc- 


cupations, and that they can have no 
influence upon our affairs. Frederick, 
I promise you, will never be more di- 
vorced from his wife than he now is ; 
and, concerning the marriage of Prince 
Augustus William, my plans are so skil- 
fully laid that there is no danger of fail- 
ure, and poor Laura von Pannewitz will 
surely be sacrificed. All is well, and 
we have nothing to fear from the king’s 
innocent studies.” 

“ Ah, you call these innocent stud- 
ies?” said the count; “I assure you 
that these studies will greatly disturb 
the Austrian court, and I must at once 
notify my friend Seckendorf of them.” 

“You are making a mountain of a 
mole-hill,” said Madame von Brandt, 
laughing. “I assure you, you have 
nothing to fear. It is true the king 
passes the day in his study, but he 
spends his evenings with us, and he 
is then as gay, as unconstrained, as full 
of wit and humor, as ever. Perhaps he 
makes use of the solitude of his study to 
learn his role., for to-morrow, you know 
we act the ‘ Death of Csesar,’ and Fred • 
erick takes the character of ‘ Brutus.’ ” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Count Manteuflel, 
thoughtfully, “ it strikes me the king is 
playing the part of Brutus ; to the eye 
he seems harmless and gay, but who 
know^s what dark thoughts, pregnant 
with mischief, are hid in his soul ? ” 

“ You are always seeing ghosts,” re- 
plied Madame von Brandt, impatiently. 
“ But hear I the court clock is striking 
six ; it is high time for me to return to 
the castle, for at seven the last rehearsal 
commences, and I have still to dress.” 
And the gay court lady hastily took 
leave of her ally, and sped to the cas- 
tle. 

But she had no need to dress for the 
rehearsal. The king w^as not able to 
act; the strong will was to-day con- 
quered by an enemy who stands in 
awe of no one, not even of a monarch 
— an enemy who can vanquish the 


HE PASSED THE DAY IN HIS LIBRARY. 











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IN RHEINSBERG. 


179 


most victorious commander. Freder- 
ick was ill of a fever, whicli had tor- 
mented him the whole summer, which 
nad kept him from visiting Amster- 
dam, and which confined him to his 
bed in the castle of Moyland, while 
Voltaire w^as paying his long-expected 
visit ; had again taken a powerful hold 
upon him, and made of the king a pale, 
trembling man, who lay shivering and 
groaning upon his bed, scoffing at El- 
lart, his physician, because he could 
not cure him. 

“There is a remedy,” said Ellart, 
“but I dare not give it to your majes- 
ty.” 

“ And why not ? ” said the king. 

“ Because its strength must first be 
tested, to see if it can be used without 
danger ; it must first be tried by a pa- 
tient upon whose life the happiness of 
millions does not depend.” 

“ A human life is always sacred, and, 
if not certain of your remedy, it is as 
vicious to give it to a beggar as to a 
king.” 

“ I believe,” said Ellart, “ as entirely 
in this remedy as Louis the Fourteenth, 
who bought it secretly from Talbot, 
the Englishman, and paid him a hun- 
dred crowns for a pound. The wife 
of the King of Spain was cured by 
it.” 

“ Give me this remedy,” said Fred- 
erick, with chattering teeth. 

“Pardon me, your majesty, but I 
dare not, though I have a small quan- 
tity with me which was sent me by a 
friend from Paris, and which I brought 
to show you as a great curiosity. This 
tiny brown powder is a medicine which 
was not distilled by the apothecary, 
l)ut by Nature.” 

“ Then I have confidence in it,” said 
the king; “Nature is the best physi- 
cian, the best apothecary, and what 
she brews is full of divine healing pow- 
er. What is this remedy called ? ” 

“ It is the Peruvian bark, or quinine. 


the bark above all barks, which, by a 
divine Providence, grows in Peru, the 
land of fevers.” 

But the king had not the strength to 
listen to him. He now lay burning 
with fever ; a dark purple covered his 
cheek, and his eyes, which, but a feu 
moments before, were dull and lustre- 
less, now sparkled with fire. Over- 
powered by the disease, he closed his 
eyes, and occasionally unconnected, 
senseless words escaped his dry, burn- 
ing lips. 

Fredersdorf now entered, and through 
the open door the anxious, inquiring 
faces of Pollnitz, Bielfeld, Jordan, and 
Kaiserling, could be seen. 

On tip-toe Ellart approached the pri- 
vate chamberlain. 

“ How is the king ? ” said he, hastily. 
“ Is he in a condition to hear some im- 
portant news ? ” 

“Not now. Wait an hour, he will 
then be free from fever.” 

“We will wait,” said Fredersdorf to 
the four courtiers who had entered the 
room, and were now standing around 
the royal bed. 

“ Is it bad news ? If so, I advise you 
to wait until to-morrow.” 

“ Well, I do not believe the king will 
think it bad,” said Kaiserling, laugh- 
ing. 

“ And I am convinced he will be well 
pleased with our news,” said Bielfeld. 
“ I think so, because the king is a sleep- 
ing hero waiting to be roused.” 

“If you speak so loud,” whispered 
Pollnitz, “ it will be you who will wake 
this hero, and the thunder of his anger 
will fall upon you.” 

“ Pollnitz is right,” said Jordan ; “ be 
quiet, and let us await Ms majesty’s 
waking.” And the group stood in si- 
lence around the couch, with eyes fixed 
upon the king. He at last awoke, and 
a smile played upon his lip as he per 
ceived the six cavaliers. 

“You stand there like mourners,” 


180 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


aaid he; “and to look at you one 
would think you were undertakers ! ” 

“Ah, sire, fever does not kill like 
apoplexy,” said Jordan, approaching 
his friend and pressing his hand ten- 
derly. 

“ Your majesty called us underta- 
kers,” said Pollnitz, laughing. “ As 
usual, the divine prophetic mind of 
our king is in the right. There is cer- 
tainly a funeral odor about us.” 

“ But God forbid that we should 
mourn I ” said Bielfeld ; “ we are much 
better prepared to sound the battle- 
song.” 

All this passed while the physician 
was feeling the king’s pulse, and Fre- 
dersdorf was tenderly arranging his pil- 
lows. Frederick looked at him inqui- 
ringly. “ Listen, Fredersdorf,” said he, 
“ what meaning have all these mysteri- 
ous words and looks ? why are you all 
so grave ? Is one of my dogs dead ? 
or are you only peevish because this 
abominable fever has cheated you of the 
rehearsal ? ” 

“ No, your majesty. The dogs are in 
excellent health.” 

“ The king’s pulse is perfectly quiet,” 
said Ellart, — “you can communicate 
your news to him.” Baron Pollnitz ap- 
proached the royal couch. 

“ Sire, one hour ago a courier arrived 
who was the bearer of important infor- 
mation.” 

“ Whence came he ? ” said the king, 
calmly. 

“ From your majesty’s ambassador in 
Vienna, Count Borche.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the king, “ is the em- 
press, our noble aunt, suffering ? ” 

“The empress is perfectly well, but 
her husband, the emperor — ” 

“ Well, why do you not continue ? ” 
demanded the king, impatiently. 

“Would your majesty not wish some 
restorative first?” said Fredersdorf; 
but the king pushed him angrily 
away. 


“ I want your news, Pollnitz. What 
of the Emperor of Germany ? ” 

“ Sire, the Emperor Charles the Sixth 
is no more ; he died on the twentieth of 
October.” 

“ Truly,” replied Frederick, leaning 
back, “ it was worth the trouble to 
make so much ado about such insig- 
nificant news ! If the emperor is dead, 
Maria Theresa will be Empress of Ger- 
many, that is all. It does not concern 
us.” He stopped and closed his eyes. 

The physician again felt his pulse. 
“ It is perfectly quiet,” said he ; “ this 
prodigious news has not occasioned the 
slightest commotion or irregularity.” 

“ You are right,” said the king, look- 
ing up. “ Neither will the death of the 
Emperor Charles make the slightest 
change in our plans, but to execute 
them I must be perfectly well. It must 
not be said that a miserable fever 
changed my intentions and condemned 
me to idleness ; I must have no fever 
on the day the news of the emperor’s 
death arrives, or the good people of 
Vienna will believe that I was made ill 
with fright. Give me that powder, 
Ellart — I will take it.” 

“ But I told your majesty that I can- 
not, dare not give it to you, for I have 
not yet tried its effect. ” 

“Then try it on me,” said the king, 
positively. “ Give me the powder.” 

It was in vain that Ellart called upon 
the cavaliers to support his opinion ; in 
vain that they begged and implored 
the king not to take the powder, not 
to f)ut his life in danger. 

“ My life is in'God’s hands,” said the 
king, earnestly ; “ and God, who crea- 
ted me, created also this bark. I trust 
more in God’s medicine than in that of 
man. Quick, give me the powder I ” 
And, as Ellart still hesitated, he contin- 
ued in a stern voice : “ I command you, 
as your king and master, to give it to 
me. On my head rests the responsibil 
ity.” 


IN RHEINSBERG. 


181 


“ If your majesty commands I must 
obey, but I take these gentlemen to wit- 
ness that I but do it on compulsion.” 

And, amid the breathless silence of 
the room, the king took the medicine. 

“ Now your majesty must rest,” said 
Ellart; “ you must, by no means, return 
to Berlin ; by my holy right of physi- 
cian, I forbid it I ” 

“ And why should I return to Ber- 
lin ?” said the king, laughingly. “ Why 
should our harmless pleasures and 
amusements be given up ? Are we not 
to act Voltaire’s ‘ Death of Caesar ? ’ 
No, I will not return to Berlin. A tri- 
fle, such as the emperor’s death, should 
not create such great disturbances. We 
will remain here and renew our former 
happy days, and forget that we have 
any duty but our enjoyment. Now, 
gentlemen, leave me — I am well. — You 
see, Ellart, I did well to take that med- 
icine; I will dress. — Fredersdorf, re- 
main here. — Jordan, send me Secretary 
Eichel. I must dictate a few necessary 
letters, and then, gentlemen, we will 
meet in the music-room, where I am to 
play a duet with Quantz. I invite you 
as audience.” 

The king dismissed his friends with 
a gracious smile, jested gayly with 
Fredersdorf, and then dictated three 
letters to his secretary. One was to 
Marshal von Schwerin, the other to 
the Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, and the 
third to Ambassador Podrilse. The 
three contained the same words, the 
game command, telling them to come 
immediately to Rheinsberg. He then 
entered the music-room, and never was 
Frederick so gay, so witty, and uncon- 
strained ; never did he play on his flute 
more beautifully than, on the day he 
heard of the death of the Emperor of 
Germany. The following morning the 
three gentlemen arrived from Berlin, 
and were at once admitted into the 
king’s library. Frederick met them 
with a proud, happy smile; his eye 


beamed with an unnsual light; his 
forehead was smooth and free from 
care ; he seemed inspired. 

“ The Emperor of Germany is dead,” 
said he, after the gentlemen were seated. 
“ The emperor is dead, and I have sent 
for you to see what benefit we can de- 
rive from his death ! ” 

“ Oh, your majesty would not think 
of benefiting by a death which throws 
a royal house, nearly connected with 
you, into deep sorrow, and robs the 
reigning Queen of Prussia of an uncle ! ” 
exclaimed the old Prince of Dessau, sol- 
emnly. 

“ Oh, it is well known that you are 
an imperialist,” said the king, laughing. 

“No, your majesty, but a difficulty 
with Austria would be a great misfor- 
tune for us.” 

Frederick shrugged his shoulders, 
and turned to the other two. 

“ I also wish for your opinion, gentle- 
men,” said he ; “ you are all men of ex- 
perience, soldiers, and statesmen, an:l 
you must not refuse to advise one of 
my youth and inexperience.” 

With a quiet smile he listened to 
their wise, peaceful propositions. 

“You then doubt my right to Si- 
lesia ! ” said he, after a pause. “ You 
do not think I am justified in deman l- 
ing this Silesia, which was dishonestly 
torn from my ancestors by the Haps- 
burger ? ” 

“But your ancestors still kept the 
peace,” said the Prince of Dessau; 
“they left Silesia in the undisturbe d 
possession of the Austrians.” 

“Yes,” said the king, in a firm voice, 
— “and when my ancestors, outwitted 
by the cunning intrigues of the Aus- 
trian court, accommodated themselves 
to this necessity, — when for rendered 
services they were rewarded with base 
ingratitude, with idle, and unmeaning 
promises, then they called upon their 
descendants to revenge such injustice, 
such insults to their honor and rights 


182 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Frederick William, the Great Elector, 
cried prophetically when the house of 
Austria deserted him and denied her 
sworn promises — ‘An avenger will rise 
from my ashes 1’ and my father, when 
he had witnessed to the full the ingrati- 
tude of the Austrian court, felt that 
there could be no peace between the 
houses of Hapsburg and Brandenburg, 
and he intrusted to me the holy mis- 
sion of punishing and humiliating 
this proud, conceited court ; he pointed 
me out to his ministers, and said: 
‘There stands one who will avenge 
me! You see that my ancestors call 
me, my grandfather and father chose 
me for their champion and avenger; 
they call upon me to perform that 
which they, prevented by circumstan- 
ces, could not accomplish; the hour 
which my ancestors designated has ar- 
rived — the hour of retribution I The 
time has come when the old political 
system must undergo an entire change. 
The stone has broken loose which is to 
roll upon Nebuchadnezzar’s image and 
crush it. It is time to open the eyes of 
the Austrians, and to show them that 
the little Marquis of Brandenburg, 
whose duty they said it was to hand 
the emperor after meals the napkin and 
finger-bowl, has become a king, who 
will not be humbled by the Austrians, 
and who acknowledges none but God 
as his master. Will you help me ? will 
you stand by me in this work with 
your experience and your advice ? ” 

“ We will ! ” cried the three, with 
animation, borne away by their mon- 
arch’s noble ardor. “ Our life, our 
blood, belong to our king, our coun- 
try.” 

Fredenck laughingly shook hands 
with them. “ I counted upon you,” 
said he, “ nor will Ziethen and Winter- 
feldt fail us ; we will not go to battle 
hastily and unprepared. All was fore- 
seen, all prepared, and we have now 
out to put in execution the plans that 


have for some time been agitating my 
brain. Here is the map for our cam- 
paign; here are the routes and the 
plan of attack. We shall at last stand 
before these Austrians in battle array ; 
and as they dared to say of my father, 
that his gun was ever cocked, but the 
trigger never pulled, we will show 
them that we are ready to fight, and 
bring down the double eagle from its 
proud pinnacle. The combat is deter- 
mined and unalterable ; let us be wary 
and prudent — no one must discover 
our plans; we will surprise the Aus- 
trians. And now, gentlemen, examine 
these plans, and tell me if there are any 
changes to be made in them.” 


CHAPTER VH. 

THE KIHG AND HIS FRIEND, 

For several hours the king remained 
in earnest council with his advisers. 
As they left him he called Jordan, and 
advanced to meet him with both hands 
extended. 

“ Well, Jordan, rejoice with me ; my 
days of illness are over, and there will 
be life and movement in this rusty and 
creaking machine of state. You have 
often called me a bold eagle ; now we 
shall see if my wings have strength to 
bear me to great deeds, and if my claws 
are sharp enough to pluck out the 
feathers of the double eagle. 

“ So my suspicions are correct, and 
it is against Austria that my king will 
make his first warlike movement ? ” 

“ Yes, against Austria ; against this 
proud adversary, who, with envious 
and jealous eyes, watches my every 
step ; who is pleased to look upon 
Prussia as her vassal ; whose emperor 
considered it beneath his dignity to 
extend his hand to my father, or offer 
him a seat ; and now I will refuse the 


THE KING AND HIS FRIEND. 


183 


Hand to Austria, and force her from 
her comfortable rest.” 

“For you also, my king, will the 
days of quiet be over ; your holy and 
happy hours with poetry, philosophy, 
and the arts, must be given up. The 
favorite of Apollo will become the son 
of Mars ; we who are left behind can 
only look after you, we can do nothing 
for you, not even offer our breasts as a 
shield against danger and death.” 

“Away with such thoughts,” said 
Frederick, smiling ; “ Death awaits us 
all, and if he finds me on the field of 
battle, my friends, my subjects, and 
history will not forget me. That is a 
comfort and a hope ; and yon, Jordan, 
you know that I lielieve in a great, ex- 
alted, and almighty Being, who governs 
the world. I believe in God, and I 
leave my fate confidently in His 
hands. The ball which strikes me 
comes from Him ; and if I escape the 
battle - field, a murderous hand can 
reach me, even in my bedchamber; 
and surely that would be a less hon- 
orable, less famous death. I must do 
something great, decisive, and worthy 
of renown, that my people may love 
me, and look up to me with confidence 
and trust. It is not enough to be a 
king by inheritance and birth, I must 
prove by my deeds that I merit it. Si- 
lesia offers me a splendid opportunity, 
and truly I think the circumstances 
afford me a solid and sure basis for 
fame.” 

“ Alas 1 I see,” sighed Jordan, “ that 
the love of your subjects, and the en- 
thusiastic tenderness of your friends, are 
not sufficient for you ; you would seek 
renown.” 

“ Yes, you are right ; this glittering 
phantom. Fame, is ever before my eyes. 
I know it is folly, but once listen to her 
intoxicating whispers, and she cannot 
be cast off. Speak not, then, of expos- 
ure, or care, or danger; these are as 
dust in the balance ; I am amazed that 


the fierce passion does not turn every 
man’s head.” 

“Alas! your majesty, the thiist foi 
fame has cost thousands of men their 
reasons and their lives. The field of 
battle is truly the golden book of 
heroes, but their names must be writ 
ten therein in blood.” 

“ It is true,” said the king, thought- 
fully, “ a field of battle is a sad picture 
for a poet and a philosopher; but 
every man in this world must pursue 
his calling, and I will not pause with 
my work half accomplished. I love 
war for the sake of fame. Pity me not, 
Jordan, because these days of illness, 
and peace, and gayety, are over ; be- 
cause I must go into the rough field, 
while you amuse yourself with Horace, 
study Pausanias, and laugh and make 
merry with Anacreon. I envy you not. 
Fame beckons me with her alluring 
glance. My youth, the fire of passion, 
the thirst for renown, and a mysteri- 
ous and unconquerable power, tear me 
from this life of indolence. The glow- 
ing desire to see my name connected 
with great deeds in the journals and 
histories of the times, drives me to tin 
battle-field.* There will I earn the 
laurel - wreaths which kings find not 
in their cradles, or upon their thrones, 
but which, as men and heroes, they 
must conquer for themselves and place 
upon their brows.” 

“ The laurel will deck the brow ot 
my hero, my Frederick, for all time,” 
said Jordan, with tears in his eyes. “ I 
see before you a glorious future; it 
may be I shall have passed away — but 
where will my spirit be ? When 1 
stand near you and look upon you, I 
know that the spirit is immortal. The 
soul, noble and godlike, will be ever 
near you ; so, whether living or dead, 
I am thine, to love you as ray friend, 
to honor you as my sovereign, to ad- 


♦ The king’s own words. 


184 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IIIS COURT. 


mire you as a gifted genius, glowing 
with godly fire.” 

“ Oh, speak not of death,” said the 
king, “ speak not of death ; I have 
aeed of you, and it seems to me that 
true friendship must be strong enough 
3 ven to conquer death I Yes, Jordan, 
ve have need of each other, we belong 
wO each other ; and it would be cruel, 
mdeea, to rob me of a treasure which 
we, poor kings, so rarely possess, a 
faithful and sincere friend. No, Jor- 
dan, you will be my Cicero to defend 
the justice of my cause, and I will be 
your Caesar to carry out the cause hap- 
pily and triumphantly.” 

Jordan was speechless ; he shook his 
head sadly. The king observed him 
anxiously, and saw the deep, feverish 
purple spots, those roses of the grave, 
upon the hollow cheeks of his friend ; 
he sa w tnat he grew daily weaker ; he 
heard the hot, quick breathing which 
came panting from his breast, A sad 
presentiment took possession of his 
heart, the smile vanished from his lips, 
he could not conceal his emotion, and 
walking to the window, he leaned his 
hot brow upon the glass, and shed 
tears which none but God should see. 
“My God, my God, how poor is a 
prince! I have so few friends, and 
these will soon pass away 1 Suhm lies 
ill in Mavschau ; perhaps I shall never 
see him again. Jordan is near me, but 
I see death in his face, and he will soon 
be torn from my side.” 

Jordan stood immovable and looked 
toward the king, who still leaned his 
head upon the window; he did not 
dare to disturb him, and yet he had 
important and sad news to announce. 
At last Jordan laid his hand upon his 
shoulder. 

“ Pardon, my king,” said he, in trem- 
bling tones, “ pardon that I dare to in- 
terrupt you ; but a hero dare not give 
himself up to sad thoughts before the 
battle, and when he thinks of Death he 


must greet him with laughter, for 
Death is his ally and his adjutant ; and 
even if his ally grasps his nearest and 
best-beloved friend, the hero and the 
conqueror must yield him up as an of- 
fering to victory.” 

The king turned quickly toward the 
speaker. “You have death-news to 
give me,” said he, curtly, leaning 
asrainst the back of his chair. “ Yon 
have death-news for me, Jordan ! ” 

“Yes, news of death, my prince,” 
said he, deeply moved ; “ fate will ac- 
custom your majesty to such trials, that 
your heart may not falter when your 
friends fall around you in the day of 
battle.” 

“It is, then, a friend who is dead,” 
said Frederick, turning pale. 

“ Yes, sire, your best beloved.” 

The king said nothing; sinking in 
a chair, and grasping the arms convul- 
sively, he leaned his head back, and in 
a low voice asked, “ Is it Suhm ? ” 

“Yes, it is Suhm; he died at Mar- 
schau. Here is his last letter to your 
highness; his brother sent it to me, 
that I might hand it to your majesty.” 

The king uttered a cry of anguish, 
and clasped his hands before his pallid 
face. Big tears ran down his cheeks ; 
with a hasty movement he shook them 
from his eyes, then opened and read 
the letter. As he scanned it he sighed 
and sobbed aloud : “ Suhm is dead ! 
Suhm is dead! the friend who loved 
me so sincerely, even as I loved him. 
That noble man, who combined intel- 
lect, sincerity, and sensibility. My 
heart is in mourning for him ; so long 
as a drop of blood flows in my veins 1 
will remember him, and his family 
shall be mine. My heart bleeds, and 
the wound is deep.” 

The king, mastered by his grief, laid 
his head in his hand and wept aloud. 
Then, after a long pause, he raised 
himself; he was calm and stem. “Jor- 
dan,” said he, firmly, “ Death hath no 


THE FAREWELL AUDIENCE OF MARQUIS VON BOTTER. 


more power over me, never again can 
he wring my heart ; ne has laid an iron 
shield upon me, and when I go to 
battle I must be triumphant ; my friend 
has been offered up as a victim. Jor- 
dan, Jordan, my wound bleeds, but I 
will bind it up, and no man shall see 
even the blood-stained cloth with which 
I cover it. I have overcome Death, and 
now will I offer battle and conquer as 
becomes a hero and a king. What 
cares the world that I suffer? The 
world shall know nothing of it ; a mask 
before my face, and silence as to my 
agony. We will laugh and jest while 
we sorrow for our friend, and prepare 
to meet the enemy. We will play Cae- 
sar and Antonius now; hereafter we 
may really imitate them. Come, Jor- 
dan, come, we will try ‘ The Death of 
Caesar.’ ” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE FABEWELL AUDIENCE OP MARQUIS 
VON BOTTER, THE AUSTRIAN AM- 
BASSADOR. 

This was to be fete day in the royal 
palace of Berlin. The king intended 
giving a splendid dinner, after which 
the court would take coffee in the newly- 
furnished rooms of the dowager-queen, 
and a masked ball was prepared for 
the evening, to which the court, the 
nobility, and higher officials, were in- 
vited. 

The court-mourning for the emperor 
was at an end, and every one was de- 
termined to enjoy the pleasures of the 
carnival. Never had the court led so 
gay, so luxurious a life. Even the 
good old citizens of Berlin seemed to 
appreciate this new administration, 
which brought so much money to the 
poorer classes, and such heavy profits 
to tradesmen. They believed that this 
extravagant court brought them great- 
er gains than an economical one and 


185 

were therefore contented with the new 
order of things. 

The king had refurnished the palace 
with an unheard-of splendor. In the 
apartment of the queen-mother there 
was a room in which all the ornaments 
and decorations were of massive gold. 
Even the French and English ambassa- 
dors were astonished at this “ Golden 
Cabinet,” and declared that such splen- 
dor and magnificence could not be 
found in the palaces of Paris or Lon- 
don. The people of Berlin, as we have 
said, were becoming proud of their 
court and their king, and they thought 
it quite natural that this young ruler, 
v/ho was only twenty-eight years old, 
should interest himself very little in 
the affairs of state, and should give his 
time to pleasure and amusement. 

The king had accomplished his de- 
sire. No one suspected the deep de- 
signs which he concealed under this 
idle play. No one dreamed that this 
gay, smiling prince, on whose lips 
there was always a witty jest or 'hon- 
mot; who proposed a concert every 
evening, in which he himself took part ; 
who surrounded himself with artists, 
poets, and gay cavaliers, with whom 
he passed many nights of wild mirth 
and gayety — no one dreamed that this 
harmless, ingenuous young prince was 
on the point of overthrowing the ex- 
isting politics of the European states, 
and of giving an entirely new form to 
the whole of Germany. 

The king had not raised his mask 
for a moment; he had matured his 
plans under the veil of inviolate secre- 
cy. The moment of their accomplish- 
ment had now arrived; this evening, 
duiing the ball which had been pre- 
pared with such pomp and splendor, 
the king with his regiments would 
leave Berlin and proceed on his march 
to Silesia. But the troops did not 
know their destination. The journals 
had announced that the army would 


186 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


leave Berlin and go into new winter 
quarters, and this account was gener- 
ally believed. Only a few confidants, 
and the generals who were to accom- 
pany the king, were acquainted with 
this secret. Frederick, after a final 
conference, in which he gave the last 
instructions and orders, said : 

“ Now, gentlemen, that we have ar- 
ranged our business, we will think of 
our pleasure. I will see you this even- 
ing at the ball ; we will take a turn 
once more with the ladies before we 
begin our war-dance.” 

As the generals left him, his servant 
entered to assist at his toilet. Peli ssier, 
the French tailor, had prepared a new 
and magnificent costume for this even- 
ing, made in the latest Parisian style. 
The king desired to appear once more 
in great splendor before exchanging 
the saloon for the camp. Never had 
he bestowed such care upon his toilet ; 
never had he remained so patiently 
under the hands of the barber; he 
even went to the large mirror when his 
toilet was completed, and carefully 
examined his appearance and costly 
dress. 

“Well,” he said, smiling, “if the 
Marquis von Hotter is not deceived by 
this dandy that I see before me, it is 
not my fault. The good Austrian am- 
bassador must be very cunning indeed, 
if he discovers a warrior in this per- 
fumed fop. I think he will be able to 
tell my cousin, Maria Theresa, nothing 
more than that the King of Prussia 
knows how to dress himself, and is the 
model of fashion.” 

The king passed into the rooms of 
the queen-mother, where the court was 
assembled, and where he had granted a 
farewell audience to the Marquis von 
Botter, the ambassador of the youthful 
Empress of Austria. Frederick was 
right : th'e marquis had been deceived 
by the mask of harmless gayety and 
thoughtless happiness assumed by the 


king and court. He had been sent oy 
the empress with private instruct! ms 
to sound the intentions of the Prussian 
monarch, while his apparent business 
was to return her acknowledgments 
for the congratulations of the King of 
Prussia on her ascension to the throne. 

The Marquis von Botter, as we have 
said, had been deceived by the gay and 
thoughtless manner of the king, and 
Manteufiel’s warnings and advice had 
been thrown away. 

The marquis had withdrawn with 
Manteufifel to one of the windows, to 
await the entrance of the king; the 
ladies and gentlemen of the court were 
scattered through the rooms of the 
queen-mother, who was playing cards 
with Queen Christine in the golden 
cabinet. 

“I leave Berlin,” said the marquis 
“ with the firm conviction that the king 
has the most peaceful intentions.” 

“ As early as to-morrow your convic- 
tions will be somewhat shaken,” replied 
Manteuffel, “ for this very night the 
king and his army depart for Silesia.” 

At this moment the king appeared at 
the door of the Golden Cabinet. There 
was a sudden silence, and all bent low 
before the brilliant young monarch. 

Frederick bowed graciously, but re- 
mained in the doorway, glancing over 
the saloon; it appeared to afford him 
pleasure to exhibit himself to the ad- 
miring gaze of those present. He stood 
a living picture of youth, beauty, and 
manliness. 

“ Only look at this richly-dressed, 
elegant young man,” whispered Mar- 
quis vqn Botter ; “ look at his youthful 
countenance, beaming with pleasure 
and delight; at his hands, adorned 
with costly rings, so white and sofi 
that they would do honor to the most 
high-bred lady ; at that slender foot, in 
its glittering shoe. Do you wish to 
convince me that this small foot will 
march to battle; that this delicate 


THE FAREWELL AUDIENCE 

Hand, only fitted to hold a smelling- 
bottle or a pen, will wield a sword ? 
Oh, my dear count, you make me merry 
with your gloomy prophecies I ” 

“ Still I entreat you to believe me. 
As soon as your audience is over, hasten 
to your hotel, and return to Vienna 
with all possible speed ; allow yourself 
not an hour of sleep, not a moment for 
refreshment, until you have induced 
your empress to send her army to Si- 
lesia. If you do not, if you despise 
my advice, the King of Prussia will 
reach Silesia before you are in Vienna, 
and the empress will receive this intel- 
ligence, which you do not credit, from 
the fleeing inhabitants of her province, 
which will have been conquered with- 
out a blow.” 

The deep earnestness of the count had 
in it something so impressive, so con- 
vincing, that the marquis felt his confi- 
dence somewhat shaken, and looked 
doubtfully at the young monarch, who 
was now smiling and conversing with 
some of the ladies. 

But even in speaking, the king had 
not lost sight of those two gentlemen 
who were leaning against the window, 
and whose thoughts he read in their 
countenances. He now met the eye of 
the marquis, and motioned to him to 
come forward. The latter immedi- 
ately approached the king, who stood 
in the centre of the saloon, surrounded 
by his generals. 

Every eye was turned toward the 
glittering group, in which the young 
king was prominent: for those to 
whom the intentions of Frederick were 
imown, this was an interesting piece of 
acting ; while for the uninitiated, who 
had only an uncertain suspicion of 
what was about to happen, it was a 
favorable moment for observation. 

The Austrian ambassador now stood 
before the king, making a deep and 
ceremonious bow. Frederick returned 
the salutation, and said : 


OF MARQUIS VON BOTTER. . 187 

“You have really come to take leave, 
marquis ? ” 

“Sire, her majesty, my honored em- 
press, recalls me, and I must obey her 
commands, happy as I should be, if I 
were privileged, to sun myself still 
longer in your noble presence.” 

“ It is true a little sunshine would be 
most beneficial to you, marquis. You 
will have a cold journey.” 

“Ah! your majesty, the cold is au 
evil that could easily be endured.” 

“ There are, then, other evils which 
will harass you on your journey ? ” 

“ Yes sire, there is the fearful road 
through Silesia, that lamentable Aus- 
trian province. Ah! your majesty, 
this is a road of which, in your blessed 
land, you have no idea, and which is 
happily unknown in other Austrian 
provinces. This poor Silesia has given 
only care and sorrow to the empress ; 
but, perhaps, for that reason she loves 
it so well, and would so gladly assist it. 
But even Nature seems to prevent the 
accomplishment of her noble intentions. 
Heavy rains have destroyed the roads 
which had, with great expense, been 
rendered passable, and I learn to my 
horror, that it is scarcely possible for a 
traveller to pass them without running 
the greatest danger.” 

“Well,” said the king, quietly, “I 
imagine that notliing could happen to 
the traveller that could not be remedied 
by a bath and a change of dress.” 

“Excuse me, sire,” cried the mar- 
quis, eagerly, “ he would risk his health, 
yes, even his life, in crossing the deep 
marshes, covered with , standing water, 
which are common in that country. 
Oh, those are to be envied who need 
not expose themselves to this danger ! ” 

The king was wearied with tliia 
crafty diplomatic play; he was tired 
of the piercing glances with which the 
ambassador scanned his countenance. 
In the firm conviction of his success, 
and the noble pride of his open and 


188 


FHEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS CC URT. 


truth-loviug nature, it pleased him to 
allow the mask to fall, which had con- 
cealed his heroic and warlike inten- 
tions from the marquis. The moment 
of action had arrived; it was, there- 
fore, no longer necessary to wear the 
veil of secrecy. 

“ Well, sir,” said the king, in a loud, 
firm voice, “if you feel so great a 
dread of this journey, I advise you to 
remain in Berlin. I will go in your 
place into Silesia, and inform my hon- 
ored cousin, Maria Theresa, with the 
voice of my cannon, that the Silesian 
roads are too dangerous for an Austrian, 
but are most convenient for the King 
of Prussia to traverse on his way to 
Breslau.” 

“ Your majesty really intends march- 
ing to Breslau!” asked the horrified 
marquis. 

“Yes, sir, to Breslau; and, as you 
remarked, the roads are too dangerous 
for a single traveller, and I intend 
taking my army with me to protect my 
carriage,” 

“Then,” exclaimed the marquis, 
“your majesty intends making a de- 
scent on the lands of my exalted sov- 
ereign.” 

The king glanced proudly and scorn- 
fully at this daring man. An involun- 
tary' murmur arose among the courtiers; 
the hands of the generals sought their 
swords, as if they would challenge this 
presumptuous Austrian, who dared to 
reproach the King of Prussia. 

The king quieted his generals with a 
slight motion of his hand, and, turning 
again to the marquis, he said com- 
posedly, “ You express yourself incor- 
rectly, marquis. I will make no de- 
scent upon the lands of the Empress of 
Austria; I will but reclaim what is 
mine — mine by acknowledged right, by 
inheritance, and by solemn contract. 
The records of this claim are in the 
itate department of Austria, and the 
empress need only read these documents 


to convince herself of my right tc the 
province of Silesia.” 

“ Your majesty, by this undertaking, 
may, perhaps, ruin the house of Aus- 
tria, but wiU most certainly destroy 
your own.” 

“ It depends upon the empress to ac- 
cept or reject the propositions which I 
have made to her through my ambassa- 
dor in Vienna.” 

The marquis glanced ironically at 
the king, and said : “ Sire, your troops 
are fair to see ; the Austrian army has 
not that glittering exterior, but they 
are veterans who have already stood 
fire.” 

,“You think my troops are showy,” 
he said, impetuously ; “ eli iien^ I will 
convince you that they are equally 
brave.” 

Thus speaking, the king gave the 
Austrian ambassador a bow of dis- 
missal. The audience was at an end. 
The ambassador made a ceremonious 
bow, and left the room amid profound 
silence. 

Scarcely had the door closed behind 
him before the noble countenance of 
the king had recovered its usual calm 
and lofty expression. 

He said gayly : “ Mesdames et mes- 
sieurs^ it is time to prepare for the 
masked ball ; I have thrown aside my 
mask for a moment, but you, doubtless, 
think it time to assume yours. Fare 
well until then.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MASQUERADE. 

The saloons were brilliantly illumi- 
nated, and a train of gayly-intermin- 
gled, fantastically-attired figures were 
moving to and fro in the royal palace. 
It seemed as if the representatives of 
all nations had come together to greet 
the heroic young king. Greeks and 


THE MASQUERADE. 


189 


Tuiks were there in gold-embroidered, 
bejewelled apparel, Odalisks, Span- 
ish, Russian, and German peasant-wo- 
men in every variety of costume ; glit- 
tering fairies, sorceresses, and fortune- 
telling gypsies ; grave monks, ancient 
knights in silver armor, castle dames, 
and veiled nuns. It was a magnificent 
spectacle to behold, these splendidly- 
decorated saloons, filled with so great a 
variety of elegant costumes; and had 
it not been for the lifeless, grinning, 
aud distorted faces, one might have 
imagined himself transported to Ely- 
sium, where all nations and all races 
are united in unclouded bliss. But 
the cold, glittering masks which con- 
cealed the bright faces, sparkling with 
animation and pleasure, somewhat 
marred the effect of this spectacle, and 
recalled the enraptured spectator to 
the present, and to the stern reality. 

Only in the last of these saloons was 
there an unmasked group. In this 
room sat the two queens, glittering 
with gems, for it was no longer neces- 
sary for Sophia Dorothea to conceal her 
jewels ; without fear she could now ap- 
pear before her court in her magnificent 
diamonds; and Elizabeth Christine, 
who well knew that her husband loved 
to see his queen appear in a magnifi- 
cence befitting her dignity on festive 
occasions, had adorned herself with 
the exquisite parure which excited the 
admii’ation of the entire court, and 
which Baron Bielfeld declared to be a 
perfect miracle of beauty. Next to the 
two queens and the Princesses Ulrica 
and Amelia, stood the king in his mag- 
nificent ball-costume. Behind the royal 
family stood their suite, holding their 
masks in their hands, for all were re- 
quired to uncover their faces on enter- 
ing the room in which the royal family 
were seated. 

The king and the queen were now to 
fulfil the promises they had made each 
other ; Sophia Dorothea was about to 


receive Count N6al, while the king was 
to welcome the recently- married Count- 
ess Rhedern to court. 

The loud and ironical voice ('f the 
master of ceremonies, Baron Pol Ini tz, 
had just announced to the royal family 
the arrival of Count and Countess Rhe- 
dern and Count N6al, and they were now 
entering the saloon, the sanctuary 
which was only open to the favored 
and privileged — only to those of high 
birth, or those whose offices required 
them to be near the king’s person. No 
one else could enter the saloon without 
special invitation. 

The newly-made Countess Rhedern 
made her entrance on the arm of her 
husband. Her face was perfectly tran- 
quil and grave ; an expression of deter- 
mination rested on her features, which, 
although no longer possessing the charm 
of youth and beauty, were still interest- 
ing. Her countenance was indicative 
of energy and decision. An expression 
of benevolence played around her large 
but well-formed mouth ; and her dark 
eyes, which w’^ere not cast down, but 
rested quietly on the royal family, ex- 
pressed so much spirit and intelligence, 
that it was evident she was no ordinary 
woman, but a firm and resolute one, who 
had courage to challenge fate, and, if 
necessary, to shape her own destiny. 

But the proud and impeiious Queen 
Sophia Dorothea felt disagreeably im- 
pressed by the earnest glances with 
which the countess regarded her. If she 
had approached her tremblingly, and 
with downcast eyes, crushed, as it were, 
by the weight of this unheard-of con- 
descension on the part of royalty, the 
queen-mother would have been inclined 
to pardon her want of birth, and to for- 
get her nameless descent ; but the quiet 
and unconstrained bearing of the newly- 
created countess enraged her. More- 
over, she felt offended by the elegant 
and costly toilet of the countess. The 
long silver-embroidered train, fastened 


FREDERICK TEE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


to her shoulders with jewelled clasps, 
was of a rarer and more costly material 
than even the robe of the queen ; the 
diadem, necklace, and jewelled brace- 
lets could rival the parure of the queen, 
and Sophia Dorothea experienced al- 
most a sensation of envy at the sight 
of the large fan which the countess 
held half opened in her hand, and with 
which the queen had nothing that 
could compare. The fan was of real 
Chinese workmanship, and ornamented 
with incomparable carvings in ivory 
and beautiful paintings. 

The queen-dowager acknowledged 
the thrice-repeated courtesy of Count- 
ess Rhedern wu'th a slight inclination 
of the head only, while Queen Eliza- 
beth Christine greeted her with a gra- 
cious smile. 

The king, who noticed the cloud 
gathering on his mother’s brow, and 
very well knew its cause, was amused 
to see the queen-mother, who had so 
warmly advocated the reception of 
Countess Rhedern at court, now receive 
her so coldly ; and, wishing to jest with 
his mother on the subject of this short- 
lived fancy, he greeted the countess 
very graciously, and, turning to his 
mother, said : 

“You have done well, madame, to 
invite this beautiful countess to the 
court ; she wiU be a great acquisition, a 
great ornament.” 

“ A great ornament,” repeated Sophia 
Dorothea, who now considered the 
quiet and unconstrained bearing of the 
countess as disrespectful to herself; and 
fixing her proud and scornful glances 
upon her as she contemptuously re- 
peated the king’s words, she said; 
“ What a singular train you wear I ” 

“It is of Indian manufacture,” said 
the countess, quietly ; “ my father is con- 
nected with several mercantile houses 
in Holland, and from one of these I ob- 
tained the curious cloth which has at- 
tracted your majesty’s attention.” 


Sophia Dorothea reddened with 
shame and indignation. This woman 
had the audacity not only not to be 
ashamed of her past life, over which 
she should have drawn a veil, but she 
dared in this brillant company, in the 
presence of two queens, to speak of 
her father’s business relations — even 
while the queen magnanimously wished 
to forget and veil the obscurity of her 
birth. 

“ Ah I ” said the queen-mother, “you 
wear an article from your father’s shop ! 
Truly, a convenient and ingenious mode 
of advertising your father’s goods ; 
and hereafter when we regard Countess 
Rhedern, we will know what is her 
father’s latest article of trade.” 

The smile which Queen Sophia per- 
ceived upon the lips of her suite was a 
sufficient reward for her cruel jest. 
The eyes of all were scornfully fixed 
upon the countess, whose husband stood 
at her side, pale and trembling, and with 
downcast eyes. But the young coimt- 
ess remained perfectly composed. 

“ Pardon me, your majesty,” said she, 
in a full, clear voice, “ for daring to 
contradict you, but my father’s busi- 
ness is too well known to need any ad- 
vertisement.” 

“ Well, then, in what does he deal ?’ 
said the queen, angrily. 

“Your majesty,” said the countess, 
bowing respectfully, “ my father’s deal- 
ings are characterized by wisdom, hon- 
or, generosity, and discretion.” 

The queen’s eyes flashed; a shop- 
keeper’s daughter had dared to justify 
herself before her, and to defy and 
scoff at her anger. 

She arose proudly. She wished to 
annihilate this newly-created countes.s 
with her withering contempt. But the 
king, who perceived the signs of a 
coming storm upon his mother’s brow% 
determined to prevent this outbreak. 
It wounded his generous soul to see a 
poor, defenceless woman tormented in 


THE MASQUERADE. 


191 


tliis manner. He was too noble-minded 
to take offence at the quiet and com- 
posed bearing of the countess, which 
had excited his mother’s anger. In 
her display of spirit and intelligence, 
he forgot her lowly bhth, and, laying 
his hand gently npon his mother’s 
shoulder, he said, with a smile : 

“Does not your majesty think that 
Countess Rhedern does honor to her 
birth? Her father deals in wisdom, 
honor, and generosity. Well, it seems 
to me that Countess Rhedern has inher- 
ited these noble qualities. — My dear 
countess, I promise you my patronage, 
and will ever be a devoted customer of 
your house if you prove worthy of 
your father.” 

“ That I can promise your majesty,” 
said the countess, an expression of 
proud delight flitting over her counte- 
nance, and almost rendering it beautiful ; 
“ and will your majesty have the kind- 
ness, at some future time,” said she, 
taking her husband’s arm, “ to convince 
yourself that the house of Rhedern 
and Company, to which your majesty 
has so graciously promised his patron- 
age, is in a condition to satisfy his re- 
quirements I ” 

The queen-mother could hardly sup- 
press a cry of anger and indignation. 
The countess had dared to give the 
king an invitation. She had committed 
a breach of etiquette which could only 
be accounted for by the most absolute 
ignorance, or the greatest impertinence, 
and one which the king would assured- 
ly punish. 

But Sophia Dorothea was mistaken. 
Bowing low, the king said, with that 
kindliness of manner which was pe- 
culiar to himself, “ I will take the very 
first opportunity of paying your estab- 
lishment a visit.” 

Sophia Dorothea was very near hunt- 
ing; she could endure this scene no 
longer ; and, giving herself up euthely 
to her anger, she was guilty of the 


same fault which the countess had 
committed through ignorance. For- 
getful of etiquette, she assumed a right 
which belonged to the reigning king 
and queen alone. Arising hastily from 
her seat, she said, impatiently : 

“ I think it is time we should join 
the dancers. Do you not find the music 
very beautiful and enticing? Let us 
go.” 

The king smilingly laid his hand on 
her arm. “You forget, madame, that 
there is another happy man who longs 
to bask in the sunshine of your counte- 
nance. You forget, madame, that 
Count N6al is to have the honor of an 
introduction.” 

The queen gave her son one of those 
proud, resigned, and reproachful looks 
which she had been in the habit of 
directing toward Frederick William 
during her wedded life. She felt con- 
quered, humbled, and powerless. 

The imj)erious expression fled from 
her brow, and found refuge in her eyes 
only. “ And this, too ! ” murmured 
she, sinking back on her seat. She 
barely heard Count Neal’s introduc- 
tion. She acknowledged bis respectful 
greeting with a slight inclination of the 
head, and remained silent. 

The king, who to-day seemed to be 
in a conciliatory mood, again came to 
the rescue. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ Count N^al is 
indeed an enviable man ; he has seen 
what we w'ill probably never see. He 
has been in the lovely, luxurious, and 
dreamy South ; he has seen the sun ol 
India ; he was governor of Surinam.” 

“ Pardon me, your majesty,” said the 
count, proudly ; “ I was not only gov- 
ernor, but vice-regent.” 

“ Ah,” said the king, “ and what are 
the prerogatives of a vice-regent ? ” 

“ I was there esteemed as your majes- 
ty is here. The governor of Surinam 
is approached with the same submis- 
sion, humility, and devotion, he enjoys 


192 


FEEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


the same homage as the King of Prus- 
sia.” 

“Ah, you are then an equal of the 
Eung of Prussia ? Baron Pollnitz, you 
have been guilty of a great oversight ; 
you have forgotten to provide a seat 
for my brother, the King of Surinam. 
You must be indulgent this time, my 
dear brother, but at the next ball we 
will not forget that you are a vice-re- 
gent of Surinam, and woe to the baron 
if he does not then provide a chair I ” 

Pie then took his mother’s arm, and 
signing to Prince Augustus William to 
follow him with the reigning queen, 
i^roceeded to the ballroom. 

On arriving there he released his 
mother’s arm and said : “ If agreeable 
to you, we will lay aside etiquette for a 
short time and mingle with the dan- 
cers.” And without awaiting an an- 
swer, the king bowed and hurried off 
into the adjoining room, followed by 
Pollnitz. He there assumed a domino 
and mask. 

The entire court followed the king’s 
example. The prince, and even the 
reigning queen, took advantage of his 
permission. 

The queen -mother was deserted by 
her suite, and left almost entirely alone 
in this large saloon. Her marshal. 
Count Rhedern, his wife, and the page 
who held her train, were the only per- 
sons who remained. Sophia Dorothea 
heaved a deep sigh ; she felt that she 
was no longer a queen, but a poor 
widow who had vacated the throne. 
Fortunately, Countess Rhedern, the 
wife of her marshal, was still there; 
upon her she could at least vent her 
rage. 

“ Madame,” said she, looking angrily 
at the countess, “ your train is too long ; 
you should have brought some of the 
lads from your father’s store to carry 
this train for you, in order that it might 
be more minutely examined.” 

The countess bowed. “ Your majes- | 


ty must pardon me for not having done 
so, as my father’s assistants are not at 
my disposal. But perhaps we can find 
a remedy if your majesty really thinks 
I need a train-bearer. I suggest that 
some of my father’s principal debtors 
should fill this place. I believe these 
gentlemen would willingly carry my 
train if my father would grant them a 
respite. If your majesty agrees to this 
proposition, I shall at once select two 
of your noblest cavaliers for my train- 
bearers, and will then no longer put 
your brilliant court to shame.” 

The queen did not reply ; she cast 
an angry glance at the quiet and com- 
posed countess, and then walked quiet- 
ly toward the throne, around which 
the royal family had now assembled. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE MASKERS. 

The king, with the assistance of 
Pollnitz, had now completed his toilet * 
he did not wish to be recognized, and 
his dress was similar to hundreos t/ 
others who were wandering through 
the rooms. 

“ Do you think I shall be known ? ” 

“ No, sire, it is not possible. Now 
have the goodness to push your mas’c 
slightly over your eyes; they might 
perhaps betray you.” 

“ Well, these eyes will soon sc j some 
curious things. Did you ever stand 
upon a battle-field as a conqueror, sm 
rounded by corpses, all your living 
enemies having fled before you V ’ 

“Heaven in its mercy preserve n.e 
from such a sight I My enemies, siio, 
have never fled from me ; they chas« 
me and threaten me, and it is of God’s 
great mercy that I have always escaped 
them.” 

“ Who are these pursuing enemies of 
yours ? ” 


THE MASKERS. 


193 


“ They are my creditors, your majes- 
ty, and you may well believe that they 
are more terrible to me than a battle- 
field of corpses. Unhappily, they still 
live, and the fiends torment me.” 

“ Well, Pollnitz, after I have seen my 
first battle-field, in the condition I have 
just described to you, - and returned 
home victorious, I will assist you to 
kill off your rapacious enemies. Until 
then, keep bravely on the defensive. 
Come, let us go, I have only half an 
hour left for pleasure.” 

The king opened the door of the 
cabinet, and, jesting meriily, he mingled 
with the crowd, while Pollnitz re- 
mained near the door, and cast a 
searching glance around the room. 
Presently' a mocking smile flitted over 
his face, and he said to himself: 
“ There, there are all three of them. 
There is the modestly-dressed nun who 
would not be recognized as Madame 
von Morien. There is the king of 
cards, Manteuffel, who is not yet aware 
that a quick eye has seen his hand, and 
bis trumps are all in vain. There at 
last is Madame von Brandt, ‘ The 
Gypsy,’ telling fortunes, and having no 
presentiment of the fate awaiting her- 
self. A little scrap of paper carelessly 
lost and judiciously used by the lucky 
finder is quite sufficient to unmask three 
of the worldly wise.” 

“ Well, baron,” whispered the nun, 
will you fulfil your promise ? ” 

“ Dear Madame von Morien,” replied 
Pollnitz, shrugging Ms shoulders, “ the 
king expressly commanded me not to 
betray him.” 

“ Pollnitz,” said the nun, with a tear- 
ful voice, “ have pity on me ; tell me 
the disguise of the king ; you shall not 
only have my eternal gratitude — but 
look I I know you love diamonds ; see 
this costly pin, which I will give for 
the news I crave ! ” 

‘‘ It is impossible for poor, weak hu- 
man natui’e to resist you,” said Poll- I 
18 


nitz, stretching out his hands eagerly 
for the pin ; “ diamonds have a con- 
vincing eloquence, and I must submit. 
The king has a blue domino embroid- 
ered with silver cord, a white feather 
is fastened in his hat with a ruby pin, 
and his shoe-buckles are of rubies and 
diamonds.” 

“ Thank you,” said the nun, handing 
the pin and mingling hastily with the 
crowd.” 

While Pollnitz was fastening the pin in 
his bosom, the king of cards approach- 
ed, and laid his hand on his shoulder. 

“Well, baron, you see I am punc- 
tual ; answer the questions of yesterday, 
and I will give you all the information 
necessary to secure you a rich and lovely 
wife.” 

“I accept the terms. You wu'sh to 
know what route his majesty will take, 
and the number of his troops: this 
paper contains the information you de- 
sire; I obtained it from a powerful 
friend, one of the confidential servants 
of the king. I had to pay a thousand 
crowns for it ; you see I did not forget 
you.” 

“ Well, here is a draft for four thou- 
sand crowns,” said Manteuffel ; “ you 
see I did not forget your price.” 

“And now for the rich and lovely 
wife ! ” 

“ Listen. In Nuremberg I am ac- 
quainted with a rich family, who have 
but one fair daughter ; she will inherit a 
million. The family is not noble, but 
they wish to marry their daughter to 
a Prussian cavalier. I have proposed 
you, and you are accepted; you have 
only to go to Nuremberg and deliver 
these letters ; you will be received as a 
son, and immediately after the wedding 
you will come into possession of a mil- 
lion.” 

“ A million is not such a large sum, 
after all,” said Pollnitz. “ If I must mar- 
ry a citizen in order to obtain a fortune, I 
know a girl here who is young, beauti- 


194 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


ful, and much in love with me, and I 
think she has not less than a million.” 

“ Well, take the letters— you can con- 
sider the object. Au revoir^ my dear 
baron. Oh, I forgot one other small 
stipulation connected with your mar- 
riage with the Nuremberger ; the fam- 
ily is Protestant, and will not accept 
a Catholic for their rich daughter ; so 
you will have to become a Protestant.” 

“Well, that is a small affair. I was 
once a Protestant, and I think I was 
just as good then as I am now.” 

Manteuffel laughed heartily, and 
withdrew. 

Pollnitz looked thoughtfully at the 
letters, and considered the question of 
the Nuremberg bride. “ I believe Anna 
Pricker has at least a million,” thought 
he, “ and old Pricker lies very ill from 
the shock of his wife’s sudden death. 
H’ our plan succeeds, and Anna becomes 
a great singer, she will have a powerful 
inffuence with the king, and it will be 
forgotten that she is a tailor’s daughter. 
I believe I would rather have Anna 
than the Nuremberger, but I will keep 
the latter in reserve.” 

Pollnitz had reached this i^oint in his 
meditations, when the gypsy stood be- 
fore him ; she greeted him with roguish 
words, and he was again the thought- 
less and giddy cavalier. Madame von 
Brandt, however, had but little time 
for jesting. 

“ You promised to give me informa- 
tion of the letter I lost at the last court 
festival,” she said, anxiously. 

“ Yes, that very important letter, 
ruinously compromising two ladies and 
a nobleman. I suppose you would ob- 
tain the letter at any sacrifice ? ” 

“ Yes, at any sacrifice,” said Madame 
von Brandt. “You asked a hundred 
louis d’ors for the letter ; I have brought 
them with me ; take them — now give 
me the letter.” 

The baron took the money and put it 
n his pocket 


“Well, the letter, let me have it 
quickly,” said Madame von Brandt. 

Pollnitz hunted through his pockets 
anxiously. “ My God 1 ” he cried, 
“ this letter has wings. I know I put 
it in my pocket, and it has disap- 
peared ; perhaps like yourself I lost it 
in the saloon. I must hasten to seek 
it.” He wished to go immediately, 
but Madame von Brandt held him 
back. 

“ Have the goodness to give me my 
money until you have found the letter,” 
she cried, trembling with rage. 

“ Your money,” cried Pollnitz ; “ you 
gave me no money. Why do you keep 
me ? allow me to go and seek this im- 
portant letter.” He tore himself from 
her and mingled with the crowd. 

Madame von Brandt looked after 
him in speechless rage; she leaned 
against the wall, to prevent hei'self 
from falling. 

Pollnitz laughed triumphantly ; — 
“ This evening has brought me a thou- 
sand crowns, two hundred louis d’ors, a 
splendid diamond pin, and the promise 
of a rich wife. I think I may be con- 
tent. Through these intrigues I have 
enough to live on for months. I now 
stand high in the king’s favor, and, 
who knows, perhaps he will give me a 
house, not the house in the Jager Street 
— that is, alas ! no longer vacant. I 
see his majesty — I must hasten to him.” 
Suddenly he heard his name called, 
and, turning, he saw a lady in a black 
domino, the hood drawn over her head, 
and her face covered with an impene- 
trable veil. 

“Baron Pollnitz, a word with you, 
if you please,” and slightly motioning 
with her hand, she passed before him. 
Pollnitz followed her, curious to know 
his last petitioner, but the dark dom- 
ino covered her completely. They 
had now reached a quiet window ; and 
the lady, turning, said : 

“ Baron Pollnitz, you are said to b« 


f 


THE MASKERS. 


195 . 


a noble and gallant cavalier, and I am 
sure you will not refuse a lady a favor.” 

“ Command me, madame ! ” said 
Pollnitz, with his eternal smile. “ I 
will do all in my power.” 

“ Make known to me the costume of 
the king.” 

The baron stepped back in angry as- 
tonishment. “ So, my beautiful mask, 
you call that a favor; I must betray 
bis majesty to you. He has forbidden 
me positively to make known his cos- 
tume to any one; you cannot desire 
me to be guilty of such a crime ! ” 

“ I implore you to tell me,” cried the 
mask ; “ it is not from idle curiosity 
that I desire to know ; I have an ardent 
out innocent desire to say a few words 
to the king before he leaves for the 
wars, from which he may never re- 
turn.” 

In the excitement of deep feeling, the 
mask spoke in her natural voice, and 
there were certain tones which Pollnitz 
thought he recognized ; he must be cer- 
tain, however, before speaking ; he drew 
nearer, and, gazing piercingly at the 
lady, he said: “You say, madame, 
that it is not an idle curiosity that you 
desire to know the costume of the 
king. How do I know that you do 
not entertain dangerous designs ? how 
do I know but you are an enemy, cor- 
rupted by Austria, and wish to lead his 
majesty to destruction ? ” 

“ The only security I can offer is the 
word of a noble lady who never told 
an imtruth. God omnipotent, God 
omnipresent, knows that my heart beats 
with admiration, reverence, and love 
for the king I I would rather die than 
bring him into danger.” 

“ Will you swear that ? ” 

“ I swear I ” cried the lady, raising 
aer arm solemnly toward heaven. 

Pollnitz followed all her movements 
watchfully, and as the long sleeve of 
the domino fell back, he saw a bracelet 
of emeralds and diamonds, which he 


recognized ; there w is but one lady at 
the Prussian court who possessed such 
a bracelet, and' that was the reigning 
queen. Pollnitz was too old a courtier 
to betray the discovery he had made ; 
be bowed quietly to the lady, who, 
discovering her imprudence, lowered 
her arm and drew her sleeve tightly 
over it. 

“ Madame,” said the baron, “ you 
have taken a solemn oath, and I am 
satisfied: I will grant your request, 
but, as I gave my word of honor to tell 
no one the costume of his majesty, I 
must show it to you. I am now going 
to seek the king; I shall speak with 
no one but him ; therefore the domino 
before whom I bow and whom I ad- 
dress, will be the king. Follow me.” 

“ I thank you,” said the lady, draw- 
ing her domino closely over her; “I 
shall remember this hour gratefully, 
and if it is ever in my power to serve 
you, I shall do so.” 

“This is indeed a most fortunate 
evening ! ” thought the crafty cour- 
tier. “ I have earned money and dia- 
monds, and the favor of the queen, who 
up to this time has looked upon me 
with cold dislike.” 

Pollnitz approached the king and 
bowed low : the lady stood behind, 
marking well the costume of his ma- 
jesty. 

“ I have waited a long time for Poll- 
nitz,” said the king. 

“ Sire, I had to wait for three masks ; 
I have seen them all — Madame von 
Morien, Madame von Brandt, and Baron 
von Manteuflfel. The baron remains 
true to his character : he is in the cos- 
tume of the king of cards.” 

“ And Madame von Morien ? ” asked 
the king. 

“ She is here as a nun, and burns 
with desire to speak with your majesty : 
and if you will step into the dark sa- 
loon, I do not doubt the repentant nun 
will quickly follow you.” 


196 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“ Well, what is the costume of ma- 
dame von Brandt ? ” 

“ A gypsy, sire— a yellow skirt, with 
a red bodice embroidered in gold ; a 
little hat studded with diamonds, and 
a beauty-spot on the left temple. She 
wished me to give her the letter I 
found, and I sold it to her for two hun- 
dred louis d’ors.” 

“ You had not the letter, however, 
and could not receive the money ? ” 

“Pardon, your majesty, I took the 
louis d’ors, and then discovered that I 
had lost the letter. I came to seek it.” 

The king laughed heartily, and said : 
“ Pollnitz, Pdllnitz, it is a blessed thing 
for the world that you are not married ; 
your boys would be consummate ras- 
cals 1 Did you give Manteuffel the plan 
of the campaign and the number of the 
troops ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, I did ; and the baron was 
so charmed that he made me a present 
of four thousand crowns I I took them 
for appearance’ sake ; your majesty must 
decide what I must do with them.” 

“ Keep the reward of your iniquity, 
baron. You have a superb talent for 
thieving, and I prefer you should prac- 
tise it on the Austrians to practising it 
on myself. Go, now, and see that I find 
my uniform in the cabinet.” 

The king mingled again with the 
crowd, and was not recognized, but 
laughed and jested with them merrily 
as man to man. 


CHAPTER XL 

REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 

Suddenly the king ceased his cheer- 
ful laughter and merry jests; he had 
for the moment forgotten that he had 
any thing to do but amuse himself — 
forgotten that he was here to judge 
and to punish. Frederick was stand- 
.ng by the once dearly-loved Count 


Manteuffel, and as his eye fell upon him 
he was recalled to himself. 

“ Ah I I was looking for you,” said 
Frederick, laying his hand upon the 
count’s shoulder; “you were missing 
from my game, dear king of cards, but 
now that I have you, I shall win.” 

The count’s quick ear did not fail to 
recognize the king’s voice in spite of 
its disguise; but he was too nice a 
diplomatist to betray his discovery by 
word or look. 

“ What game do you wish to play 
with me, mask ? ” said he, following 
the king into an adjoining and unoccu- 
pied room. 

“ A new game — the game of war ! ” 
replied Frederick, harshly. 

“ The game of war ? ” repeated the 
count ; “ I have never heard of that 
game.” 

The king did not answer at once ; 
he was walking hastily up and down 
the room. 

“Count,” said he, stopping before 
Manteuffel, “ I am your friend. I wish 
to give you some good advice. Leave 
Berlin to-night, and never return to 
it ! ” 

“ Wily do you advise this ? ” asked 
the count, coolly. 

“ Because otherwise you are in dan- 
ger of being imprisoned as a traitor, 
and hung as a spy 1 Make no answer ; 
attempt no defence. I am your friend, 
but I am also the friend of the king. 

I would guard you from a punishment, 
though a just one ; and I would also 
guard him from embarrassment and 
vexation. The king does not know 
that you are an Austrian spy, in the 
pay of the imperial court. May he 
never know it 1 He once loved you ; 
and his anger would be terrible if in- 
formed of your perfidy. Yes, Count 
Manteuffel, this prince was young, in- 
experienced, and trusting ; he believed 
in your love, and gave you his heart. 
Let us spare his youth ; let us spare 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


197 


him the humiliation of despising and 
punishing the man he once loved. Oh, 
my God I it is hard to trample a being 
contemptuously under foot whom you 
once pressed lovingly to your heart. 
The king is gentle and affectionate : 
he is not yet sufficiently hardened to 
bear without pain the blows inflicted 
by a faithless friend. A day may come 
when the work of such friends, when 
your work, may be accomplished — 
when King Frederick will wear about 
his heart a coat-of-mail woven of dis- 
trust ; but, as I said, that time has not 
come. Do not await it, count, for then 
the king would be inexorable toward 
you ; he would look upon you only as 
a spy and a traitor. Hasten, then, 
with flying steps from Berlin ! ” 

“ But how, if I remain and attempt 
to defend myself ? ” said the count, 
timidly. 

“ Do not attempt it ; it would be in 
vain. For in the same moment that 
you attempted to excuse yourself, the 
king would hear of your cunning, your 
intrigues, your bribery, and your treach- 
ery ; he would know that you corre- 
sponded with his cook ; that Madame 
von Brandt kept a journal for you, 
which you sent to the Austrian court, 
and for which you paid her a settled 
sum ; he would know that you watched 
his every word and step, and sold your 
information for Austrian gold I No, 
no, dare not approach the king. A 
justification is impossible. Leave here 
to-night, and never dare to tread again 
on Prussian soil I Remember I am 
your friend ; and as such I address 
you.” 

“ You then advise me to go at once, 
without taking leave of the king ? ” 
said the count, who could not now 
conceal his embarrassment. 

“ I do I I command you,” said the 
king; “I command you to leave this 
castle on the spot I — silently, without a 
word or sign, as beseems a convicted ; 


criminal 1 I command you to leave 
Berlin to-night. It matters not to me 
where you go— to perdition, if it suits 
your fancy I ” 

The count obeyed silently, without 
a word ; he bowed to the king, and 
left the room. 

Frederick gazed after him till he 
was lost in the crowd. “ And through 
such men as that we lose our trust and 
confidence in our race ; such men 
harden our hearts,” said he to himself, 
“ Is it, then, true, as has been said by 
sages of all times, that princes are con- 
demned to live solitary and joyless 
lives ; that they can never possess a 
friend disinterested and magnanimous 
enough to love them for themselves, 
and not for their power and glory ? If 
so, why give our hearts to men ? Let 
us love and cherish our dogs, who are 
true and honest, and love their masters, 
whether they are princes or beggars. — 
Ah, there is Manteuffel’s noble friend, 
that coquettish little gypsy. We will 
for once change the usual order of 
things ; I will prophesy to her, instead 
of receiving her prophecies.” The king 
approached and whispered : “ Pollnitz 
has found the precious letter, and is 
anxious to return it to you.” 

“ Where is he ? ” said the gypsy, 
joyously. 

“Follow me,” answered Frederick, 
leading her to the same room where he 
had dismissed Manteuffel. “ Here we 
are, alone and unnoticed,” said the 
king, “ and we can gossip to our heart’s 
content.” 

Madame von Brandt laughed : 
“ Two are needed for a gossip,” said she ; 
“ and how do you know that I am in 
the humor for that ? You led me here 
by speaking of a letter which Baron 
Pollnitz was to give me, but I see 
neither Pollnitz nor the letter I ” 

“ Pollnitz gave it to me to hand you ; 
but before I give it up, I will see if J 
have not already learned something of 


198 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


your art, and if I cannot prophesy as 
well as yourself. Give me your hand ; 
I will tell your fortune.” 

Madame von Brandt silently .held 
out her trembling hand ; she had rec- 
ognized the voice ; she knew it was 
the king who stood by her side. 

Frederick studied her hand without 
touching it. “I see wonderful things 
in this small hand. In this line it is 
written that you are a dangerous friend, 
a treacherous subject, and a cruel 
flirt.” 

“ Can you believe this ? ” said she, 
with a forced laugh. 

“ I not only believe it, I know it. It 
is written in bold, imperishable char- 
acters upon your hand and brow. — 
Look 1 I see here, that from a foreign 
land, for treacherous service, you re- 
ceive large sums of gold; here I see 
splendid diamonds, and there I read 
that twenty thousand crowns are.prom- 
ised you if you prevent a certain divorce. 
You tremble, and your hand shakes so 
I can scarcely read. Keep your hand 
steady, madame ; I wish to read not 
only your past but your future life.” 

“I obey,” whispered Madame von 
Brandt. 

“ Here I read of a dangerous letter, 
which fell, through your own careless- 
ness, into the wrong hands.. If the 
king should read that letter, your ruin 
would be unavoidable ; he would pun- 
ish you as a traitor; you would not 
only be banished from court, but con- 
fined in some strong fortress. When a 
subject conspires with the enemy dur- 
ing time of war, this is the universal 
punishment. Be cautious, be prudent, 
and the king will learn nothing of this, 
and you may be saved.” 

“ What must I do to avert my ruin ? ” 
she said, breathlessly. ' 

“Banish yourself, madame; make 
some excuse to withdraw immediately 
from Berlin; retire to your husband’s 
estate, and there, in quiet and solitude. 


think over and repent your dimes 
When, like Mary Magdalene, you have 
loved, and deceived, and betrayed, like 
her you must repent, and see if God is 
as trusting as man — if you can deceive 
Him with your tears as you once de- 
ceived us with your well-acted friend- 
ship. Go — try repentance with God ; 
here it is of no avail. This reforma- 
tion, madame, must commence at once. 
You will leave Berlin to-moiTow, and 
will not return till the king himself 
sends for you.” 

“ I go ! ” said Madame von Brandt, 
weeping bitterly ; “ I go, but I carry 
death in my heart, not because I am 
banished, but because I deserve my 
punishment; because I have wounded 
the heart of my king, and my soul 
withers under his contempt.” 

“Mary Magdalene,” said Frederick, 
“ truly you have a wondrous talent for 
acting ; a hint is enough for you, and 
you master your part at once. But, 
Madame, it is useless to act before the 
king ; he will neither credit your tears 
nor your repentance; he would re- 
member your crimes and pronounce 
your sentence. Hasten, then, to your 
place of atonement. There you may 
turn saint, and curse the vain and gid- 
dy world. Here is your letter — ^fare- 
well I ” 

The king hastened away, and Ma- 
dame von Brandt, weeping fi*om shame 
and humiliation, remained alone. The 
king passed rapidly through the crowd- 
ed saloon and stepped on the balcony ; 
he had seen the nun following him, 
and she came upon the balcony; he 
tore off his mask, and, confronting the 
trembling woman, he said, in a harsh 
voice : 

“ What do you want with me ? ” 

“Your love,” cried the nun, sinking 
upon her knees and raising her handg 
imploringly to the king ; “ I want the 
love you once promised me — the love 
which is my earthly happiness and mv 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


salvation — your love, without which I 
must die ; wanting which, I suffer the 
tortures of purgatory I ” 

“ Then suffer,” said Frederick, harsh- 
ly retreating a few steps — “ go and suf- 
fer ; endure the torments of purgatory, 
you deserve them ; God will not deliver 
you, nor will I ! ” 

“ Alas ! alas ! I hear this, and I live I ” 
cried Madame von Morien, despairing- 
ly. “ Oh, my king, take -pity on me ; 
think of the heavenly past; think of 
the intoxicating poison your words and 
looks poured into my veins, and do 
not scorn and punish me because I am 
brought almost to madness and death 
by your neglect I See what you have 
made of me ! see how poor ‘ Leontine ’ 
has changed I ” She threw back her 
veil, and showed her pale and sorrow- 
ful countenance to the king. 

He gazed at her sternly; “You 
have become old, madame,” he said, 
coldly — “ old enough to tread in the 
new path you have so wisely prepared 
for yourself. You who. have so long 
been the votary of love, are now old 
enough and plain enough to become a 
model of virtue. Accept this Order 
of Virtue and Modesty, promised you 
by the Empress of Austria. The king 
will not divorce his wife, and, as this is 
supposed to be solely your work, the 
empress will not withhold the promised 
order.” 

“ My God I he knows all, and he de- 
spises me I ” cried Madame von Morien, 
passionately. 

“Yes, he despises you,” repeated 
the king ; “ he despises and he has no 
pity on you ! Farewell ! ” 

Without again looking towards the 
broken-hearted woman, he turned to- 
wards the dancing-saloon. Suddenly 
he 'felt a hand laid softly upon his 
shoulder ; he turned and saw at his side 
a woman in black, and thickly veiled. 

“ One word. King Frederick,” whis- 
pered the lady. 


199 

“ Speak, what do you wish ? ” said 
the king kindly. 

“ What do I wish ? ” said she, with a 
trembling voice ; “ I wish to see you ; 
to hear your voice once more before 
yon go to the battle-field to danger, 
perhaps to death. I come to entreat 
you to be careful of your life I remem- 
ber it is a precious jewel, for which you 
are not only answerable to God, but to 
millions of your subjects. Oh, my 
king, do not plunge wantonly into 
danger; preserve yourself for your 
country, your people, and your family 
— to all of whom you are indispensable.” 

The king shook his head, smilingly. 
“ No one is indispensable. A man lost 
is like a stone thrown into the water ; 
for a moment there is a slight eddy, 
the waters whirl, then all trace disap- 
pears, and the stream fiows quietly and 
smoothly on. But not thus will I dis- 
appear. If I am destined to fall in the 
struggle to which I am now hastening, 
ray death shall be glorious, and my 
grave known; it must, at least, be 
crowned with laurels, as no one will 
consecrate it with the tribute of love 
and tears. A king, you know, is never 
loved, and no one weeps for his death ; 
the whole world is too busily engaged 
in welcoming his successor.” 

“ Not so ; not so with you, my king ; 
you are deeply, fondly loved ! I know 
a woman who lives but in your presence 
— a woman who would die of joy if 
she were loved by you ; she would die 
of despair if death should claim you — 
you, her youthful hero, her ideal ! For 
this woman’s sake, who worships you ; 
whose only joy you are, who humbly 
lays her love at your feet, and only 
asks to die there — ^for her sake, I im- 
plore you to be careful of yourself. Do 
not plunge wantonly into danger, and 
thus rob Prussia of her king; your 
queen of the husband whom she 
adores, and for whom she is ready at 
any hour to give her heart’s blood.” 


200 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Frederick gently clasped the folded 
hands of the veiled lady within his 
own ; he knew her but too well. 

“Are you so well acquainted with 
Queen Elizabeth Christine that you 
know all the secrets of her heart ? ” 

“ Yes, I know the queen,” whispered 
she ; “ I am the only confidante of her 
sorrows. I alone know how much she 
loves, how much she suffers.” 

“ I pray you, then, go to her majesty 
and bid her farewell for me. Tell her 
that the king honors no other woman 
as he honors her ; that he thinks she is 
exalted enough to be placed among the 
noble vmmen of the olden times. He 
is convinced she would say to her war- 
rior husband, as the Roman wives said 
to their fathers, husbands, and sons, 
when handing their shields, ‘Return 
with them or upon them ! ’ Tell Eliza- 
beth Christine that the King of Prus- 
sia will return from this combat with 
his hereditary foe as a conqueror, or as 
a corpse. He cares little for life, but 
much for honor ; he must make his name 
glorious, perchance by the shedding 
of his blood. Tell Elizabeth Christine 
this, and tell her also that on the day 
of battle her friend and brother will 
think of her ; will not spare himself, 
but to remember gratefully that, in 
that hour, a noble and pure woman is 
praying to God for him. And now 
adieu! I go to my soldiers — you to 
the queen.” 

He bowed respectfully, and hurried to 
the music-room. The queen followed 
him with tearful eyes, and then, draw- 
ing her hood tightly over her face, she 
hurried through a secret door into 
her apartments. While Elizabeth 
Christine was weeping and praying in 
her room, the king was putting on his 
uniform, and his oflacers were assem- 
bling in the court-yard. 

Prince Augustus William was still 
tarrying in the dancing-saloon. He 
did not dance; no one knew he was 


there. He had shown himself for a 
few hours in a magnificent fancy suit, 
but unmasked ; he then left the ball- 
room, saying he still had some few 
preparations to make for his journey 
Soon, however, he returned in a com- 
mon domino and closely masked : no 
one but Laura von Pannewitz was aware 
of his presence. They were now stand- 
ing together in a window, whose heavy 
curtains hid them from view. It was a 
sad pleasure to look once more into 
each other’s eyes, to feel the warm press- 
ure of loving hands, to repeat those 
pure and holy vows which their trem- 
bling lips had so often spoken ; every 
fond word fell like glorious music upon 
their young hearts. The moment of 
separation had come ; the officers were 
assembled, and the solemn beating of 
drums was heard. 

“ I must leave you, my beloved, my 
darling,” whispered the prince, pressing 
the weeping gkl to his heart. Laura 
sobbed convulsively. 

“Leave me, alas, perhaps never to 
return I ” 

“ I shall return, my Laura,” said he, 
with a forced smile. ‘‘ I am no hero ; 
I shall not fall upon the battle-field. 
I know this, I feel it. I feel also 
that if this were to be my fate, I 
should be spared many sorrowful and 
agonizing hours. How much better a 
quick, glorious death, than this slow 
torture, this daily death of wretched- 
ness 1 Oh, Laura, I have presenti- 
ments, in which my whole futm*e is cov- 
ered with clouds and thick darkness, 
through which even your lovely form 
is not to be seen — I am alone, all 
alone I ” 

“You picture my own suflenngs, my 
own fears,” whispered Laura. “ Alas ! 
I forget the rapture of the present in the 
dim and gloomy future. Oh, my be- 
loved, my heart does not beat with joy 
when I look at you ; it overflows with 
despair. I am never to see you again. 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


201 


Diy prince ; our fond farewell is to be 
our last ! Oh, believe me, this sad pre- 
sentiment is the voice of Fate, warning 
us to escape from this enchanting vis- 
ion, with which we have lulled our 
souls to sleep. We have forgotten our 
duty, and we are warned that a cruel 
necessity will one day separate us 1 ’? 

“ Nothing shall separate us 1 ” said 
the prince ; “ no earthly power shall 
come between us. The separation of 
to-day, which honor demands of me, 
shall be the last. When I return, I will 
remind you of your oath ; I will claim 
your promise, wdiich God heard and 
accepted. Our love is from Heaven, 
and no stain rests upon it; Heaven, 
therefore, will watch over it, and will 
not withold its blessing ; with this we 
will conquer all difficulties, and we can 
dispense with the approbation of the 
world.” 

Laura shook her head sadly. “I 
have not this happy confidence, and I 
have not the strength to bear this pain- 
ful separation. At times, when I have 
been praying fervently for help, it 
seems to me that God is standing by 
and strengthening me to obey the com- 
mand of the dowager-queen and give 
my hand to Count Voss. But when I 
wish to speak the decisive word, my 
lips are closed as with a band of iron ; 
and I feel that, could I open them, the 
only sound I should utter would be a 
cry so despairing as to drive me to 
madness.” 

The prince pressed her fondly to his 
heart. “ Swear to me, Laura, that you 
will never be so faithless, so cowardly, 
as to yield to the threats of my moth- 
er,” said he, passionately; ‘‘swear that 
you will be true to your oath — that 
oath by which you are mine — mine to 
all eternity ; my wedded wife I ” 

“I swear it,” said she, solemnly, fix- 
ing her eyes steadily upon his agitated 
countenance. 

“They will take advantage of my 


absence to torture y >u,” said the prince, 
“ My mother will overwhelm you with 
reproaches, threats, and entreaties ; but, 
if you love me, Laura, you will find 
strength to resist all this. As yet my 
mother does not know that it is I whom 
you love — I who worship you ; she sus- 
pects that the king or the young Prince 
of Brunswick possesses your heart. But 
chance may betray our love, and then 
her anger would be terrible. She 
would lose no time in separating us — 
would stop at nothing. Then, Laura, 
be firm and faithful ; believe no re- 
ports, no message, no letter ; trust only 
in me and in my word. I will not 
write to you, for my letters might be 
intercepted. I will send no messenger 
to you ; he might be bribed. If I fall 
in battle, and God grants me strength 
in dying, I will send you a last embrace 
and a last loving word, by some pity- 
ing friend. In that last hour our love 
will have nothing to fear from the 
world, the king, or my mother. You 
will always be in my thoughts, darling, 
and my spirit will be with you.” 

“And if you fall, God will have 
mercy on me and take me from this 
cruel world ; it will be but a grave for 
me when no longer gladdened by your 
presence.” 

The prince kissed her fondly, and 
slipped a ring on her finger. “ That is 
our betrothal ring,” said he. “Now 
you are mine — you wear my ring ; this 
is the first link of that chain with 
which I will bind your whole life to 
mine I You are my prisoner; nothing 
can release you. — But listen ! what is 
that noise ? The king has descended 
to the court ; he will be looking for me. 
Farewell, my precious one; God and 
His holy angels guard you I ” 

He stepped slowly from behind the 
curtains and closed them carefully after 
him, so as to conceal Laura ; he passed 
hastily through the rooms to his apart- 
ment, threw off the domino which con* 


202 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


cealed liis uniform, and, seizing his 
sword, he hastened into the court. The 
king was surrounded by his generals 
and officers. All eyes were fixed upon 
him ; he had silenced every objection. 
There was among them but one opinion 
and one will, the wdll and opinion of 
the sovereign, whom all felt to be their 
master, not only by divine right, but by 
his mighty intellect and great soul. 
Frederick stood among them, his coun- 
tenance beaming with inspiration, his 
eagle eye sparkling and glowing with 
the fire of thought, and a smile was on 
his lips which won all hearts. Behind 
him stood the Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, 
old Ziethen, General Winterfeldt, and 
the adjutant-generals. Above them 
floated a magnificent banner, whose 
motto, “ Fro glorid et pair id , was 
woven in gold. Frederick raised his 
naked sword and greeted the weaving 
colors. He spoke, and his full, rich 
voice filled the immense square : 

“Gentlemen, I undertake tliis war 
with no other ally than your stout 
hearts. My cause is just ; I dare ask 
God’s help! Remember the renown 
our great ancestors gained on the bat- 
tle-field of Fehrbellin 1 Your future is 
in your own hands — distinction must be 
won by gallant and daring deeds. We 
are to attack soldiers who gained im- 
perishable fame under Prince Eugene. 
How great will be our glory if we van- 
quish such warriors! — Farewell! Go 
— I follow without delay ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE EETURN. 

The first campaign of the young 
King of Prussia had been a bloodless 
one. Not one drop of blood had been 
shed. A sentinel at the gate of Bres- 
lau had refused to allow the Prussian 
commander to enter, and received for 
his daring a sounding box on the ear. 


which sent him reeling backward. The 
general with his stalf entered the con- 
quered city, without further opposition. 
Breslau was the capital of a province 
which for more than a hundred years 
had not been visited by any member of 
the royal house of Hapsburg. The 
heavy taxes imposed upon her were the 
only evidence that she belonged to the 
Austrian dominions. Breslau did not 
hesitate to receive this young and hand- 
some king, who as he marched into the 
city gave a kindly, gracious greeting to 
all ; who had a winning smile for all 
those richly-dressed ladies at the win- 
dows ; who had written with his own 
hand a proclamation in ' which he as- 
sured the Silesians that he came not as 
an enemy, and that every inhabitant 
would be secured in his rights and 
privileges, and freedom in his religion, 
worth, and service. The ties which 
bound the beautiful province of Silesia 
to Austria had long ago been shattered, 
and the prophecy of the king had al- 
ready been fulfilled — that prophecy 
made in Krossen. As the king entered 
Krossen with his army, the clock of the 
great church tower fell with a thunder- 
ing noise, and carried with it a portion 
of the old church. A superstitious fear 
fell upon the whole Prussian army ; even 
the old battle-stained warriors looked 
grim and thoughtful. The king alone 
smiled, and said : 

“ The fall of this clock signifies that 
the pride of the house of Austria will 
be humbled. Caesar fell when landing 
in Africa, and exclaimed : ‘ I hold thee, 
Mrica ! ’ ” 

Great men do not allow themselves 
to be influenced by evil omens. Quick- 
ly, indeed, was Frederick’s prophecy 
fulfilled. The house of Austria was 
suddenly humbled, and the Prussian 
army was quietly in possession of one 
of her capitals. Frederick had been 
joyfully received, not only by the 
Protestants, who had so long suffered 


THE RETURN. 


203 


from the bitterest religious persecution, 
and to whom the king now promised 
absolute freedom of conscience and un- 
conditional exercise of their religious 
worship, but by the Catholics, even the 
priests and Jesuits, who were complete- 
ly fascinated by the intellect and ami- 
ability of Frederick. Ko man mourned 
for the Austrian yoke, and the Prus- 
sians became great favorites with the 
Silesians, particularly with the women, 
who, heart in hand, advanced to meet 
them, received the handsome and well- 
formed soldiers as lovers, and hastened 
to have these tender ties made irrevo- 
cable by the blessing of the priest. 
Hundreds of marriages between the 
Prussians and the maidens of the land 
were solemnized during the six weeks 
Frederick remained in Silesia. These 
meu, who, but a few weeks before, 
came as enemies and conquerors, were 
now adopted citizens, thus giving their 
king a double right to the possession 
of these provinces. 

It soon became the mode for a Si- 
lesian girl to claim a Prussian lover, 
and the taller and larger the lover, 
the prouder and more happy was the 
lucky possessor. Baron Bielfeld, who 
accompanied the king to Breslau, met 
in the street one day a beautiful bour- 
geoises who was weeping bitterly and 
wringing her hands ; Bielfeld inquired 
the cause of her tears, and she replied 
naively : 

“ Alas I I am indeed an object of 
pity ; eight days ago I was betrothed 
to a Prussian grenadier, who measured 
five feet and nine inches; I was very 
happy and very proud of him. To- 
day one of the guard, who measured 
BIX feet and two inches, proposed to 
me ; and I weep now because so majes- 
tic and handsome a giant is offered me, 
and I cannot accept him.” 

The king won the humbler women 
through his gallant soldiers ; the ladies 
of the aristocracy, through his own 


beauty, grace, and eminent intellect. 
Frederick gave a ball to the aristocracy 
of Breslau, and all the most distin- 
guished and noble families, who had 
been before closely bound to the house 
of Austria, eagerly accepted the invita- 
tion ; they wished to behold the man 
who was hero and poet, cavalier and 
warrior, a youth and a philosopher; 
who was young and handsome, and 
full .of life ; who did not wrap himself 
in stiff, ceremonious forms, and ap- 
pear in the presence of ladies to forget 
that he was a king. He worshipped 
the ladies as a cavalier, and when they 
accepted his invitation to dance, con- 
sidered it a flattering favor. While 
winning the hearts of the women 
though his gallantry and beauty, he 
gained the voices of the men by the 
orders and titles which he scattered 
broadcast through the province. 

“I dreamed last night,” said he to 
Pollnitz, laughing, “that I created 
princes, dukes, and barons in Breslau ; 
help me to make my dream a reality 
by naming to me some of the most 
prominent families.” 

Pollnitz selected the names, and 
Prince von Pless, Duke Hockburg, and 
many others, rose up proudly from this 
creative process of the king. 

Silesia belonged, at this moment, un- 
conditionally to Prussia. The king 
could now return to Berlin and devote 
himself to study, to friendship, and his 
family. The first act of that, great 
drama, called the Seven Years’ War, 
was now finished. Frederick could 
now, between the acts, give himself up 
to the arts and sciences, and strengthen 
himself for that deep tragedy of which 
he was resolved to be the hero. Berlin 
received her king with shouts of joy, 
and greeted him as a demigod. He 
was no longer, in the eyes of the impe- 
rious Austrians, the little Margrave of 
Brandenburg, who must hold the wash- 
basin for the emperor ; he was a proud, 


204 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND ilIS COURT. 


self- sustaining monarch, no longer re- 
ceiving commands from Austria, but 
giving laws 'to the proud daughter of 
the Caesars. 

The queen-mother and the young 
princesses met the king at the outer 
gates. The Queen Elizabeth Christine, 
her eyes veiled with rapturous tears, re- 
ceived her husband tremblingly. Alas 1 
he had for her only a silent greeting, a 
cold, ceremonious bow. But she saw 
him once more ; she could lose her 
whole soul in those melting eyes, in 
which she was ever reading the most 
enchanting magical fairy tales. In 
these days of ceremony he could not re- 
fuse her a place by his side ; to sit near 
him at table, and at the concerts with 
which the royal chapel and the newly- 
arrived Italian singers would celebrate 
the return of the king. Graun had 
composed a piece of music in honor of 
this occasion, and not only the Italian 
singer Laura Farinelli, but a scholar of 
Graun and Quantz, a German singer, 
Anna Prickerin, would then be heard 
for the first time — ^for Anna an event- 
ful and decisive day ; she stood on the 
brink of a new existence — an existence 
to be made glorious by renown, honor, 
and distinction. 

It was nothing to her that her father 
lay agonizing upon his death-bed ; it 
was nothing to her that her brother 
William had left his home three days 
before, and no one knew what had be- 
come of him. She asked no questions 
about father or brother ; she sorrowed not 
for the mother lately dead and buried. 
She had but one thought, one desire, one 
aim — to be a celebrated singer, to ob- 
tain the hand of a man whom she 
neither loved nor esteemed, but who 
was a baron and an influential lord of 
the court. The object of Anna’s life 
was to become the wife of the baron, 
not for love. She wished to hide her 
ignoble birth under the glitter of his 
proud name; it was better to be the 


wife of a poor baron than the daughler 
of a tailor, even though he should be 
the court tailor, and a millionnaire. 

The king had been in Berlin but 
two days, and Pollnitz had already 
made a visit to his beautiful Anna. 
Never had he been so demonstrative 
and so tender ; never before had he 
been so seriously occupied with the 
thought of making her his wife ; never 
had he looked upon it as possible. The 
example of Count Rhedem gave him 
courage; what the king had granted 
to the daughter of the merchant, he 
could not refuse to the daughter of the 
court tailor, more particularly when 
the latter, by her own gifts and talents, 
had opened the doors of the palace for 
herself — when by the power of her 
siren voice she had made the barriers 
tremble and fall which separated the 
tailor’s daughter from tlie court circle. 
If the lovely Anna became a celebrated 
singer, if she succeeded in winning the 
applause of the king, she would be en- 
nobled ; and no one could reproach 
the baron for making the beautiful 
prima donna his wife. If, therefore, 
she pleased the king, Pollnitz was re- 
solved to confess himself her ’knight, 
and to marry her as soon as possible — 
yes, as soon as possible, for his cred- 
itors followed him, persecuted him at 
every step, even threatened him with 
judgment and a prison. Pollnitz re- 
minded the king that he had promised, 
after his return from Silesia, to assist 
him. Frederick replied that he had 
not yet seen a battle-field, and was at 
the beginning and not the end of a 
war, for which he would require more 
gold than his treasury contained. 
“ TV ait patiently, also,” he said, “ for the 
promised day, for only then can I fulfil 
my promise.” It was, therefore, a ne- 
cessity with Pollnitz to find some way 
of escape from this terrible labyrinth ; 
and with an anxiously-beating heart he 
stood on the evening of the concert be- 


THE RETURN. 


205 


hind tlia king’s chair, to watch every 
movement and every word, and above 
all to notice the effect produced by the 
voice of his Anna. 

The king was uncommonly gay and 
gracious; these two days in his beloved 
Berlin, after the weeks of fatigue and 
weariness in Silesia, had filled his heart 
with gladness. He had given almost 
a lover’s greeting to his books and his 
flute, and his library seemed to him a 
sanctified home ; with joy he exchanged 
his sword for a pen, and, instead of 
drawing j)lan3 of battle, he wrote 
verses or witty letters to Yoltaire, 
whom he still honored, and in a certain 
sense admired, although the six days 
which Voltaire had spent in Rheins- 
berg, just before the Silesian campaign, 
had somewhat diminished his admii*a- 
tion for the French author. After 
Frederick’s first meeting with Voltaire 
at the castle of Moyland, he said of 
the great savant^ “He is as eloquent 
as Cicero, as charming as Pliny, and 
as wise as Agrippa; he combines in 
himself all the vii’tues and all the tal- 
ents of the three greatest men of the 
ancients.” He now called the author 
of the “Henriade” a fool; it excited 
and troubled his spirit to see that this 
great author was mean and contempti- 
ble in character, cold and cunning in 
heart. He had loved the French phi- 
losopher as a friend, and now he con- 
fessed with pain that Voltaire’s friend- 
ship was a possession which must be 
cemented with gold, if you did not 
wish to lose it. Frederick, who, a few 
months before, had compared him with 
Cicero, Pliny, and Agrippa, now said 
to Jordan; “The miser, Voltaire, has 
still an unsatisfied longing for gold, 
and asks still thirteen hundred dollars 1 
^ Every one of the six days which he 
spent with me cost me five hundred 
and fifty dollars I I call that paying 
dear for a fool I Never before was a 
tourt fool so generously rewarded.” 


To-day Frederick was expecting a 
new enjoyment; to-day, for the first 
time, he was to hear the new Italian 
singer. This court concert promised 
him, therefore, a special enjoyment, and 
he awaited it with youthful impatience. 

At length Graun gave the signal for 
the overture; Frederick had no ear 
for this simple, beautiful, and touching 
music ; and the masterly solo of Quantz 
upon the flute drew from him a single 
bravo. He thought only of the sing- 
ers, and at last the chorus began. 

The heart of Pollnitz beat loud and 
quick as he glanced at Anna, who 
stood proud and grave, in costly French 
toilet, far removed from the Farinelli. 
Anna examined the court circles quiet- 
ly, and looked as unembarrassed as if 
she had been long accustomed to such 
society. 

The chorus was at an end, and Laura 
Farinelli had the first aria to sing. 
Anna Prickerin could have murdered 
her for this. The Italian, in the full 
consciousness of her power, returned 
Anna’s scorn with a half-mocking, half- 
contemptuous smile ; she then fixed 
her great, piercing eyes upon the mu- 
sic, and began to sing. 

Anna could have cried aloud in her 
rage, for she saw that the king wa? 
well pleased ; he nodded his head, and 
a gay smile overspread his features. 
She saw that the whole court circle im- 
mediately wore enchanted faces, and 
that even Pollnitz assumed an entirely 
happy and enthusiastic mien. The 
Farinelli saw all this, and the royal 
applause stimulated her ; her full, glo- 
rious voice floated and warbled in the 
artistic “Fioritures” and “Roulades,” 
then dreamed itself away in soft, me- 
lodious tones: again it rose into the 
loftiest regions of sound, and was again 
almost lost in the simple, touching 
melodies of love. 

“Delicious I superb I” said the king, 
aloud, as Farinelli concluded. 


206 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“ Exalted ! godlike ! ” cried Pollnitz ; 
and now, as the royal sign had been 
given, the whole court dared to follow 
the example, and to utter light and re- 
pressed murmurs of wonder and ap- 
plause. 

Anna felt that she turned pale ; her 
feet trembled; she could have mur- 
dered the Italian with her own hands ! 
this proud Farinelli, who at this mo- 
ment looked toward her with a ques- 
tioning and derisive glance; and her 
eyes seemed to say, “ Will you yet dare 
to sing ? ” 

But Anna had the proud courage to 
dare. She said to herself, “ I shall tri- 
umph over her ; her voice is as thin as 
a thread, and as sharp as a fine needle, 
while mine is full and powerful, and 
rolls like an organ; and as for her 
‘ Fioritures,’ I understand them as well 
as she.” 

With this conviction she took the 
notes in her hand, and waited for the 
moment when the “ Ritornelle ” should 
be ended ; she returned with a quiet 
smile the anxious look which her teach- 
er, Quantz, fixed upon her. 

The “ Ritornelle ” was ended. Anna 
began her song; her voice swelled 
loudly and powerfully far above the 
orchestra, but the king was dull and 
immovable; he gave not the slightest 
token of applause. Anna saw this, 
and her voice, which had not trembled 
with fear, now trembled with rage; 
she was resolved to awake the aston- 
ishment of the king by the strength 
and power of her voice; she would 
compel .,him to applaud ! She gath- 
ered together the whole strength of 
her voice and made so powerful an ef- 
fort that her poor chest seemed about 
to burst asunder; a wild, discordant 
strain rose stunningly upon the air, 
and now she had indeed the triumph 
to see that the king laughed ! Yes, 
the king laughed I but not with the 
same smile with which he greeted Far- 


inelli, but in mockery and contempt 
He turned to Pollnitz, and said : 

“What is the name of this woman 
who roars so horribly? ” 

Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders. He 
had a kind of feeling as if that mo- 
ment his creditors had seized him by 
the throat. 

“ Sire,” whispered he, “ I believe it is 
Anna Prickerin.” The king laughed ; 
yes, in spite of the “ Fioritures ” of the 
raging singer, who had seen Pollnitz’s 
shrug of the shoulders, and had vowed 
in the spirit to take a bloody vengeance. 

Louder and louder the fair Anna 
shrieked, but the king did not. ap- 
plaud. She had now finished the last 
note of her aria, and breathlessly with 
loudly-beating heart she waited for the 
applause of the king. It came not ! — • 
perfect stillness reigned ; even Pollnitz 
was speechless. 

“Do you know, certainly, that this 
roaring woman is the daughter of our 
tailor?” said the king. 

Pollnitz answered “ Yes,” with a 
bleeding heart. 

“ I have often heard that a tailor was 
called a goat, but his children are nev- 
ertheless not nightingales, and poor 
Pricker can sooner force a camel 
through the eye of his needle than 
make a songstress of his daughter. 
The Germans cannot sing, and it is an 
incomprehensible mistake of Graun to 
bring such a singer before us.” 

“She is a pupil of Quantz,” said 
Pollnitz, “ and he has often assured me 
she would make a great singer.” 

“ Ah, she is a pupil of Quantz,” re- 
peated the king, and his eye glanced 
round in search of him. Quantz, with 
an angry face, and his eyebrows drawn 
together, was seated at his desk. — 
“ Alas I ” said Frederick, “ when he 
makes such a face as that, he grumbles 
with me for two days, and is never 
pleased with my flute. I must seek to 
mollify him, therefore, and when this 


THE DEATH OF THE OLD TIME. 


20 '? 


Mademoiselle Prickerin sings again I 
will give a slight sign of applause.” 

But Anna Prickerin sang no more ; 
angry scorn shot like a stream of fire 
through her veins — she felt suffocated ; 
tears rushed to her eyes ; every thing 
about her seemed to be wavering and 
unsteady ; and as her listless, half-un- 
conscious glances wandered around, 
she met the gay, triumphant eyes of 
the Farinelli fixed derisively upon her. 
Anna felt as if a sword had pierced 
her heart; she uttered a fearful cry, 
and sank unconscious to the floor. 

“ What cry w^as that ? ” said the 
king, “ and what signifies this strange 
movement among the singers ? ” 

“ Sire, it appears that the Prickerin 
has fallen into a fainting-fit,” said P611- 
nitz. 

The king thought this a good oppor- 
tunity to pacify Quantz by showing an 
interest in his pupil. “That is indeed 
a most unhappy circumstance,” said 
the king, aloud. “ Hasten, Pollnitz, to 
inquire in my name after the health of 
this gifted young singer. If she is still 
suffering, take one of my carriages and 
conduct her yourself to her home, and 
do not leave her till you can bring me 
satisfactory intelligence as to her re- 
covery.” So saying, the king cast a 
stolen glance toward the much-dreaded 
Quantz, whose brow had become some- 
what clearer, and his expression less 
threatening. “We shall, perhaps,” 
whispered the king, “ escape this time 
with one day’s growling; I think I 
have softened him.” Fredeiick seated 
himself, and gave the signal for the 
concert to proceed. He saw that, with 
the assistance of the baron, the uncon- 
scious songstress had been removed. 


CHAPTER XHL 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD TIME. 

The music continued, while Pollnitz, 
filled with secret dread, ordered a court 
carriage, according to the command 
of the king, and entered it with the 
still insensible songstress. 

“ The king does not know what a 
fearful commission he has given me,” 
thought Pollnitz, as he di’ove through 
the streets with Anna Prickerin, and 
examined her countenance with terror. 
“If she awake she will overwhelm me 
with her rage. She is capable of 
scratching out my eyes, or even of 
strangling me ! ” 

But his fear was groundless. Anna 
did not stir ; she was still unconscious 
as the carriage stopped before the 
house of her father. No one came to 
meet them, although Pollnitz ordered 
the servant to open the door, and 
the loud ringing of the bell sounded 
throughout the house. No one ap- 
peared, as the anxious courtier, with 
the assistance of the servants, lifted the 
insensible Anna from the carriage and 
bore her into the house to her own 
room. As the baron placed her care- 
fully upon the sofa, she made a slight 
movement and Leaved a deep sigh. 

“ Now the storm will break forth,” 
thought Pollnitz, anxiously, and he or- 
dered the servants to return to the car- 
riage and await his coming. He de- 
sired no witnesses of the scene which 
he expected, and in which he had good 
reason to believe that he would play 
but a pitiful role. 

Anna Prickerin now opened her eyes; 
her first glance fell upon Pollnitz, who 
was bending over her with a tender 
smile. 

“ What happiness, dearest,” he whis- 
pered, “that you at last open your 
eyes 1 I was dying with anxiety.” 
t Anna did not answer at once; hei 


208 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


eyes were directed with a dreamy ex- 
pression to the smiling countenance of 
Pollnitz ; and while he recounted his 
own tender care, and the gracious sym- 
pathy of the king, Anna appeared to 
be slowly waking out of her dream. 
Now a ray of consciousness and recol- 
lection overspread her features, and, 
throwing up her arm with a rapid 
movement, she administered a power- 
ful blow on the cheek of her tender, 
smiling lover, who fell back with his 
hand to his face, whimpering with 
pain. 

“ Why did you shrug your shoul- 
ders ? ” she said, her lips trembling 
with anger, and, springing up from 
the sofa, she approached Pollnitz with 
a threatening expression, who, expect- 
ing a second explosion, drew back. 
“ Why did you shrug your shoulders ? ” 
repeated Anna. 

“ I am not aware that I did so, my 
Anna,’’ stammered Pollnitz. 

She stamped impatiently on the floor. 
“ I am not your Anna. You are a faith- 
less, treacherous man, and I despise 
you ; you are a coward, you have not 
the courage to defend the woman you 
have sworn to love and protect. When 
I ceased singing, why did you not ap- 
plaud ? ” 

‘‘ Dearest Anna,” said Pollnitz, “ you 
are not acquainted with court etiquette ; 
you do not know that at court it is 
only the king who expresses approval.” 

“You all broke out into a storm 
of applause as Farinelli finished sing- 
ing.” 

“ Because the king gave the sign.” 

Anna shrugged her shoulders con- 
temptuously, and paced the floor with 
rapid steps. “ You think that all my 
hopes, all my proud dreams for the 
future are destroyed,” she murmured, 
with trembling lips, while the tears 
rolled slowly down her cheeks. “ To 
think that the king and the whole 
court laughed while I sang, and that pre- 


sumptuous Italian heard and saw it 
all — I shall die of this shame and dis- 
grace! My future is annihilated, my 
hopes trodden under foot.” She cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and wept 
and sobbed aloud. 

Pollnitz had no pity for her suffer- 
ings, but he remembered his creditors, f 
and this thought rekindled his failing 
tenderness. He approached her, and 
gently placed his arm around her neck. 

“ Dearest,” he murmured, “ why do 
you weep, how can this little mis- 
chance make you so wretched ? Do we 
not love each other ? are you not still 
my best beloved, my beautiful, my 
adored Anna ? Have you not sworn that 
you love me, and that you ask no great- 
er happiness than to be united to 
me ? ” 

Anna raised her head, that she might 
see this tender lover. 

“It is true,” proceeded Pollnitz, « 
“ that you did not receive tlie applause, I 
this evening, which your glorious tal- 
ent deserves. Faiinelli was in your 
way. The king has a prejudice against 
German singers ; he says, * The Ger- 
mans can compose music, but they can- 
not sing.’ That prejudice is a great n 
advantage for the Italian. If you had II 
borne an Italian name, the king would 
have been charmed with your wonder- 
ful voice ; but you are a German, and 
he refuses you his approval. But what 
has been denied you here, you will ea- 
sily obtain elsewhere. We will leave 
this cold, ungrateful Berlin, my beloved. 
You shall take an Italian name, and 
through my various connections I can 
make arrangements for you to sing at 
many courts. You will win fame and 
gold, and w^e will lead a blessed and 
happy life.” 

“ I care nothing for the gold ; I am 
rich, richer than I even dreamed. My 
father told me to-day that he possessed 
nearly seven hundred thousand dollars, 
and that he would disinherit my broth 


THE DEATH OF THE OLD TIME. 


209 


er, wlio is now absent from Berlin. 
I shall be his heiress, and very soon, for 
the physicians say he can only live a 
few days.” 

Tlie eyes of the baron gleamed. 
“ Has your father made his will ? has 
he declared you his heiress ? ” 

“ He intended doing so to-day. He 
ordered the lawyers to come to him, 
and I believe they were here when I 
set out for this miserable concert. It 
was not on account of the money, but 
for fame, that I desired to become a 
prima donna. .But I renounce my in- 
tention ; this evening has shown me 
many thorns where I thought to find 
only roses. I renounce honor and re- 
nown, and desire only to be happy, 
happy in your love and companion- 
ship.” 

“You are right; we will fly from 
ihis cold, faithless Berlin to happier 
regions. The world will know no hap- 
pier couple than the Baron and Baron- 
ess von Pollnitz.” 

Pollnitz now felt mo repugnance at 
the thought that the tailor’s daughter 
had the presumptuous idea of becoming 
his wife. He forgave her low origin 
for the sake of her immense fortune, 
and thought it not a despicable lot to 
be the husband of the beautiful Anna 
Prickerin. He assured her of his love 
in impassioned words, and Anna lis- 
tened with beaming eyes and a hajjpy 
smile. Suddenly a loud weeping and 
crying, proceeding from the next room, 
interrupted this charming scene. 

“ My father, it is my father ! ” cried 
Anna, as she hastened to the door of 
the adjoining room, which, as we know, 
contained the ancestral portraits of the 
Prickers. Pollnitz followed her. In 
this room, surrounded by his ances- 
tors, the worthy tailor lay upon his 
death-bed. Pale and colorless as the 
portraits was the face of the poor man ; 
but his eyes were gleaming with a'wild, 
feverish glitter. As he perceived Anna I 
u 


in her splendid French costume, so 
wild and fearful a laugh burst from his 
lips, that even Pollnitz trembled. 

“Come to me,” said the old man, 
with a stammering voice, as he mo- 
tioned to his daughter to approach his 
couch. “You and your brother have 
broken my heart ; you have given me 
daily a drop of poison, of which I have 
been slowly dying. Your brother left 
my house as the prodigal son, but he 
has not returned a penitent. He glo- 
ries in his crime ; he is proud of his 
shame. Here is a letter which I re- 
ceived from him to-day, in which he 
informs me that he has eloped with the 
daughter of my second murderer, this 
French Pelissier ; and that he intends 
to become an actor, and thus drag 
through the dust the old and respect- 
able name of his fathers. For this no- 
ble work he demands his mother’s for- 
tune. He shall have it — yes, he shall 
have it ; it is five thousand dollars, but 
from me he receives nothing but my 
curse, and I pray to God that it may 
ring forever in his ears ! ” 

The old man lay back exhausted, 
and groaned aloud. Anna stood with 
tearless eyes by the death-bed of her 
father, and thought only of the splen- 
did future which each passing moment 
brought nearer. Pollnitz had with- 
drawn to one of the windows, and was 
considering whether he should await 
the death of the old man or return im 
mediately to the king. 

Suddenly Pricker opened his eyes, 
and turned them with an angry and 
malicious expression toward his daugh- 
ter. 

“ What a great lady you are ! ” ha 
said, with a fearful grin ; “ dressed in 
the latest fashion, and a wonderful 
songstress, who sings before the king 
and his court 1 Such a great lady 
must be ashamed that her father is a 
tailor. I appreciate that, and I am go- 
ing to my grave, that I may not trouble 


210 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


my daughter. Yes, I am going, and 
nothing shall remind the proud song- 
stress of me, neither my presence nor 
any of my possessions. A prima donna 
would not be the heiress of a tailor.” 

The old man broke out into a wild 
laugh, while Anna stared at him, and 
Pollnitz came forward to hear and ob- 
serve. 

“ I do not understand you, my 
father,” said Anna, trembling and dis- 
turbed. 

“You will soon understand me,” 
stammered the old man, with a hoarse 
laugh. “ When I am dead, and the 
lawyers come and read my will, which 
I gave them to day, then you will know 
that I have left my fortune to the poor 
of the city, and not to this great song- 
stress, who does not need it, as she has 
a million in her throat. My son an 
actor, my daughter a prima donna — ^it 
is well. I go joyfully to my grave, and 
thank God for my release. Ah I you 
will remember your old father; you 
will curse me, as I have cursed you ; 
and as you will shed no tears at my 
death, it shall, at least, be a heavy 
blow to you. You are disinherited ! — 
both disinherited ! — the poor are my 
heirs, and you and your brother will 
receive nothing but the fortune of your 
mother, of which I unfortunately can- 
not deprive you.” 

“Father, father, this is not possible 
-—this cannot be your determination 1 ” 
cried Anna. “ It is not possible for a 
, father to be so cruel, so unnatural, as 
■ to. disinherit his children ! ” 

“ Have you not acted cruelly and un- 
naturally to me ? ” asked the old man ; 

“ have you not tortured me ? have you 
not murdered me, with a smile upon 
your.lipa, as you did your poor mother, 
:who died of grief? No, no, no pity for 
unnatural children. You are disinher- 
ited I ” 

The old man fell back with a loud 
•ahrick .upon his couch, and his features 


assumed that fixed expression which is 
death’s herald. 

“ He is dying I ” cried Anna, throwing 
herself beside her father ; “ he is dying, 
and he has disinherited me I ” 

“ Yes, disinherited 1 ” stammered the 
heavy tongue of the dying man. 

Pollnitz trembled at the fearful 
scene; he fied with hasty steps from 
this gloomy room, and only recovered 
his composure when once more seated 
in his carriage. After some moments 
of refiection, he said : 

“ I will ask the king for my release 
from his service. I will become a Prot- 
estant, and hasten to Nuremberg, and 
marry the million there.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE DISCOVERY. 

They sat hand in hand in the quiet 
and fragrant conservatory ; after a long 
separation they gazed once more in 
each other’s eyes, doubting the reality 
of their happiness, and asking if it were 
not a dream, a delightful dream. 

This was the first time since his re- 
turn from Silesia that Prince Augustus 
William had seen his Laura alone ; the 
first time he could tell her of his long- 
ing and his suffering; the first time 
she could whisper in his ear the sweet 
and holy confession of her love — a con- 
fession that none should hear but her 
lover and her God. 

But there were four ears which heard 
every thing ; four eyes which saw all 
that took place in the myrtle-arbor. 
Louise von Schwerin and her lover, the 
handsome Fritz Wendel, sat arm in arm 
in the grotto, and listened attentively to 
the conversation of the prince and his 
bride. 

“ How happy they are ! ” wliisperea 
Louise, with a sigh. 

“ Are we not also happy ? ” asked 


THE DISCOVERY. 


211 


Fiitz Wendel, tenderly, clasping his 
arm more firmly around her. “ Is not 
our love as ardent, as passionate, and 
as pure as theirs ? ” 

“And yet the world would shed 
tears of pity for them, while we would 
be mocked and laughed at,” said Lou- 
ise, sighing. 

“ It is true, the love of the poor gar- 
dener for the beautiful Mademoiselle 
von Schwerin is only calculated to ex- 
cite ridicule,” murmured Fritz Wendel ; 
“ but that shall and will be changed. I 
shall soon begin the new career which 
I have planned for myself; my Louise 
need then no longer blush for her lover, 
and my adoration for her shall no 
longer be a cause of shame and humili- 
ation. I have a means by which I can 
purchase rank and position, and I in- 
tend to employ this means.” 

“Pray tell me how; let me know 
your plans,” said Louise. 

He pointed with a cruel smile to the 
lovers in the myrtle arbor. 

“ This secret is my purchase-money,” 
said he, whispering; “I shall betray 
them to the king, and he will give me 
rank and wealth for this disclosure, for 
upon this secret depends the future of 
Prussia. Let us, therefore, listen atten- 
tively to what they say, that — ” 

“ No,” said Louise, interrupting him 
with vivacity, “ we will not listen. It 
is cruel and ignoble to desire to purchase 
our own happiness with the misery of 
others ; it is — ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake be quiet, and lis- 
ten ! ” said Fritz Wendel, softly laying 
his hand on her angry lips. 

The conversation of the lovers in the 
myrtle-arbor had now taken another 
direction. Their eyes no longer spar- 
kled writh delight, but had lost their 
lustre, and an* expression of deep sad- 
ness rested on their features. 

“ It is then really true,” said Laura, 
mournfully ; “ you are affianced to the 
Princess of Brunswick ? ” 


“ It is true,’’ said the prince, in a low 
voice. “There was no other means of 
securing and preserving our secret than 
to seem to yield to the king’s com- 
mand, and to consent to this alliance 
with a good grace. This cloak will 
shield our love until we can acknowl- 
edge it before the whole world; and 
that depends, my beloved, upon you 
alone. Think of the vows of eternal 
love and fidelity w'e have made to each 
other ; remember that you have prom- 
ised to be mine for all eternity, and to 
devote your whole life to me ; remem- 
ber that you wear my engagement ring 
on your finger, and are my bride.” 

“And yet you are affianced to an- 
other, and wear another engagement 
ring I ” 

“ But this princess, to whom I have 
been affianced, knows that I do not hve 
her. I have opened my heart to her ; I 
told her that I loved you alone, and 
could never love another ; that no wo- 
man but Laura von Pannewitz should 
ever be my wife ; and she was generous 
enough to give her assistance and con- 
sent to be considered my bride until 
our union should no longer need this 
protection. And now, my dear Laura, 
I conjure you, by our love and the hap- 
piness of our lives, yield to my arden-* 
entreaties and my fervent prayers ; have 
the courage to defy the world and its 
prejudices. Follow me, my beloved; 
flee with me and consent to be my 
wife ! ” 

The glances with which he regarded 
her were so loving, so imploring, that 
Laura could not find it in her heart to 
offer decided resistance. Her own heart 
pleaded for him; and now, when she 
might altogether lose him if she refused 
his request, now that he was affianced 
to another, she was filled with a tortur- 
ing jealousy; she was now conscious 
that it would be easier to die than re- 
nounce her lover. 

But she still had the strength to bat 


212 


FREDERICK THE GREAT Ax\D II IS COURT. 


tie with her own weak heart, to desire 
to shut out the alluring voices which re- 
sounded in her own breast. Like Ulys- 
ses, she tried to be deaf to the sirens’ 
voices which tempted her. But she 
still heard them, and although she had 
found strength to refuse her lover’s 
prayers and entreaties to flee with him, 
yet she could not repel his passionate 
appeals to her to be his wife. It was 
so sweet to listen to the music of his 
voice; such bliss to lean her head on 
his shoulder ; to look up into his hand- 
some countenance, and to drink in the 
expressions of ardent and devoted love 
which fell from his lips ; to know that 
what he suffered was for her sake ! It 
rested with her to give him happiness or 
despair. She knew not that the words 
which she drank in were coursing like 
fire through her own veins, destroying 
her resolution and turning her strength 
to ashes. 

As he, at last, brought to despair by 
her silence and resistance, burst into 
tears, and accused her of cruelty and 
indifference — as she saw his noble coun- 
tenance shadowed with pain and sor- 
row, she no longer found courage to 
offer resistance, and throwing herself 
into his arms, with a happy blush, she 
whispered : 

“ Take me ; I am yours forever I I 
accept you as my master and husband. 
Your will shall be mine; what you 
command I will obey ; where you call 
me there will I go ; I will follow you 
to the ends of the earth, and nothing 
but death shall hereafter separate 
us ! ” 

The prince pressed her closely and 
fervently to his heart, and kissed her 
pure brow. 

“ God bless you, my darling ; God 
bless you for this resolution!” His 
voice was now firm and full, and his 
countenance had assumed an expres- 
sion of tranquillity and energy. He 
Was no longer the sighing, despairing 


lover, but a determined man, who knew 
what his wishes were, and had the 
courage and energy to carry them into 
execution. 

Fritz Wendel pressed Louise more 
closely to his side, and whispered : 

“You say that Laura is an angel of 
virtue and modesty, and yet she has 
not the cruel courage to resist her 
lover; she yields to his entreaties, and 
is determined to flee with him. Will 
you be less kind and humane than this 
tender and modest Laura ? Oh, Louise, 
you should also follow your tender, 
womanly heart: flee with me and be- 
come my wife. I will conceal you, and 
then go to those who would now reject 
my suit scornfully, and dictate terms to 
them.” 

“ I will do as she does,” whispered 
Louise, with glowing cheeks. “ What 
Laura can do, I may also do; if she 
flies with her lover, I will fly with you ; 
if she becomes his wife, I will be yours. 
But let us be quiet, and listen.” 

“ And now, my Laura, listen atten- 
tively to every word I utter,” said 
Prince Augustus William, gravely. “ I 
have made all the necessary prepara- 
tions, and in a week you will be my 
wife. There is a good and pious di- 
vine on one of my estates who is de- 
voted to me. He h as promised to per- 
form the marriage ceremony. On leav- 
ing Berlin we will first flee to him, and 
our union wdll receive his blessing in 
the village church at night ; a carriage 
will await us at the door, which, with 
fresh relays of horses, will rapidly con- 
duct us to the Prussian boundary. I 
have already obtained from my friend 
the English ambassador a passport, 
which will carry us safely to England 
under assumed names ; once there, my 
uncle, the King of England, will not 
refuse his protection and assistance; 
and by his intercession we shall be 
reconciled to the king ray brother. 
When he sees that our union has becTi 




THE DISCOVERY. 


213 


accomplished, he will give up all use- 
less attempts to separate us.” 

“ But he can and will punish you for 
this; you will thereby forfeit your 
right of succession to the throne, and 
for my sake you will be forced to re- 
nounce your proud and brilliant future.” 

“I shall not regret it,” said the 
prince, smiling. “ I do not long for a 
crown, and will not purchase this bau- 
ble of earthly magnificence at the ex- 
pense of my happiness and my love. 
And perhaps I have not the strength, 
the talent, or the power of intellect, to 
be a ruler. It suffices me to rule in 
your heart, and be a monarch in the 
kingdom of your love. If I can there- 
fore purchase the uncontested posses- 
sion of my beloved by renouncing all 
claims to the throne, I shall do so with 
joy and without the slightest regret.” 

“ But I, poor, humble, weak girl that 
I am, how can I * make good the loss 
you will sustain for my sake ? ” asked 
Laura. 

Your love will be more than a com- 
pensation. You must now lay aside 
all doubt and indecision. You know 
our plans for the future. On my part 
all the preliminary measures have been 
taken ; you should also make whatever 
preparations are necessary. It is Hart- 
wig, the curate of Oranienburg, who 
is to marry us. Send the necessary ap- 
parel and whatever you most need to 
him, without a word or message. The 
curate has already been advised of their 
arrival, and will retain the trunks un- 
opened. On next Tuesday, a week 
from to-day, the king will give a ball. 
For two days previous to this ball you 
will keep your room on the plea of 
sickness ; this will be a sufficient ex- 
cuse for your not accompanying the 
queen. I shall accept the invitation, 
but will not appear at the ball, and 
will await you at the castle gate of 
Monbijou. At eight o’clock the ball 
tommences; at nine you will leave 


your room and the castle, at the gate 
of which I will receive yea. At a 
short distance from the gate a carriage 
will be in readiness to convey us to 
Oranienburg, where we will stop before 
the village church. There we will find 
a preacher standing before the altar, 
ready to perform the ceremony, and 
when this is accomplished we will en- 
ter another carriage which will rapidly 
convey us to Hamburg, where we will 
find a ship, hired by the English am- 
bassador, ready to take us to England. 
You see, dear Laura, that every thing 
has been well considered, and nothing 
can interfere with our plan, now that 
we imderstand each other. In a week, 
therefore, remember, Laura.” 

“In a week,” she whispered. “I 
have no will but yours.” 

“ Until then we will neither see nor 
speak with each other, that no thought- 
less word may excite suspicion in the 
breasts of the spies who surround us. 
We must give each other no word, no 
message, no letter, or sign ; but I will 
await you at the castle gate at nine 
o’clock on next Tuesday, and you will 
not let me wait in vain.” 

“No, you shall not wait in vain,” 
whispered Laura, with a hapj^y smile, 
hiding her blushing face on the breast 
of her lover. 

“ And you, will you let me wait in 
vain ? ” . asked Fritz Wendel, raising 
Louise’s head from his breast, and gaz- 
ing on her glowing and dreamy coun- 
tenance. 

“No, I shall not let you wait in 
vain,” said Louise von Schwerin. “ We 
will also have our carriage, only we 
will leave a little sooner than the prince 
and Laura. We will also drive to 
Oranienburg, and await the prince be- 
fore the door of the church. We will 
tell him we knew his secret and did 
not betray him. We will acknowledge 
our love, Laura will intercede for us, 
and the preacher will have to perform 


214 


FREDERICK TEE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


the ceremony for two couples instead 
of one. We will then accompany the 
prince and his wife in their flight to 
England; from there the prince will 
obtain pardon of the king, and we the 
forgiveness of my family. Oh, this is 
a splendid, a magnificent plan ! — a 
flight, a secret marriage at night, and 
a long journey. This will be quite 
like the charming romances which I 
am so fond of, and mine will be a fan- 
tastic and adventurous life. — But what 
is that ? ” said she. “ Did you hear 
nothing ? It seems to me I heard a 
noise as of some one opening the outer 
door of the conservatory.” 

“ Be still,” murmured Fritz Wendel, 
“ I heard it also ; let us therefore be on 
our guard.” 

The prince and Laura had also heard 
this noise, and were listening in breath- 
less terror, their glances fastened on 
the door. Perhaps it was only the 
wind which had moved the outer 
door ; perhaps — but no, the door 
opened noiselessly, and a tall female 
figure cautiously entered the saloon. 

“ The queen-dowager ! ” whispered 
Laura, trembling. 

“ My mother ! ” murmured the prince, 
anxiously looking around for some 
means of escape. He now perceived 
the dark grotto, and pointing rapidly 
toward it, he whispered : “ Quick, 

quick I conceal yourself there. I will 
remain and await my mother.” 

The stately figure of the Queen So- 
phia Dorothea could already be seen 
rapidly advancing through the flowers 
and shrubbery, and now her sparkling 
eye and proud and angry face were 
visible. 

“ Quick,” whispered the prince, 
“ conceal yourself, or we are lost I ” 

Laura slipped hastily behind the 
myrtle and laurel foliage, and attained 
the asylum of the grotto, unobserved 
Dy the queen. She entered and leaned 
tremblingly against the inner wall. 


Blinded by the sudden darkness, shfl 
could see nothing, and she was almost 
benumbed with terror. 

Suddenly she heard a low, whisper- 
ing voice at her side; “Laura, dear 
Laura, fear nothing. We are true 
friends, who know your secret, and de- 
sire to assist you.” 

“Follow me, mademoiselle,” whis- 
pered another voice; “confide in us 
as we confide in you. We know your 
secret ; you shall learn ours. Give me 
your hand ; I will conduct you from 
this place noiselessly and unobserved, 
and you can then return to the castle.” 

Laura hardly knew what she was 
doing. She was gently drawn for- 
ward, and saw at her side a smiling 
girlish face, and now she recognized 
the little maid of honor, Louise von 
Schwerin. 

“Louise,” said she, in a low voice, 
“ what does all this mean ? ” 

“ Be still,” she whispered ; “ follow 
him down the stairway. Farewell! 
I will remain and cover the retreat.” 

Louise now hastily concealed the 
opening through which Fritz Wendel 
and Laura had disappeared, and then 
slipped noiselessly back to the grotto, 
and concc aled herself behind the shrub- 
bery at its entrance, so that she could 
see and hear every thing that took 
place. 

It was in truth Queen Sophia Doro- 
thea, who had dismissed her attendants, 
and come alone to the conservatory at 
this unusual hour. 

This was the time at which the 
queen’s maids of honor were not on 
service, and were at liberty to do as 
they pleased. The queen had been in 
the habit of reposing at this time, but 
to-day she could not find rest; an- 
noyed at her sleeplessness, she had 
arisen, and in walking up and down 
had stepped to the window and looked 
dreamily down into the still and deso- 
late garden. Then it was that she 



THE DISCOVERY. 


thought she saw a female figure pass- 
ing hurriedly down the avenue. It 
must have been one of her maids of 
honor ; and although the queen had 
not recognized her, she was convinced 
that it was none other than Laura von 
Pannewitz, and that she was now go- 
ing to a rendezvous with her unknown 
lover, whom the queen had hitherto 
vainly endeavored to discover. So- 
phia Dorothea called her waiting- 
maids to her assistance, and, putting 
on her furs and hood, she told them 
she felt a desire to take a solitary walk 
in the garden, and that none of her at- 
tendants should be called, with which 
she hurried into the garden, following 
the same path which the veiled lady 
had taken. She followed the foot- 
tracks in the snow to the conservatory, 
and entered without hesitation, deter- 
mined to discover the secret of her 
maid of honor, and to punish her. . 

It was fortunate for the poor lovers 
that the increasing corpulence of the 
queen and her swollen right foot ren- 
dered her advance rather slow, so that 
when she at last reached the lower end 
of the conservatory she found no one 
there but her son Augustus William, 
whose embarrassed and constrained 
reception of herself convinced the 
queen that her appearance was not 
only a surprise, but also a disagreeable 
one. She therefore demanded of him 
with severity the cause of his unex- 
pected and unusual visit to her conser- 
vatory ; and when Augustus William 
smilingly replied — 

“ I have awaited here your majesty’s 
awakening, in order that I might pay 
my visit — ” 

The queen asked abruptly: “ibid 
whu, my son, helped to dispel the ennui 
of this tedious waiting ? ” 

“ No one, my dear mother,” said the 
prince; but he did not dare to meet 
aer penetrating glance. 

“No one?” repeated she; “but I 


215 

heard you speaking on 6ntering the 
conservatory.” 

“You know, your majesty, that 1 
have inherited the habit of speaking 
loud to myself from my father,” replied 
the prince, with a constrained smile. 

“The king my husband did not 
cease speaking when I made my ap- 
pearance,” exclaimed the queen, angri- 
ly ; “he had no secrets to hide from 
me.” 

“The thoughts of my royal father 
were grand, and worthy of the sympa- 
thy of Queen Sophia Dorothea,” said 
the prince, bowing low. 

“ God forbid that the thoughts of his 
son should be of another and less wor- 
thy character ! ” exclaimed the queen. 
“ My sons should, at least, be too proud 
to soil their lips with an untruth ; and 
if they have the hardihood to do wrong, 
they should also find courage to ac- 
knowledge it.” 

“ I do not understand you, my deal 
mother ; ” and, meeting her penetrating 
glance with quiet composure, he con- 
tinued, “ I am conscious of no wrong, 
and consequently have none to ac- 
knowledge.” 

“ This is an assurance which deserves 
to be unmasked I ” exclaimed the queen, 
who could no longer suppress her anger. 
“You must know, prince, that I am 
not to be deceived by your seeming 
candor and youthful arrogance. I 
know that you were not alone, for I 
myself saw the lady coming here who 
kept you company while awaiting me, 
and I followed her to this house.” 

“Then it seems that your majesty 
has followed a fata morgana^'* said the 
prince, with a forced smile; “for, aa 
you see, I am alone, and no one else is 
present in the conservatory.” 

But even while speaking, the prince 
glanced involuntarily toward the grot- 
to which concealed his secret. 

The Queen Sophia Dorothea caughl 
this glance and divined its meaning. 


216 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“ There is no one in the saloon, and 
it now remains to examine the grotto,” 
said she, stepping forward hastDy. 

The prince seized her hand, and en- 
deavored to hold her back. 

“I conjure you, mother, do not go 
too far in your suspicion and your 
scrutiny. Remember that your suspi- 
cion wounds me.” 

The queen gave him a proud, angry 
glance. 

“I am here on my own property,” 
said she, withdrawing her hand, “ and 
no one shall oppose my will.” 

“Well, then, madam e, follow your in- 
clination,” said the prince, with a reso- 
lute air. “I wished to spare you an 
annoyance. Let discord and sorrow 
come over us, if your majesty will have 
it so ; and, as you are inexorable, you 
will also find me firm and resolute. 
Explore the grotto, if you will.” 

He offered her his arm and con- 
ducted her to the grotto. Sophia 
Dorothea felt disarmed by her son’s re- 
solute bearing, and was almost con- 
vinced that she had done him injustice, 
and that no one was concealed in the 
grotto. With a benignant smile she 
had turned to her son, to say a few 
soothing words, when she heard a low 
rustle among the shrubbery, and saw 
something white flitting through the 
foliage. 

“ And you say, my son, that I was 
deceived by a fata inorgana ! ’’ ex- 
claimed the queen, hurrying forward 
with outstretched arm. “ Come, my 
young lady, and save us and yourself 
the shame of drawing you forcibly from 
your hiding-place.” 

Sophia Dorothea had not been mis- 
taken. Something moved among the 
shrubbery, and now a female figure 
stepped forth and threw herself at the 
feet of the queen. 

“ Pardon, my queen, pardon I I am 
innocent of any intention to intrude on 
your majesty’s privacy. I had fallen 


asleep in this grotto, and awoke when 
it was too late to escape, as your ma- 
jesty was already at the entrance of the 
conservatory. In this manner I have 
been an involuntary witness of your 
conversation. This is my whole fault.” 

The queen listened with astonish- 
ment, while the prince regarded with 
consternation the kneeling girl who 
had been found here in the place of his 
Laura. 

“ This is not the voice of Mademoi- 
selle von Pannewitz,” said the queen, 
as she passed out into the light, and 
commanded the kneeling figure to fol- 
low her, that she might see her face. 
The lady arose and stepped forward. 
“ Louise von Schwerin ! ” exclaimed 
the queen and the prince at the same 
time, while the little maid of honor 
folded her hands imploringly, and said, 
with an expression of childish inno- 
cence : 

“ Oh, your majesty, have compassion 
with me! Yesterday’s ball made me 
so very tired; and, as your majesty was 
sleeping, I thought I would come here 
and sleep a little too, although I had 
not forgotten that your majesty was not 
pleased to have us visit this conserva- 
tory alone.” 

Sopliia Dorothea did not honor her 
with a glance ; her eyes rested on her 
son with an expression of severity and 
scorn. 

“ Really, I had a better opinion of 
you,” said she. “ It is no great achieve- 
ment to mislead a child, and one that 
is altogether unworthy of a royal 
prince.” 

“ My mother,” exclaimed the prince, 
indignantly, “ you do not believe — ” 

“ I believe what I see,” said the 
queen, interrupting him. “ Have done 
with your assurances of innocence, and 
bow to the truth, which has judged 
you in spite of your denial. And you, 
my young lady, will accompany me, 
and submit to my commands in silence^ 


THE COUNTERMINE. 


21 ^ 


and without excuses. Come, and as- 
sume a cheerful and unconstrained air, 
if you please. I do not wish my court 
to hear of this scandal, and to read 
your guilt in your terrified counte- 
nance. I shall take care that you do 
not betray your guilt in words. Come.’’ 

The prince looked after them with 
an expression of confusion and aston- 
ishment. “ Well, no matter how this 
riddle is solved,” murmured he, after 
the queen had left the conservatory 
with her maid of honor, “Laura is 
safe at all events, and in a week we 
will flee.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE COUNTERMINE. 

Three days had slowly passed by, 
and Fritz Wendel waited in vain for a 
sign or message from his beloved. He 
groped his way every day through the 
subterranean alley to the grotto, and 
stood every night under her window, 
hoping in vain for a signal or soft 
whisper from her. 

The windows were alwaj^s curtained 
and motionless, and no one could give 
the unhappy gardener any news of the 
poor Louise von Schwerin, who was 
closely confined in her room, and con- 
fided to the special guard of a faithful 
chambermaid. 

The queen-dowager told her ladies 
that Louise was suffering from an in- 
fectious disease ; the queen’s physician 
confirmed this statement, and cautioned 
the ladies of the court against any 
communication with the poor invalid. 
No special command was therefore 
necessary to keep the maids of honor 
away from the prisoner; she was ut- 
terly neglected, and her old compan- 
mns passed her door with flying steps. 
But Sophia Dorothea, as it appeared, 
iid not fear this contagion; she was 


seen to enter the sick girl’s room every 
day, and to remain a long time. The 
tender sympathy of the queen excited 
the admiration of the whole court, 
and no one guessed what torturing 
anxiety oppressed the heart of the poor 
prisoner whenever the queen entered 
the room ; no one heard the stern, 
hard, threatening words of Sophia; 
no one supposed that she came, not to 
nurse the sick girl, but to overwhelm 
her with reproaches. 

Louise withstood all the menaces and 
upbraidings of the queen bravely ; she 
had the courage to appear unembar- 
rassed, and, except to reiterate her in- 
nocence, to remain perfectly silent. 
She knew well that she could not be- 
tray Laura without compromising her- 
self; she knew that if the. queen dis- 
covered the mysterious flight of Laura, 
she would, at the same time, be in- 
formed of her love-affair with the poor 
gardener, and of their secret assigna- 
tions. Louise feared that she would 
be made laughable and ridiculous by 
this exposure, and this fear made her 
resolute and decided, and enabled her 
to bear her weary imprisonment pa- 
tiently. “ I cannot be held a prisoner 
forever,” she said to herself. “ If I 
confess nothing, the queen must at last 
be convinced of my innocence, and set 
me at liberty.” 

But Fritz Wendel was less patieut 
than his cunning Louise. He could no 
longer support this torture ; and as the 
fourth day brought no intelligence, and 
no trace of Louise, he was determined 
to dare the worst, and, like Alexander, 
to cut the gordian knot which he could 
not untie. With bold decision, he en- 
tered the castle and demanded to speak 
with King Frederick, stating that he 
had important discoveries to make 
known. 

The king received him instantly, and, 
at Fritz WendeVs request, dismissed 
his adjutants. 


218 


FKEDEPJCK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“Now we are without witnesses, 
speak,” said the king. 

“ I know a secret, your majesty, 
which concerns the honor and future 
of the royal family ; and you will gra- 
ciously pardon me when I say I will 
not sell this secret except for a great 
price.” 

The king’s eyes rested upon the im- 
pudent face of Fritz Wendel wdth a 
;.Angerous expression. “ Name your 
price,” said he, “but think well. If 
your secret is not worth the price you 
demand, you may perhaps pay for it 
with your head, certainly with your 
liberty.” 

“ My secret is of the greatest value, 
for it will save the dynasty of the Ho- 
henzollerns,” said Fritz Wendel, bold- 
ly; “but I -will sell it to your majesty 
• — I will disclose it only after you have 
graciously promised me my price.” 

“ Before I do that, I must know your 
conditions,” said the king, with diffi- 
culty subduing his rage. 

“ I demand for myself a major’s 
commission, and the hand of Mademoi- 
selle von Schwerin.” 

In the beginning the king looked at 
the bold speaker wuth angry amaze- 
ment; soon, however, his glance be- 
came kind and pitiful. “ I have to do 
with a madman,” thought he ; “ I will 
be patient, and give way to his humor. 
— I grant you your price,” said he 
aloud ; “ speak on.” 

So Fritz Wendel began. He made 
known the engagement of the prince ; 
he explained the plan of flight. He 
was so clear, so exact in all his state- 
ments, that Frederick soon saw that he 
was no maniac; that these were no 
pictures of a disordered brain, but a 
threatening, frightful reality. 

When the gardener had closed, the 
king, with his arms folded across his 
back, walked several times backward 
and forward through the room; then 
suddenly stopped before Fritz Wendel, 


and seemed, with his sharp glance, tfl 
probe the bottom of his soul. 

“ Can you write ? ” said the king. 

“I can write German, French, En- 
glish, and Latin,” said he, proudly. 

“ Seat yourself there, and write what 
I shall dictate in German. Does Ma* 
demoiselle von Schwerin know your 
hand?” 


“ Sire, she has received at least 
twenty letters from me.” 

“ Then write now, as I shall dictate, 
the one-and-twentieth.” 

It was a short, laconic, but tender 
and impressive love-letter, which Fred- 
erick dictated. Fritz Wendel implored 
his beloved to keep her promise, and 
on the same day in which the prince 
would fly with Laura, to escape with J 
him to Oranienburg, to entreat the pro- 1 
tection of the prince, and through his 1 
influence to induce the priest to per- J 
form the marriage ceremony. Hefl 
fixed the day and hour of flight, and^J 
besought her to leave the castle punc-M 
tually, and follow him, without fear,.* 
who would be found waiting for her at p 


the castle gate. 

“ Now, sign it,” said the king, “ and 
fold it as you are accustomed to do.^ 
Give me the letter ; I will see that it is : 
delivered.” 

“And my price, your majesty? — ” 
said Fritz, for the first lime trembling. 

The king’s clouded brow threatened 
a fearful storm. “You shall have the 
price which your treachery and your 
madness have earned,” said Frederick, 
in that tone which made all who heard 
it tremble. “ Yes, you shall have what 
you have earned, and what your daring 
insolence deserves ! Were all these 
things true which you have related 
with so bold a brow, you would de- 
serve to be hung; you would have 
committed a twofold crime — have been 
the betrayer of a royal prince — have 
watched him like a base spy, and lis- 
tened to his secrets, in order to sell 


THE COUNTERMINE. 


219 


them, and sought to secure youi* own 
happiness by the misery of two noble 
souls I You would have committed 
the shameful and unpardonable crime 
of misleading an innocent child, who, 
by birth, rank, and education, is wide- 
ly separated from you. Happily for 
you, all this romance is the birth of 
your sick fancy. I will not, therefore, 
punish you, but I will cure you as fools 
and madmen are cured; I will send 
you to a mad-house until your senses 
are restored, and you confess that this 
wild story is the picture of your dis- 
ordered brain — until you swear that 
these are bold lies with which you 
have abused my patience. The restored 
invalid will receive my forgiveness — 
the obstinate culprit, never 1 ” 

The king rang the bell, and said to 
his adjutants: “Take this man out, 
and deliver him to the nearest senti- 
nels; command them to place him at 
once in the military hospital. He is to 
be secured in the wards prepared for 
madmen — no man must speak to him ; 
and if he utters any wild and senseless 
tales, I am to be informed of it.” 

“ Oh, sire, pardon, pardon I Send 
me not into the insane asylum. I will 
retract all ; I will believe that all this is 
false; that I have only dreamed — 
that — ” 

The king nodded to bis adjutants, 
and they dragged the sobbing, praying 
gardener from the room, and gave him 
to the watch. 

The king looked after him sadly. 
“ And Providence makes use of such 
pitiful men to control the fate of na- 
tions I ” said he. “ A miserable garden- 
boy and a shameless maid of honor are 
the chosen instruments to serve the 
dynasty of the Hohenzollems, and to 
rob the prince royal of Prussia of his 
earthly happiness ? Upon what weak, 
fine threads hang the majesty and worth 
of kings I Alas, how often wretched 
and powerless man looks out from 


under the purple ! In si^ite of all my 
power and greatness — in spite of all 
my army, the prince would have flown, 
and committed a crime, that perhaps 
God and his conscience might have 
pardoned, but his king never 1 Poor 
William, you will pay dearly for this 
short, sw^eet dream of love, and your 
heart and its illusions will be trodden 
under foot, even as mine have been. 
Yes, alas! it is scarcely nine years, and 
it seems to me I am a hundred years 
older — ^that heavy blocks of ice are en- 
camped about my heart, and I know 
that, day by day, this ice will become 
harder. The wmrld will do its part — 
this poor race of men, whom I would 
so gladly love, and whom I am learn- 
ing daily to despise more and more I ” 

He walked slowly to and fro; his 
face was shadowed by melancholy. In 
a short time he assumed his wonted 
expression, and, raising his head, his 
eyes beamed with a noble fire. 

“ I will not be cruel I If I must de- 
stroy his happiness, it shall not be 
trodden under foot as common dust and 
ashes. Alas, alas I how did they deal 
with me ? My friend was led to exe- 
cution, and a poor innocent child was 
stripped and horsewhipped through the 
streets, because she dared to love the 
crown prince 1 No, no ; Laura von 
Pannewitz shall not share the fate of 
Dorris Ritter. I must destroy the hap- 
piness of my brother, but I will not 
cover his love with shame 1 ” 

So saying, the king rang, and or- 
dered his carriage to be brought 
round. He placed the letter, which he 
had dictated to Fritz Wendel, in his 
pocket, and drove rapidly to the queen- 
mother’s palace. 

Frederick had a long and secret in- 
terview with his mother. The ladies 
in the next room heard the loud and 
angry voice of the queen, but they 
could not distinguish her words. It 
seemed to them that she was weeping. 


220 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


not from sorrow or pain, but from rage 
and scorn, for now and then they heard 
words of menace, and her voice was 
harsh. At last, a servant was directed 
to summon Mademoiselle von Panne- 
witz to the presence of the queen. 

He soon returned, stating that Made- 
moiselle Laura’s room was empty, and 
that she had gone to Schonhausen to 
visit Queen Elizabeth Christine. 

“ I will follow her there myself,” said 
the king, “ and your majesty may rest 
assured that Queen Elizabeth will assist 
us to separate these unhappy lovers as 
gently as possible.” 

‘‘ Ah, you pity them still, my son ? ” 
said the queen-dowager shrugging her 
shoulders. 

“ Yes, madame, I pity all those who 
are forced to sacrifice their noblest, 
purest feelings to princely rank. I pity 
them, but I cannot allow them to forget 
their duty.” 

Laura von Pannewitz had lived 
through sad and dreary days since her 
last interview with the prince. The en- 
thusiasm and exaltation of her passion 
had soon been followed by repentance. 
The prince’s eloquent words had lost 
the power of conviction, now that she 
was no more subject to the magic of 
his glance and his imposing beauty. 
He stood no longer before her, in the 
confidence of youth, to banish doubts 
and despair from her soul, and con- 
vince her of the justification of their 
love. 

Laura was now fully conscious that 
she was about to commit a great crime 
— that, in the weakness of her love, she 
was about to rob the prince of his fu- 
ture, of his glory and power. She said 
to herself that it would be a greater and 
nobler proof of her love to offer up her- 
self and her happiness to the prince, 
than to accept from him the sacrifice of 
his birthright. But in the midst of 
these reproaches and this repentance, 
ihe saw ever before her the sorrowful 


face of her beloved — sbe heard hia 
dear voice imploring her to follow him 
— to be his. 

In the anguish of her soul and 
the remorse of conscience, Laura had 
flown for refuge to the gentle, nobl/ 
Queen Elizabeth, who had promised 
her help and consolation when the day 
of her trial should come. She had 
hastened, therefore, to Schonhausen, 
sure of the tender sympathy of her royal 
friend. 

As Laura’s carriage entered the cas- 
tle court, the carriage of the king drew 
up at the garden gate. He commanded 
the coachman to drive slowly away, and 
then stepped alone into the garden. He 
walked hastily through the park, and 
drew near to the little side-door of the 
palace, which led through lonely corri- 
dors and unoccupied rooms, to the 
chamber of the queen. He knew that 
Elizabeth only used this door when she 
wished to take her solitary walk in the 
park. Frederick wished to escape the 
curious and wondering observations of 
the attendants, and to surprise the 
queen and Laura von Pannewitz. He 
stepped on quietly, and, without being 
seen, reached the queen’s room, con- 
vinced that he would find them in the 
boudoir. He was about to raise the 
portiere which separated it from the 
anteroom, when he was arrested by the 
voices of women — one piteous and full 
of tears, the other sorrowful but com- 
forting. The king let the portiere fall, 
and seated himself noiselessly near the 
door. 

“ Let us listen awhile,” said Freder- 
ick ; ‘‘ the women are always coquet- 
ting when in the presence of men. We 
will give ear to them when they think 
themselves alone. I shall in this way 
become acquainted with this fascinat- 
ing Laura, and learn better, than by 
a long interview, how I can influence 
her.” 

The king leaned his head upon his 


THE COUNTERMINE. 


221 


Blick, and fixed his piercing eyes upon 
the heavy velvet portiere, behind which 
two weak women were now perhaps 
deciding the fate of the dynasty of Ho- 
henzollem. 

“Madame,” said Laura, “the blos- 
soms of our happiness are already faded 
and withered, and our love is on the 
brink of the grave.” 

“ Poor Laura ! ” replied the queen, 
with a weary smile, “ it needed no gift 
of prophecy to foretell that. No flow- 
ers bloom around a throne; thorns 
only grow in that fatal soill Your 
young eyes were blinded by magic; 
you mistook these thorns for blossoms. 
Alas ! I have wounded my heart with 
them, and I hope that it will bleed to 
death I ” 

“ O queen, if you knew my doubts 
and my despair, you would have pity 
with me ; you could not be so cruel as 
to command me to sacrifice my love and 
my happiness I My happiness is his, 
and my love is but the echo of his own. 
If it were only a question of trampling 
upon my own foolish wishes, I would 
not listen to the cry of my soul. But 
the prince loves me. Oh, madame, 
think how great and strong this love 
must be, when I have the courage to 
boast of itl Yes, he loves me; and 
w hen I forsake him, I shall not suffer 
alone. He will also be wretched, and 
his tears and his despair will torture 
my heart. How can I deceive him ? 
Oh, madame, I cannot bear that his 
lips should curse me ! ” 

“ Yield him up now,” said the queen, 
“ and a day will come when he will 
bless you for it; a day in which he will 
confess that your love was great, was 
holy — that you sacrificed yourself and 
all earthly happiness freely, in order to 
spare him the wretchedness of future 
days. He loves you now, dearly, fond- 
ly ; but a day will come in which he will 
demand of you his future, his greatness, 
his royal crown, all of which he gave 


up for you. He will reproach you then 
for having accepted this great sacrifice, 
and he will never forgive you for your 
weakness in yielding to his wishes. 
Believe me, Laura, in the hearts of men 
there lives but one eternal passion, and 
that is ambition. Love to them is only 
the amusement of the passing hour, 
nothing more.” 

“ Oh, madame, if that is so, would to 
God that I might die ; life is not worth 
the trouble of living 1 ” cried Laura, 
weeping bitterly. 

“Life, my poor child, is not a joy 
which , we can set aside, but a duty 
which we must bear patiently. You 
cannot trample upon this duty ; and if 
your grief is strong, so must your will 
be stronger.” 

“ What shall I do ? What name do 
you give the duty which I must take 
upon myself?” cried Laura, with trem- 
bling lips. “ I put my fate in your 
hands. What shall I do ? ” 

“You must overcome yourself; you 
must conquer your love ; you must fol- 
low the voice of conscience, which 
brought you to me for counsel.” 

“ Oh, my queen, you know not what 
you ask ! Your calm, pureheart knows 
nothiug of love.” 

“ You say that I know nothing of 
love ? ” cried the queen, passionately. 
“You know not that my life is one 
great anguish, a never-ceasing self-sacri- 
fice I Yes, I am the victim of love — a 
sadder, more helpless, more torturing 
love than you, Laura, can ever know. 
I love, and am not beloved. What I 
nOw confess to you is known only to 
God, and I tell you in order to console 
you, and give you strength to accept 
your fate bravely. I suffer, I am 
wretched, although I am a queen 1 I 
love my husband; I love him with 
the absorbing passion of a young girl, 
with the anguish which the condemned 
must feel when they stand at the gates 
of Paradise, and dare not enter in. My 


222 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


thoughts, my heart, my soul, belong to 
liim ; but he is not mine. He stands 
with a cold heart near my glowing 
bosom, and, while with the rapture of 
love I would throw myself upon his 
breast, I must clasp my arms together 
and hold them still, and must seek and 
find an icy glance with which to an- 
swer his. Look you, there was a time 
when I believed it impossible to bear 
all this torture ; a time in which my 
youth struggled like Tantalus ; a time 
in which my pride revolted at this 
love, with its shame and humiliation ; 
in which I would have given my crown 
to buy the right to fly into some lonely 
desert, and give myself up to tears. 
The king demanded that I should re- 
main at his side, not as his wife, but as 
his queen; ever near him, but forev- 
er separated from him; unpitied and 
misunderstood; envied by fools, and 
thought happy by the world I And 
Laura, oh I loved him so dearly, that I 
found strength to bear even this tor- 
ture, and he knows not that my heart 
is being hourly crushed at the foot of 
his throne. I draw the royal purple 
over my w'ounded bosom, and it some- 
times seems to me that my heart’s blood 
gives this ruddy color to my mantle. 
Now, Laura, do I know nothing of 
love ? do I not understand the great- 
ness of the sacrifice which I demand of 
you ? ” 

The queen, her face bathed in tears, 
opened her arms, and Laura threw her- 
self upon her bosom ; their sighs and 
tears were mingled. 

The king sat in the anteroom, with 
pale face and clouded eyes. He bowed 
his head, as if in adoration, and sud- 
denly a glittering brilliant, bright as a 
star, and nobler and more precious than 
all the jewels of this sorrowful world, 
fell upon his pallid cheek. “Truly,” 
paid he to himself, “ there is something 
great and exalted in a woman’s nature. 
I bow down in humility before this 


great soul, but my heart, alas ! cannot 
be forced to love. The dead cannot be 
awakened, and that which is shrouded 
and buried can never more be brought 
to life and light. 

“You have conquered, my queen,” 
said Laura, after a long pause ; “ I will 
be worthy of your esteem and friend- 
ship. That day shall never come in 
which my lover shall reproach me with 
selfishness and weakness I ‘ I am ready 
to be offered up ! ’ I will not listen to 
him ; I will not flee with him ; and 
while I know that he is waiting for me, 
I will cast myself into your arms, and 
beseech you to pray to God for me, that 
He would send Death, His messenger 
of love and mercy, to relieve me from 
my torments.” 

“ Not so, my Laura,” said the queen ; 
“you must make no half offering; it is 
not enough to renounce your lover, you 
must build up between yourselves a final 
wall of separation ; you must make thia 
separation eternal ! You must marry, 
and thus set the prince a noble exam- 
ple of self-control.” 

“ Marry ! ” cried Laura ; “ can you 
demand this of me? Marry without 
love ! Alas, alas ! The prince will 
charge me with inconstancy and treach- 
ery to him, and I must bear that in si 
lence.” 

“ But I will not be silent,” said the 
queen, “ I will tell him of your grief 
and of the greatness of your soul ; and 
when he ceases, as he must do, to look 
upon you as his beloved, he will honor 
you as the protecting angel of his ex- 
istence.” 

“You promise me that? You will 
say to him that I was not faithless — 
that I gave him up because I loved him 
more than I did myself ; I seemed faith 
less only to secure his happiness ! ” 

“ I promise you that. Laura.” 

“ Well, then. I bow my head undei 
the yoke — I yield to my fate — I accept 
the hand which Count Voss oflTers me. 


THE COUNTERMINE. 


223 


1 ask that you \s ill go to the queen- 
mother, and say I submit to her com- 
mands — I will become the wife of 
Count Voss I ” 

“ And I will lead you to the queen 
and to the altar,” said the king, rais- 
ing the portiere, and showing himself 
to the ladies, who stared at him in 
breathless silence. Frederick drew 
nearer to Laura, and, bowing low, he 
said : “ Truly, my brother is to be pitied 
that he is only a prince, and not a free- 
man ; for a pitiful throne, he must give 
up the holiest and noblest possession, 
the pure heart of a fair woman, glow- 
ing with love for him ! And yet men 
think that we, the princes of the 
world, are to be envied! They are 
dazzled by the crown, but they see not 
the thorns with which our brows are 
beset! You, Laura, will never envy 
us ; but on that day when you see my 
brother in his royal mantle and his 
crown — when his subjects shout for joy 
and call him their king — then can you 
say to yourself, ‘It was I who made 
him king — I anointed him with my 
tears!’ and when his people honor 
and bless hnn, you can rejoice also in 
the thought, ‘ This is the fruit of the 
strength of my love ! ’ Come, I will 
myself conduct you to my mother, and 
I will say to her that I would consider 
myself happy to call you sister.” — 
Turning to Queen Elizabeth, he said : 
“ I will say to my mother that Made- 
moiselle von Pannewitz has not yielded 
to my power or my commands, but to 
the persuasive eloquence of your ma- 
jesty, whom the people of Prussia have 
for years considered their protecting 
angel, and who from this time onward 
must be regarded as the guardian spirit 
of our royal house ! ” 

He reached his hand to the queen, 
but she took it not. Trembling fear- 
fully, with the paleness of death in her 
face, she pointed to the portiere and 
said, “ You were there — you heard all ! ” 


Frederick, liis countenance beaming 
with respectful admiration, drew near 
the queen, and placing his arm around 
her neck, he whispered, “ Yes, I was 
there — I heard all. I heard, and I 
know that I am a poor, blind man, to 
whom a kingdom is offered, a treasure- 
house of love and all good gifts, and I 
cannot, alas ! cannot accept it I ” 

The queen gave a low wail, and her 
weary head dropped upon his shoulder. 
The king gazed silently into the pale 
and sorrowful face, and a ray of infi- 
nite pity beamed in his eyes. “I have 
discovered to-day a noble secret — a se- 
cret that God alone was worthy to 
know. From this day I consider my- 
self as the high-priest of the holiest of 
holies, and I will guard this secret as my 
greatest treasure. I swear this to you, 
and I seal my oath with this kiss pressed 
upon your lips by one who will never 
again embrace a woman I ” He bowed 
low, and pressed a fervent kiss upon 
the lips of the queen. Elizabeth, who 
had borne her misfortunes bravely, had 
not the power to vsdthstand the sweet 
joy of this moment ; she uttered a loud 
cry, and sank insensible to the floor. 
When she awoke she was alone ; the 
king had called her maids — had con- 
ducted Laura von Pannewitz to the 
carriage, and returned to Berlin. Eliza- 
beth was again alone — alone with her 
thoughts — with her sorrows and her 
love. But a holy fire was in her eyes, 
and, raising them toward heaven, she 
whispered : “ I thank thee, O heaven- 
ly Father, for the happiness of this 
hour 1 I feel his kiss upon my lips ! by 
that kiss they are consecrated I Never, 
never will they utter one murmuring 
word!” She ai’ose and entered her 
cabinet, with a soft smile; she drew 
near to a table which stood by the 
window, and gazed at a beautiful land- 
scape, and the crayons, etc., etc., which 
lay upon it. “ He shall think of me, 
from time to time,” whispered she.. 


224 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


“ For his sake, I will become an artist 
and a writer; I will be something 
more than a neglected queen. He 
shall see my books upon his table and 
my paintings on his wall. Can I not 
then compel him sometimes to think of 
me with pride ? ” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE SURPRISE. 

The day after the queen-mother’s 
interview with the king, the court was 
surprised by the intelligence that the 
physician had mistaken the malady of 
Louise von Schwerin ; that it was not 
scarlet fever, as had been supposed, 
but some simple eruption, from which 
she was now entirely restored. 

The little maiden appeared again 
amongst her companions, and there 
was no change in her appearance, ex- 
cept a slight pallor. No one was 
more amazed at her sudden recovery 
than Louise. With watchful suspicion, 
she remarked that the queen-mother 
had resumed her gracious and amiable 
manner toward her, and seemed entire- 
ly to have forgotten the events of the 
last few days; her accusations and 
suspicions seemed quieted as if by a 
stroke of magic. In the beginning, 
Louise believed that this was a trap laid 
for her — she was, therefore, perpetually 
on her guard; she did not enter the 
garden, and was well pleased that 
Fritz Wendel had the prudence and 
forbearance never to walk to and fro 
by her chamljer, and never to place in 
her window the beautiful flowers which 
she had been wont to find there every 
nioming. In a short time Louise be- 
came convinced that she was not 
watched, that there were no spies 
about her path ; that she was, in fact, 
perfectly at liberty to come and go as 
she pleased. She resumed her thought- 


less manner and childish dreamings, 
walked daily in the garden, and took 
refuge in the greenhouse. Strange to 
say, she never found her beautiful 
Fritz, never met his glowing, eloquent 
eyes, never caught even a distant view 
of his handsome figure. This sudden 
disappearance of her lover made her 
restless and unhappy, and kindled the 
flame of love anew. Louise, who, in 
the loneliness and neglect of her few 
days of confinement, had become al- 
most ashamed of her affair with Fritz 
Wendel, and begun to repent of her 
foolish love, now, excited by the ob- 
stacles in her path, felt the whole ^ 
strength of her passion revive, and 
was assured of her eternal constancy, 

“ I will overcome all impediments,” 
said this young girl, “ and nothing 
shall prevent me from playing my ro- 
mance to the end. Fritz Wendel loves 
me more passionately than any duke 
or baron will ever love me ; he has been 
made a prisoner because of his devo- 
tion to me, and that is the reason I see 
him no more. But I will save him ; I 
will set him at liberty, and then I will 
flee W'ith him, far, far away into the f 
wide, wide world, where no one shallfl*! 
mock at our love.” ff il 

With such thoughts as these she re- 
turned from her anxious search in the 
garden. As she entered her room, she 
saw upon her table a superb bouquet, 
just such a tribute as her loved Fritz 
had offered daily at her shrine before 
the queen’s unfortunate discovery. — 
With a loud cry of joy, she rushed to 
the table, seized the flowers, and pressed 
them to her lips; she then sought in 
the heart of her bouquet for the little 
note which she had ever before found 
concealed there. 

Truly this bouquet contained also a 
love-letter, a very tender, glowing love- 
letter, in which Fritz Wendel implored 
her to go with him ; to carry out their 
original plan, and flee with him in 


THE SURPRISE. 


225 


Dranienburg, where they would be 
married by the priest who had been 
won over by the Prince Augustus Wil- 
liam. To-day, yes, this very evening, 
at nine o’clock, must the flight take 
place. 

Louise did not hesitate an instant; 
she was resolved to follow the call of 
her beloved. A court ball was to take 
place this evening, and Louise von 
Schwerin must appear in the suite of 
the queen-mother ; she must, therefore, 
find some plausible excuse and remain 
at home. As the hour for the queen’s 
morning promenade approached, Louise 
became so suddenly ill that she was 
forced to ask one of the maids of 
honor to make her excuses, to return 
to her room, and lay herself upon the 
bed. 

The queen came herself to inquire 
after her health, and manifested so 
much sympathy, so much pity, that 
Louise was fully assured, and accepted 
without suspicion the queen’s proposal 
that she should give up the ball, and 
remain quietly in her room. Louise 
had now no obstacle to fear ; she could 
make her preparations for flight with- 
' out interruption. 

The evening came. She heard the 
carriages rolling away with the queen 
and her suite. An indescribable anx- 
iety oppressed this young girl. The 
hour of decision was at hand. She 
felt a maidenly trembling at the 
thought of her rash impudence, but 
the hour was striking — the hour of ro- 
mantic flight, the hour of meeting with 
her fond lover. 

It seemed to her as if she saw the 
imploring eyes of Fritz ever before her 
— as if she heard his loving, persuasive 
voice. Forgetting all consideration 
and all modesty, she wrapped herself 
in her mantle, and, drawing the hood 
tightly over her head, she hastened 
with flying feet through the corridors 
ind down the steps to the front door 
16 


of the palace. With a trembling heart 
she stepped into the street. 

Unspeakable terror now took posses- 
sion of her. “What if he was not 
there ? What if this were a plot, a 
snare laid for her feet ? But no, no ! ” 
She saw the tall and closely-muffled 
figure of a man crossing the open 
square, and coming directly toward 
her. She could not see his face, but 
it was surely he. Now he was hear 
her. He whispered the signal-word in 
a low, soft tone. With a quaking 
heart, she gave the answer. 

The young man took her cold little 
hand, and hurried her forward to the 
corner of the square. There stood the 
carriage. The stranger lifted her in 
his arms, and carried her to the car- 
riage, sprang in, and slammed the 
door. Forward I The vehicle seemed 
forced onward by the wings of the 
wind. In a few moments the city lay 
far behind them. In wild haste they 
flew onward, ever onward 1 The young 
man, still closely muffled, sat near to 
Louise — her lover, soon to be her hus- 
band ! Neither spoke a word. They 
were near to each other, with quickly- 
beating hearts, but silent, still silent. 

Louise found this conduct of her 
lover mysterious and painful. She un- 
derstood not why he who had been so 
tender, so passionate, should remain so 
cold and still by her side. She felt 
that she must flee far, far away from 
this unsympathizing lover, who had no 
longer a word for her, no further as- 
surances of regard. Yes, he despised 
her because she had followed him, and 
no longer thought her worthy of his 
tenderness. As this thought took pos- 
session of her, she gave a fearful shriek, 
and, springing from her seat, she 
seized the door, and tried to open it 
and jump out. But the strong hand 
of her silent lover held her back. 

“We have not yet arrived, made^ 
moiselle,” whispered he. 


226 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Louise felt a cold shudder pass over 
her. Fritz Wendel call her “Made- 
moiselle 1 ” and the voice sounded cold 
and strange. Anxiously, silently, she 
sank back into the carriage. Her 
searching glance was fixed upon her 
companion, but the night was dark. 
She could see nothing but the mysteri- 
ously-muffled figure. She stretched her 
small hands toward him, as if praying 
for help. He seized them, and pressed 
them to his heart and lips, but he re- 
mained silent. He did not fold her in 
his arms as heretofore ; he whispered no 
tender, passionate assurances in her ear. 
The terror of death overcame Louise. 
She clasped her hands over her face, 
and wept aloud. He heard her piteous 
sobs, and was stUl silent, and did not 
seek to comfort her. 

Onward went the flying wheels. The 
horses had been twice changed in order 
to reach the goal more quickly. Louise 
wept without ceasing. Exhausted by 
terror, she thought her death was near. 
Twice tortured by this ominous si- 
lence, she had dared to say a few low, 
sobbing words to her companion, but 
he made no reply. 

At last the carriage stopped. “ We 
have arrived,” he whispered to Louise, 
and, springing from the carriage, he 
lifted her out. 

“ Where are we ? ” she demanded, 
convinced that she had been brought 
to a prison, or some secret place of 
banishment. 

“We are in Oranienburg,” replied her 
mysterious companion, “and there is 
the church where the preacher awaits 
us.” He took her arm hastily, and led 
her into the church. The door was 
opened, and, as Louise stepped upon 
the threshold, she felt her eyes blind- 
ed by the flood of light upon the al- 
tar. She saw the priest with his open 
book, and heard the solemn sounds of 
the organ. The young man led Louise 
forward, but not to the altar ; he en- 


tered first into the sacristy. There also 
wax-lights were burning, and on the 
table lay a myrtle-wreath and a lace 
veil. 

“ This is your bridal wreath and veil,” 
said the young man, who stiU kept the 
hood of his cloak drawn tightly over 
his face. He unfastened and removed 
Louise’s mantle, and handed her the 
veil and wreath. Then he threw back 
his hood, and removed his cloak. 
Louise uttered a cry of amazement and 
horror. He who stood before her was 
not her lover, was not the gardener 
Fritz Wendel, but a strange young of- 
ficer in full-dress uniform ! 

“Forgive me,” said he, “ that I have 
caused you so much suffering to-day, but 
the king ordered me to remain silent, 
and I did so. We are here in obedience 
to his majesty, and he commanded me 
to hand you this letter before our mar- 
riage. It was written by his own 
hand.” 

Louise seized the royal missive hasti- 
ly. It was laconic, but the few words 
it contained filled the heart of the lit- 
tle maiden with shame. The letter 
contained these Hnes : 

“ As you are resolved, without re- 
gard to circumstances, to marry, out of 
consideration for your family, I will 
fulfil your wish. The handsome gar- 
dener-boy is not in a condition to be- 
come your husband, he being now con- 
fined in a mad-house. I have chosen 
for you a gallant young officer, of good 
family and respectable fortune, and I 
have enjoined him to marry you. If 
he pleases you, the priest will imme- 
diately perform the marriage cere- 
mony, and you will follow your hus- 
band into his garrison at Brandenburg. 
If you refuse him, the young officer, 
Von Cleist, has my command to place 
you again in the carriage, and take you 
to your mother. There you will have 
time to meditate upon your inconsid- 
erate boldness. Feedeeick II.” 


THE SURPRISE. 


Louise read the letter of the king 
igain and again ; she then fixed her eyes 
upon the young man who stood before 
her, and who gazed at her with a ques- 
tioning and smiling face. She saw 
that he was handsome, young, and 
charming, and she confessed that this 
rich uniform was more attractive than 
the plain, dark coat of the gardener- 
boy Fritz Wendel. She felt that the 
eyes of the young cavalier were as glow- 
ing and as eloquent as those of her old 
love. 

“ Well,” said he, laughing, “ have 
you decided, mademoiselle ? Do you 
consider me worthy to be the envied 
and blessed husband of the enchanting 
and lovely Louise von Schwerin, or 
will you cruelly banish me and rob me 
of this precious boon ? ” 

She gazed down deep into his eyes 
and listened to his words breathlessly. 
His voice was so soft and persuasive, 
not harsh and rough like that of Fritz 
Wendel, that it fell like music on her ear. 

“ Well,” repeated the young Von 
Cleist, “ will you be gracious, and ac- 
cept me for your husband ? ” 

“ Would you still wish to marry me, 
even if the king had not commanded 
it ? ” 

“ I would marry you in spite of the 
king and the whole world I ” said Von 
Cleist. “ Since I have seen you, I love 
you dearly.” 

Louisa reached him her hand. 

“ Well, then,” she replied, “ let us 
fulfil the commands of his majesty. 
He commands us to marry. We will 
commence with that; afterward we 
will see if we can love each other with- 
out a royal command.” 

The young captain kissed her hand, 
and placed the myrtle-wreath upon her 
brow. 

“ Come, the priest is waiting,” he 
urged, “and I long to call you my 
bride.” 

He hid the young girl of fourteen to 


the altar. The priest opened the holy 
book, and performed the marriage cere- 
mony. 

At the same hour, in the chapel of 
the king’s palace, another wedding took 
place. Laura von Panne witz and 
Count Voss stood before the altar. 
Frederick himself conducted Laura, 
and Queen Elizabeth gave her hand to 
Count Voss. The entire court had fol- 
lowed the bridal pair, and all were 
witnesses to this solemn contract. Only 
one was absent — the Prince Augustus 
William was not there. 

While Laura von Pannewitz stood 
above in the palace chapel, swearing 
eternal constancy to Count Voss, the 
prince stood below at the castle gate, 
waiting for her descent. But the hour 
had long passed, and she came not. A 
dark fear and torturing anguish came 
over him. 

Had the king discovered their plan ? 
Was it he who held Laura back, or 
had she herself forgotten her promise ? 
Was she unfaithful to her oath ? 

The time still flew, and she came 
not. Trembling with scorn, anguish, 
and doubt, he mounted the castle steps, 
determined to search through the sa- 
loons, and, at all risks, to draw near 
his beloved. Driven by the violence 
of his passion he had almost deter 
mined to carry her off by force. 

Throwing off his mantle, he stepped 
into the anteroom. No man regarded 
him. Every eye was turned toward 
the great saloon. The prince entered. 
The whole court circle, which were 
generally scattered through the adjoin- 
ing rooms, now forced themselves into 
this saloon — ^it glittered and shimmered 
wdth diamonds, orders, and gold and 
silver embroidery. 

The prince saw nothing of all this. 
He saw only the tall, pallid girl who 
stood in the middle of the room with 
the sweeping bridal veil and the 
myrtle-wreath in her hair. 


228 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


Yes, it was she — Laura von Panne- 
witz — and near her stood the young, 
smiling Count Voss. What did all 
this mean ? Why was his beloved so 
splendidly attired ? Why was the 
royal family gathered around her ? 
Why was the queen kissing even now 
his beautiful Laura, and handing her 
this splendid diadem ? Why did 
Count Voss press the king’s hand, 
which was that moment graciously ex- 
tended to him, to his lips ? 

Prince Augustus William understood 
nothing of all this. He felt as if be- 
wildered by strange and fantastic 
dreams. With distended, glassy eyes 
he stared upon the newly- wedded pair 
who were now receiving the congrat- 
ulations of the court. 

But the king’s sharp glance had ob- 
served him, and, rapidly forcing his 
way through the crowd of courtiers, 
he drew near to the prince. “ A word 
with you, brother,’’ said Frederick; 
“come, let us go into my cabinet.” 
The prince followed him, bewildered — 
scarcely conscious. “ And now, my 
brother,” said the king, as the door 
closed behind him, “ show yourself 
worthy of your royal calling and of 
your ancestors ; show that you deserve 
to be the ruler of a great people ; show 
that you know how to govern yourself I 
Laura von Pannewitz can never be 
yours ; she is the wife of Count Voss ! ” 
The prince uttered so piercing, so 
heart-rending a cry, that Frederick 
turned pale, and an unspeakable pity 
took possession of his soul “ Be brave, 
my poor brother,” said he ; “ w’hat you 
suffer, that have I also suffered, and 
almost every one who is called by Fate 
to fill an exalted position has the same 
anguish to endure. A prince has not 
the right to please himself— he belongs 
to the people and to the world’s his- 
tory, and to both these he must be ever 
secondary.” 

“ It is not true, it is not possible ! ” 


stammered the prince. “ Laura can 
never belong to another I She is mine 
— betrothed to me by the holiest of 
oaths, and she shall be mine in spite 
of you and of the whole world I I 
desire no crown, no princely title; I 
wish only Laura, only my Laura I I 
say it is not true that she is the wife of 
Count Voss ! ” 

“ It is true,” whispered a soft, tear- 
ful, choking voice, just behind him. 
The prince turned hastily ; the sad eye 
of Laura, full of unspeakable love, met 
his wild glance. Queen Elizabeth, ac- 
cording to an understanding with the 
king, had led the young Countess Voss 
into this apartment, and then returned 
with a light step into the adjoining 
room. 

“I will grant to your unhappy love, 
my brother, one last evening glow,” 
said the king. “ Take a last, sad fare- 
well of your declining sun ; but forget 
not that when the sun has disappeared, 
we have still the stars to shine upon 
us, though, alas 1 they have no warmth 
and kindle no flowers into life.” The 
king bowed, and followed his wife into 
the next room. The prince remained 
alone with Laura. 

What was spoken and sworn in this 
last sad interview no man ever knew. 
In the beginning, the king, who re- 
mained in the next room, heard the 
raging voice of the. prince, uttering 
wild curses and bitter complaints ; 
then his tones were softer and milder, 
and touchingly mournful. In half an 
hour the king entered the cabinet. 
The prince stood in the middle of the 
room, and Laura opposite to him. 
They gazed into each other’s wan and 
stricken flices with steady, tearless eyes ; 
their hands w’ ere clasped. “Farewell, 
ray prince,” said Laura, with a firm 
voice ; “ I depart immediately with my 
husband ; we shall never meet again I ” 

“ Yes, we shall meet again,” said the 
prince, with a w’eary smile ; “we shall 


THE RESIGNATION OF BARON POLLNITZ. 


229 


meet again in another and a better 
world: 1 shall be there, awaiting you, 
Laura I ” They pressed each other’s 
bands, then turned away. 

Laum stepped into the room where 
Count Voss was expecting her. “ Come, 
my husband,” she said; “I am ready 
to follow you, and be assured I will 
make you a faithful and submissive 
wife.” 

“ Brother,” said Prince Augustus 
William, extending his hand to the 
king, “ I struggle no more. I will con- 
form myself to your wishes, and marry 
the Princess of Brunswick.” 


CHAPTER XVn. 

THE RESIGNATION OF BARON POLLNITZ. 

The morning after the ball, Pollnitz 
entered the cabinet of the king ; he was 
confused and cast down, and that hap- 
pened to him which had never before 
happened — he was speechless. The 
king’s eyes rested upon him with an 
ironical and contemptuous expression. 

“ I believe you are about to confess 
your sins, Pollnitz, and make me your 
father confessor. You have the pitiful 
physiognomy of a poor sinner.” 

“ Sire, I would consent to be a sin- 
ner, but I am bitterly opjDosed to being 
a 'poor sinner.” 

“Ah 1 debts again— again in want ! ” 
cried the king. “ I am weary of this 
everlasting litany, and I forbid you to 
come whining to me again with your 
never-ending necessities. The evil a 
man brings upon himself he must bear ; 
the dangers which he involuntarily in- 
curs, he must conquer himself.” 

“Will not your majesty have the 
goodness to assist me, to reach me a 
helping hand and raise me from the 
abyss into which my creditors have 
cast me ? ” ! 


“ God forbid that I should waste the 
guld upon a Pollnitz which I need for 
my brave soldiers and for cannon ! ’’ 
add the king, earnestly. 

“ J'hen, sire,” said Pollnitz, in a low 
and hesitating tone, “I must beg you 
to give me my dismissal.” 

“ Your dismissal ! Have, you dis- 
covered in the moon a foolish prince 
who will pay you a larger sum for your 
miserable jests, and malicious scandals 
and railings, than the King of Prus- 
sia ? ” 

“Not in the moon, sire, is such a 
mad individual to be found, but in a 
Dutch realm. However, I have found 
no such prince, but a beautiful young 
maiden, who will be only too happy to 
be the Baroness Pollnitz, and pay the 
baron’s debts.” 

“ And this young girl is not sent to 
a mad-house ? ” said the king ; “ per- 
haps the house of the Baron von Poll- 
nitz is considered a house of correc- 
tion, and she is sent there to be pun- 
ished for her follies. Has the girl who 
is rich enough to jiay the debts of a 
Pollnitz, no guardian ? ” 

“ Father and mother both live, sire ; 
and both receive me joyfully as their 
son. My bride dwells in Nuremberg, 
and is the daughter of a distinguished 
patrician family.” 

“And she buys you,” said the king, 
“because she considers you the most 
enchanting of all Nuremberg toys ! 
As for your dismissal, I grant it to you 
with all my heart. Seat yourself and 
write as I shall dictate.” 

He looked toward the writing-table, 
and Pollnitz, obeying his command, 
took his seat and arranged his pen and 
paper. The king, with his arms folded 
across his back, walked slowly up and 
down the room. 

“ Write ! I will give you a dismis- 
sal, and also a certificate of character 
and conduct.” 

The king dictated to the trembling 


230 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT. 


and secretly-enraged baron tlie follow- 
ing words : 

“We, Frederick 11., make known, 
that Baron Pollnitz, born in Berlin, 
and, so far as we believe, of an honora- 
ble family, page to our sainted grand- 
father, of blessed memory, also in the 
service of the Duke of Orleans, colonel 
in the Spanish service, cavalry captain 
in the army of the deceased emperor, 
gentleman-in-waiting to the Pope, gen- 
tleman-in-waiting to the Duke of 
Brunswick, color-bearer in the service 
of the Duke of Weimar, gentleman-in- 
waiting to our sainted father, of ever- 
blessed memory ; lastly, and finally, 
master of ceremonies in our service ; — 
said Baron Pollnitz, overwhelmed by 
this stream of military and courtly 
honors which have been thrust upon 
him, and thereby weary of the vanities 
of this wicked world ; misled, also, by 
the evil example of Monteulieu, who a 
short time ago left the court, now in- 
treats of us to grant him his dismissal, 
and an honorable testimony as to his 
good name and service. After thought- 
ful consideration, we do not find it 
best to refuse him the testimony he has 
asked for. As to the most important 
service which he rendered to the court 
by his foolish jests and imonsistencies, 
and the pastimes and distractions which 
he prepared for nine years for the 
amusement of our ever-blessed father, 
we do not hesitate to declare that, dur- 
ing the whole time of his service at 
court, he was not a street-robber nor a 
cut-purse, nor a poisoner ; that he did 
not rob young women, or do them any 
violence; that he has not roughly at- 
tacked the honor of any man, but, con- 


sistently with his birth and lineage, 
behaved like a man of gallantry ; that 
he has consistently made use of the 
talents lent to him by Heaven, and 
brought before the public, in a merry 
and amusing way, that which is ridic- 
ulous and laughable amongst men, no 
doubt with the same object which lies 
at the bottom of all theatrical repre- 
sentations, that is, to improve the race. 
Said baron has also steadily followed 
the counsel of Bacchus with regard to 
frugality and temperance, and he has 
carried his Christian love so far, that 
he has left wholly to the peasants that 
part of the Evangelists which teaches 
that ‘ To give is more blessed than to 
receive.’ He knows all the anecdotes 
concerning our castles and pleasure re- 
sorts, and has indelibly imprinted upon 
his memory a full list of all our old 
furniture and silver; above all things, 
he understands how to make himself 
indispensable and agreeable to those 
who know the malignity of bis spirit 
and his cold heart. 

“As, however, in the most fruitful 
regions waste and desert spots are to 
be found, as the most beautiful bodies 
have their deformities, and the great- 
est painters are not without faults, so 
will we deal gently and considerately 
with the follies and sins of this much- 
talked-of baron ; we grant him, there- 
fore, though unwillingly, the desired 
dismissal. In addition to this, we 
abolish entirely this office so worthily 
filled by said baron, and wish to blot 
out the remembrance of it from the^ 
memory of man; holding that no other 
man can ever fill it satisfactorily 

“Frederick IL” 


END OF FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT, 




FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 

AN HISTORICAL NOVEL. 

BY 

L. MtHLBACH. 

TBAHSLATSD FBOM THB OfSBXAV. 


y 






FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


CHAPTER L 

ON THE ROAD. 

It was a hot August day in the year 
1785. The mid-day sun was casting 
its rays over the still, monotonous land- 
scape. The poplars, by the roadside, 
were covered with dust, and stood si- 
lent and melancholy, like sentinels. No 
air stirred the thin foliage, and the 
sparrows, sheltering themselves from 
the heat, did not betray their presence 
by a solitary twitter. 

The whole prospect made a dreary 
impression, as if all life had fled before 
the scorching sun, and found a refuge 
in the cool shade — perhaps in the lit- 
tle wood yonder, behind the village, 
perhaps in the houses of the village it- 
self, although this had an utterly poor 
and miserable appearance, like that of a 
decrepit man, worn with sorrow and 
age. Only two dwellings, having any 
thing of a noble appearance, rose above 
the low cottages ; they seemed to have 
been just finished, and, with their red 
tiles, made an agreeable contrast with 
the gray shingle roofs around them. 

At last the sultry stillness was inter- 
rupted by a sound in the far distance, 
but every instant approaching and be- 
coming louder. A white dust-cloud 


moved along the road, and in its cen- 
tre a dark object was seen that finally 
appeared to be a stately equipage. It 
was an open calash, drawn by two 
beautiful horses, and driven by a coach- 
man in a livery of dark-blue cloth, or- 
namented with broad stripes of gold- 
lace, who sat upon the box with as 
much solemnity and dignity as if he 
occupied a throne, and were the ruler 
of a kingdom. Upon the seat swinging 
behind the carriage dozed two lackeys. 
Within, huddled in a corner, and bowed 
down, sat the unpretending figure of 
an old man. It was Frederick II., who, 
thus simply and without escort, trav- 
eUed along the highway. He came 
from the review in Silesia, and had sent 
his military suite by another route, in 
order to secure a quiet journey, and to 
escape the molestation of the people, 
with the holiday speeches of little town 
mayors, proprietors, and village aider- 
men. He had sent away even his Ad- 
jutant - General von Schwerin, who 
usually rode in the same carriage ; for 
the king needed perfect quiet and soli- 
tude, to overcome the cliagrin which 
the Silesian review had caused him. 
The troops had manoeuvred badly, the 
regiments appeared reduced and disor- 
derly, and the officers had managed 
them so discreditably, that Frederick 


Z34 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


said, as he took his leave ; “ My army 
in Silesia has never before been so un- 
disciplined as now. If I had made 
generals of cobblers or tailors, the regi- 
ments could not have been worse. But 
I am not willing to lose Silesia through 
the neglect of my officers, therefore you 
must take more pains and drill better, 
so that, should I live and return to this 
province next year, you may do your 
whole duty. If any one shall then be 
guilty of neglect, I will subject him to 
a court-martial.” 

These were Frederick’s last words to 
the generals of his Silesian army, and 
then, without further greeting, he en- 
tered the coach which was to bear him 
home to Potsdam and his favorite 
Sans-Souci. The king had been on the 
road from daylight, and his coachman 
Pfund had orders to drive so that they 
might reach Liegnitz before evening, 
to which place he had dismissed his es- 
cort. The coachman graciously nodded 
assent to the command, and answered, 
with calm dignity : “ We shall see 
what can be done, your majesty. It 
depends altogether on the horses and 
the good Lord. If the heat be not too 
great, we shall be there in time.” All 
seemed to go well; the horses at the 
relays could travel stoutly, notwith- 
standing the sand of the highway. As 
they approached the village, they went 
more slowly, panting forward with dif- 
ficulty. 

The king, aroused from his reflec- 
tions by the retarded motion, rose, and 
cast an observing look upon the land- 
scape. His sharp military eye recog- 
nized a meadow-road running beside 
the highway. “ Turn out there, Pfund ! ” 
said he, in his clear voice ; “ take that 
road. There is no water on the 
meadow, and we shall be much freer 
fi-om dust.” 

The coachman did not answer, but 
raised his silver - handled whip, and 
lashed his horses so that they broke 


into a full trot, though just passing 


over a small elevation. 

“ Ho, Pfund, what does this mean ? ” 


cried the king, “ did you not hear that 
you must take the road through the 
low grounds ? It is better and pleas- 
anter.” 

The coachman again whipped his 


horses, and only turned his head sol- 


emnly on one side, so that Frederick 
could see a little of his deep-red face, 
streaming with perspiration. “Your 
majesty,” said he, with dignity, “I 
ought to know best about that, for 1 
have driven you thirty times over this 
very road.” 

“ You are not to take this, but the 
meadow-road,” cried the king. 

The coachman shrugged his shoul- 
ders. “ That is my business, your ma- 
jesty ; I am responsible for you. Only 
sit stiU and keep cool. I understand 
best how to drive, and you how to gov- 
ern. — Get up ! ” 

“ What can I do 1 ” said Frederick to ^ 
himself, as he sank back upon the:i^ 
cushions. “I mus^ even do as 
Pfund wills, because he understands 
driving better than I.” 

Just as they had reached the foot of M 
a hill, Pfund tightened the reins a little !! 
and pulled up his horses to breathe. 

“Do you know, Pfund,” said the 


king, with a slight smile, “ that you 


are an obstinate rascal, and heartily 
deserve to be sent for four weeks to 
Spandau for your disobedience ? ” 

“ I should like to know what would 
become of your majesty in that time ? ” 
said Pfund, solemnly. “Would you 
utterly ruin Prussia, then ? ” 

“ How so ? ” asked the king, as- 
tounded. “ What foolishness is this, 
Pfund ? How does it concern Prussia 
if I send my obstinate old coachman to 
Spandau, as a punishment for his dis- 
obedience ? ” 

“ It concerns Prussiii very much,” said 


Pfund, quietly, “ for if I were shut up 


ON THE ROAD. 


235 


.u. prison, wlio would drive your ma- 
jesty ? ” 

“Why, one of my other servants,” 
answered Frederick, whom the pom- 
pous style of his coachman always 
amused. 

“ Some other one 1 ” replied Pfund, in 
a contemptuous tone, “ I should like to 
see the scoundrel that would dare take 
my place on the carriage of the King 
of Prussia ! I would beat all his bones 
to a jelly, and make an omelet of the 
archtraitor, who should have the im- 
pudence to endanger the life of my 
king.” 

“ You are crazy, Pfund ! ” laughed 
Frederick. “ How could he endanger 
my life ? ” 

“ Merely because he would drive 
your majesty,” replied Pfund. “No 
one else ought to perform this duty, 
for it is a burden on the conscience, 
and the coachman undertakes, before 
all Europe, and still more before all 
Prussia, a fearful responsibility. The 
man that holds these reins does not 
drive only a little dried-up old man 
in a shabby coat and top-boots, that 
are not very well polished — ^no, he 
drives the whole kingdom of Prussia, 
and the good fortune' of nine millions 
of people, besides the laurels of so 
many victories, and the whole glory of 
Germany. One must have become ac- 
customed to this, as I have; and so, 
little by little, bear up imder it, hold- 
ing the horses well in hand, and hav- 
ing liis eyes open at the same time, 
without losing his presence of mind. 
Who has the courage to take out for 
an airing Prussia, with all its millions 
of* subjects, as I do ? I alone can do 
it, and that comes from my having got 
accustomed to it, peu-d^peu. We both 
commenced with small things. Do 
you know how I happened to come 
into your service ? You were only a 
little crown prince, living in Rheins- 
berg, who didn’t rightly know whether 


he would ever govern this laud, while 
I was a wild lad of eighteen, but even 
then distinguished as the best driver 
in Pomei’ania ; and I became your ser- 
vant, because I had a sweetheart in 
Rheinsberg, and did not want to leave 
the place. For that, and no other rea- 
son, I took service with the crown 
prince of Prussia.” 

Pfund was silent, and let the reins 
hang loose. The horses moved slowly 
onward and did not disturb the good 
coachman in his reflections. Frederick 
listened to him with pleasure, and the 
gossip of his old servant evidently 
cheered him. His manner was no 
longer so harsh, his eyes had a gentler 
light, and a smile played about his thin 
lips. 

“ ‘ Children and fools speak the 
truth,”’ whispered Frederick to him- 
self. “I imagine that every person 
thinks he is fortunate if he is permitted 
to approach me, and this good-natured 
man tells me openly that he engaged 
in my service not for my sake, not for 
the crown prince’s, but for that of a 
sweetheart. — Well, drive up, coachman, 
you know we must reach Liegnitz in 
time to-day.” 

“ I have a couple of more words to 
say,” replied Pfund, as he stood up on 
the box, and turned round to the king, 
who, completely astonished, gazed into 
the broad, fat face of his coachman. 

“ You have more words to say, block- 
head ? But I will hear nothing — be 
silent, and drive on.” 

“ Not so, your majesty,” said Pfund, 
slowly shaking his head.* “ Here on 
the coach-box I am the master, and 
know what I have to do. I must 
speak, to explain why I did not take 
the meadow - road. That road goes 
round the village, and not through it, 
by the church, and the parsonage, and 
the agent’s house.” 

“ Church I ” cried the king, “ I can see 
no steeple I ” 


236 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


“ Good Heaven ! ” said Pfund, impa- 
tiently ; “ only think a moment I This 
is the village of Ottmannshof; the 
church of which was burned down 
last spring in a terrible thunder-storm, 
and your majesty sent the money to 
rebuild it. It is lucky that you did so 
at once, otherwise you would have ne- 
glected to forward any thing, as your 
majesty has forgotten the whole affair.” 

“No, no,” laughed Frederick, “I 
have more to think about than your 
Ottmanushof; I did not even know 
that this was the place.” 

“Yes, truly,” said Pfund, shrugging 
his shoulders, “ a king can travel the 
same way thirty times, and not notice 
it, and would be sure to turn over, if 
he drove his own coach. It is lucky 
that I am here to keep the King of 
Prussia in the right way. Well, as I 
said, I didn’t take that road, because 
it goes round the village, and this one 
goes through it. But we have to drive 
through Ottmannshof, for I made a 
promise last year that I would pass 
through on our journey from the re- 
view, and, at least, say ‘ Thank you.’ — 
Well, your majesty knows a man must 
keep his word.” 

“ Yes, certainly,” said Frederick, “ if 
you promised, the King of ' Prussia 
must of course accede to your will. 
But then to whom did you make such 
a promise ? ” 

“ To the agent’s pretty daughter, 
who nursed me so kindly, and the old 
parson, who helped me to pass the 
time, and to whom I had to tell the 
story of all the battles through which 
I had passed with your majesty. You 
know that military movements brought 
us into this country, where I took a 
bad fever, and had to remain six 
weeks; I should certainly have died, 
if the parson and the agent’s daughter 
hadn’t cared for me. As I was going 
away, I said, ‘ If the king comes here 
next fall, he will thank you himself for 


curing his coachman.’ Then the good 
man laughed and said, that the king 
would never do so, for such a great 
man would not make himself so com- 
mon. But I replied that Old Fritz 
was just the man to make himself ‘ so 
common,’ for he loved his servant too 
well to neglect thanking the good folks 
that had nursed him. I swore up and 
down that I would pass through Ott- 
mannshof this year with my king, and 
that he would say to the parson and to 
the pretty maiden, ‘ I thank you.’ You 
need not say more, but that much, to j 
oblige me. For you see, your majesty,- ’ 
t^iere is no way that I can show then^ 
by myself how thankful I am. Mone^ 
they wouldn’t take for all the expenses ' 
that I put them to, but a good word 
from your majesty would be valued 
more, for they love you ; and no one 
knows better than I do, how good and 
brave your majesty is, and I have told 
it all to the parson and the lady.” 

“ Well, old friend,” said the king, 

“ If you should ever undertake to 
make pretty speeches to me, then is 
Matthae’s occupation gone, and I must 
do as you wish ; so drive through Ott- 
mannshof. But these people know 
nothing about our visit, and will not 
be at home.” 

“ Yes,” said the coachman, with a 
nod, “ they know it ; and will be there. 

I told the courier, who orders the re- 
lays, that he must stop at the house of 
the agent, and the parson, and say 
that we should pass through at noon, 
and that they must be standing at their 
doors — they will certainly be there.” 

“ Ah I ” said Frederick, “ the fellow 
arranges every thing according to his 
own ideas, and the King of Prussia 
has nothing to do but say ‘ Yes ’ to the 
management of his lord coachman.” 

“Your majesty says, Yesl” cried 
Pfund, with a happy laugh. 

“ I must say so, if only to get away 
from this place. — Drive on, my friend, 


ON THE ROAD. 


and if your people arc there — well, yon 
may stop for a moment. But I tell you, 
you must drive all the harder for it.” 

‘•Your majesty,” cried the gratified 
coachman, as he turned round, took 
his scat again, and tightened the reins, 
“ I ■will drive as if the Evil One were 
sitting behind me.” 

Pfund lashed his horses to a trot, and 
the carriage rolled forward. The king 
leaned back in his cushioned corner, 
and stroked Alkmene, who in acknowl- 
edgment fawned upon him, and licked 
his withered cheeks. Frederick pressed 
the greyhound gently to him. “ Thou 
art a good beast, and wouldst love me 
just as dearly if I were a beggar and 
not a king. Well, I think the man on 
the coach-box would do the same, and 
would not desert me, either. Why 
should I complain then? I have a 
faithful hound and a trusty servant, 
with whom I can pass through the 
world. The rest are only rag-bags, 
and are not even worth the trouble 
that I should vex myself about them, 
and — ” 

“ Your majesty,” cried Pfund, “ there 
is the parsonage. I see already the 
rector’s black coat, and there is a lit- 
tle flag just below. That must be 
ma’m’selle.” 

The carriage had driven into the lit- 
tle village, and, with a lively snapping 
of the whip, passed the mud-hovels, at 
whose narrow doors the women in 
ragged garments stood and stared. 

“A miserable hole,” growled the 
king ; “ I shall be obliged to pay the 
sick-bed expenses of Pfund, for, since I 
have seen this place, I cannot close my 
eyes on its poverty.” 

•‘ Lord 1 ” cried the coachman, as he 
suddenly pulled up. 

“Well, what is the matter now?” 
asked Frederick, “why do you make 
such* an outcry ? ” 

“I w^as so startled, your majesty. 
The man that stands there is not the 


2ti7 

parson. He is a younger man alto- 
gether. Something has certainly hap- 
pened to the old gentleman, and, per- 
haps after all, he is dead.” 

“ Well, drive on, we shall soon find 
out.” 

The coachman obeyed, and the car- 
riage soon stopped before the house 
with the new -tiled roof. Two persons 
stood before it, a tall, slender young 
man in the black coat of a preacher, 
and beside him a young lady in a sim- 
ple, white dress, but of such beauty 
and noble mien, that she looked, even 
in this modest toilet, like a queen, who 
came forth to receive her equals. 

“ Are you the pastor here ? ” asked 
the king, fixing his great eyes upon the 
pale countenance of the young man. 

“ So please your majesty, I have been 
pastor here for half a year,” was the 
quiet, respectful answer. 

“ Then the old pastor, who took care 
of my coachman, is dead ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, the alarm and 
anxiety originating from the burning 
of the church last spring, caused the 
good pastor’s death. He was never 
able to express his gratitude to your 
majesty for your generosity in grant- 
ing funds for rebuilding the church. 
I now do so in the name of my de- 
parted friend, and of my entire par- 
ish.” 

“ You owe me no thaiiks,” answered 
the king, hastily. “To relieve unde- 
served misfortune is my duty, and for 
that purpose I am here I Has your 
predecessor left any family ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, a widow and 
seven children.” 

“ Seven children ! That is a large 
family; and they are all unprovided 
for ? ” 

“ Your majesty, the oldest child ia 
thirteen, the youngest two years old, 
and there is besides an adopted child 
of six months.” 

“ Your majesty,” cried the coachman, 


238 


FREDERICK THE GREAT aND HIS COACHMAN. 


turning round with the tears in his eyes, 
“you desired to be so gracious, and 
say to the old parson, ‘ 1 thank you,’ 
and now he is dead, and — 

“ Be still,” commanded the king. — 
“Has the lady a dower? Can she 
raise her children decently f 
“ Your majesty, it will be very diffi- 
cult,” replied the young rector. “ My 
predecessor could not accumulate pro- 
perty, because the living is not a good 
one, and his family expenses were large. 
The widow, after her ‘ year of grace ’ is 
over, is dependent upon a small pen- 
sion paid her by the parish.” 

“And she has, besides, a widow’s 
house, has she not ? ” 

“ No, your majesty, that was burned 
with the agent’s house. The thunder- 
storm was accompanied by a great 
wind, so that the fire spread from the 
church to all the neighboring build- 
ings. The parish pays the widow a 
little additional sum for her house. 
She lives here in the rectory with her 
family.” 

“ Well, and I will grant her a little 
pension besides,” said Frederick. “ She 
shall yearly receive a hundred dollars 
out of my private purse, as long as she 
lives; I will make the order, and fhe an- 
nuity shall be reckoned from the day 
of the rector’s death.” 

“ No, no, no more of that,” said the 
king, quickly. “ I require no thanks ; 
and, besides, what I do is gratitude 
toward the old pastor in his grave ; for 
he cured my coachman last year, and 
acted like a true Christian. Say to 
the widow, for me, my pension means, 

‘ I thank you, good pastor — ’ Ah, and 
this pretty lady,” continued the king, 
as his eyes rested upon the fair form 
beside the rector, “is she the agent’s 
daughter who nursed Pfund ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, I am the agent’s 
daughter.” 

“ H’m I you do not look like it,” said 
the king. “ One would take you for a I 


fairy queen, or at least a duchess. Who 
were your parents ? ” 

“My father was the agent of this 
property, which belonged to the Count, 
von Schmittau, who was a near rela 
tive of my mother, for she was a Count- 
ess von Schmittau.” 

“And what was your father’s 
name ? ” 

“ Hartman, your majesty.” 

“ Ah, your mother made a misal- 
liance ? ” inquired the king, harshly. 
“ A born countess married to a bailiff ! 
Did your mother’s parents consent to 
this ? ” 

“ No, your majesty ; but my mother 
loved my father, and as her parents, 
who played a grand role at court in 
Vienna, wished to place her in a con- 
vent to prevent her marriage with her 
lowborn lover, she fled with him, after 
having been secretly married. They 
afterwards travelled, and resided for a 
long time in Paris.” 

“ That is truly a right romantic 
story,” said the king. “ But how came 
your parents, who had lived so gi’andly, 
in this low position ? ” 

“ My father lost his entire fortune 
through the failure of a banking-house. 
My mother in her distress applied to her 
brother for assistance, and, though my 
uncle refused to see her, yet from pity 
for his poor sister, he gave her husband 
the agency of this estate, but burden- 
ed with the harsh condition, that she 
should never attempt to see him. She 
kept her word, and died eight years ago 
without being reconciled to her family.” 

“ And your father ? ” 

“ He died three months since, your 
majesty.” 

“ You are then an orphan. Have you 
any means ? ” 

“ No, your majesty, I am poor. The 
fire destroyed every thing, and my 
father was not insured. Anxiety and 
grief on account of this caused his 
death.” 


ON THE ROAD. 


239 


“ And wliat do you intend to do 
now ? ” 

“ I await my fate ! ” replied slie, with 
a strange quietude. 

“Have you asked assistance from 
your mother’s grand relations ? ” 

A burning blush blazed for an instant 
on the beautiful maiden’s cheeks and 
her eyes gleamed. “No, I have not 
done that; I await my fate ! ” 

“Does your mother’s brother still 
live ? ” 

“ Yes, in Vienna.” 

“ Has he a family ? ” 

“ He had a son, but he has lately 
died, and the father is, as we hear, very 
ill.” 

“ And who is the heir of the estate, if 
the old count dies ? ” 

A tremor agitated the maiden’s 
proud form, and a cloud darkened her 
brow, as she answered : “ It falls to a 
collateral line, your majesty.” 

“ What is the name ? ” asked the king, 
who was always curious about the 
prfvate affairs of noble families. — 
“What is the name of the collateral 
line -which succeeds Count von Schmit- 
tau,” repeated the king, as the maiden 
did not instantly answer. 

“Your majesty,” said she, hesitat- 
ingly, as if finding it diflScult to recall 
the name, “ I think it is Pinto.” 

“What,” asked the king, quickly,; 
“not the Pintos that once lived in 
Breslau ? The father is dead, and the 
son is a captain in my regiment of 
guards at Potsdam. Is that the 
Pinto?” 

“ Yes, your majesty, he is the man,” 
she replied. 

“ So then,” said the king, with sat- 
isfaction, “the mad Pinto will sud- 
denly become a rich man. He has 
asked for a week’s leave of absence, in 
order to visit his relatives in Vienna. 
Now I understand — I see through it 
all 1 He must know if the inheritance 
is ripe I That suits us precisely ; and I 


promise you, that, when Pi ato takes 
possession of his fortune, he shall settle 
a pension on you; for, though I ab- 
hor misalliances, yet a nobleman must 
never allow his relatives to suffer. You 
are not to blame because your mother 
played such a stupid trick. Whenever 
the Baron von Pinto obtains the for- 
tune he shall allow you an annuity at 
once ; I will take care of that.” 

“ Will your majesty grant me one fa- 
vor ? ” said the girl, with a tone of 
firmness. 

“ Let us hear ! Wliat favor will you 
ask?” 

“ That your majesty will not speak of 
me to the Baron von Pinto. I would 
rather receive charity from the beggar 
on the street, than a morsel of bread 
from that nobleman.” 

The king fixed his bright eyes with 
an expression of surprise on the remark- 
ably beautiful countenance of the young 
woman. 

“ Well, if you do not wish it, it is all 
the same to me. But this I tell you, 
you receive nothing from me. I am 
too poor to grant money to one who is 
too proud to accept assistance from her 
own rich relatives.” 

“ Your majesty, I desire assistance 
from no one,” said the maiden, in a 
calm tone, “ I will never ask it, I trust 
in God and await my fate.” 

“ Well, as you please,” said the king, 
■with displeasure. “I hope then that 
the good Lord will give himself extra 
trouble about you, for, I repeat it, from 
me you receive nothing.” 

“ But from me,” cried Pfund, as he 
made his lash whistle, “ she shall have 
something, if she will only do me the 
honor to ask, or to receive without 
asking. I should have been under 
ground with the parson long ago, if the 
beautiful young lady had not pitied the 
poor rascal, and watched over me like 
one of God’s angels. And it was no 
pleasure for ma’m’selle, I can tell your 


240 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


majesty, for I was an obstinate patient, 
and — ” 

“ Hold your tongue, fellow I ” cried 
the king, “ and drive on ; lam ready.” 

“But,” growled the old man, “I 
would like to say a word. I pray you 
permit me.” 

“ Well, speak then, but make haste.” 

“I only wished to say — Ma’m’selle, 
Amalie Hartman, if you ever need a 
friend — if a man who has a heart, and 
two strong arms always ready to serve 
you, can be useful to you, then. think 
of me 1 If the sorrowful thought comes 
to you that you are an orphan, and have 
no mother to love, or father to protect 
you, and when you are lonesome in the 
world, — well, then come to me, to 
Pfund ; and if you w ant to make him 
happy, write to him, and just say, ‘ Old 
Pfund, I want a father to love, protect, 
and take care of me, and he will be 
proud and happy if you will take him 
fora father. — Well, now I have said it, 
and — ^forward ! — Get up I ” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE OVERTURNED CARRIAGE. 

Pfund whipped up the horses, and 
urged them into so wild a gallop, that 
the king had no time to say farewell, 
or to object to this sudden leave-taking. 
But Frederick had not thought of do- 
ing so. He sat upright and gazed at 
the broad back of his coachman with 
an approving smile, and a mild, friend- 
ly expression in his blue eye. As the 
coach moved more slowly up a hill, the 
king called iri a gentle voice : “ Sir 
Coachman Pfund I ” 

The old man turned his dignified 
head, and let the king see his rosy 
face. “ Well, your majesty. I know I 
shall get a scolding, because I under- 
took to open my mouth in your ma- 
jesty’s presence. But you see, I am 


just like a stage-horse when he is going 
home and smells his stable. Tliere is 
no reining him in, and he will run. 
My heart ran away with me when I 
saw the house where I lay sick so many 
weeks last year, and should have died, | 
if the pretty ma’m’selle hadn’t taken * 
pity on me. — And now I beg your ma- 
jesty’s pardon, and promise that, hence- 
forth, I will behave like a mannerly 
royal coachman and hold my mouth, 
and never lose sight of respect, rever- 
ence, and all the rest of it.” 

“ Well, well, we shall see how long 
you will keep that promise,” said the i 
king, laughing. “You are an incorri-1 
gible stage-horse, and I must either dis-J; 
charge or be patient with you.” ' 

“Then I only ask your majesty to 
be patient,” said Pfund, touching his 
wheel-horse lightly with his whip. “ Be 
patient with me, and I promise that I 
will be the same with your majesty.” 

“ You will be patient with me ! ” 
exclaimed the king, laughing loudly. 
“Well, but when ? ” 

“Why, when I want to growl be- 
cause your majesty sometimes orders 
me to drive fast, and it is impossible 
through the sand ; and then when your 
majesty orders me to go where no car- 
riage could pass, and to turn into a 
road where there isn’t a sign of one ; or 
when your majesty blames me because 
you ar’n’t pleased with some one else, jj 
and beat the sack, when you mean the 
mule, as this morning, when your ma- 
jesty scolded me because you were dis- 
pleased with the generals. When any 
of these things happen again, I will be 
patient, and not mutter or argue.” 

“ Now, that is very good in you, 
Mr. Coachman, but I do not* believe 
you will do it,” said the king, good-na- 
turedly; “but we shall see. As for 
Ma’ra’selle Amalie at Otmannshof, I will 
only say to you, my friend, that, if she 
ever comes to you, you must tell me of 
it, and let me help her ” 


THE OVERTURNED CARRIAGE. 


241 


“ But suppose she comes with a se- 
cret, your majesty ? ” asked Pfund, with 
a contemplative countenance. Such 
pretty maidens often have secrets that 
they might perhaps be willing to trust 
to a friend, but not to a king.” 

“ Do you anticipate a secret, then ? ” 

“ Yes ; I must tell your majesty, that 
the people in Ottmannshof last year 
used to gossip about a handsome young 
officer who had been there, and seemed 
to be pleased with the lady. She was 
very fond of him, they said, and the 
servant that brushed my boots and 
clothes undertook once to tell me that 
she had had a love-affair with the gen- 
tleman, but my informant never got 
any further, because I cuffed his ears, 
and swore I would break every bone in 
his body, if he ever attempted to repeat 
such slanderous nonsense. So I never 
heard any more about it.” 

“ I can well believe that the people 
were afraid of your great fists,” said 
the king; “but you think, yourself, 
that there was something in this gossip, 
and that it was not a mere slander ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” growled Pfund. 
“ The ma’m’selle didn’t look so happy 
and contented this year as she did last ; 
then I thought she might be in sorrow, 
and if the handsome officer had really 
loved her so much he would have mar- 
ried her, and — well, it is foolishness.” 

“ Yes, foolishness ; you are right. An 
officer should never marry an agent’s 
daughter — that would be a fine affair ! 
Who was this officer ? What was his 
name ? In what service was he ? ” 

“ I don’t know, your majesty ; he was 
not there, and I never asked about 
him.” 

“ And the people never told you any 
thing? Well, then, you have heard 
my commands. If the young lady ever 
comes to you for help tell me, and I 
will uphold you. — Now, I have some- 
thing else to say to you. I wish to re- 
turn to Berlin as soon as possible, be- 
16 


cause I expect a guest. My brother-in- 
law, the Stadtholder of Holland, is to 
pay me a visit, and will bring a great 
train with him — many equipages, sad- 
dle-horses, and grooms. He is very 
rich, and his servants distinguished 
gentlemen, who imagine that they are 
persons of some account. The day af- 
ter his arrival, wait on his coachman, 
and invite him and - all his underlings 
to a supper. Order the supper at the 
‘Green-tree Tavern’ in the Zimmer- 
strasse, and there eat to your heart’s 
content and get drunk. The landlord 
can send me the bill the next day, and 
I will pay it.” 

“ Ah, your majesty, that is glorious,” 
cried Pfund, with sparkling eyes, “ that 
is a great favor to me, and I will be- 
have myself like the King of Prussia 
himself when I receive the coachman, 
lackeys, and jockeys, at my feast: we 
shall all be jolly, and the mischief take 
the rascals if they don’t hurrah with 
me, ‘ Long live Old Fritz ! ’ ” 

“ Drive faster,” cried the king. “We 
are crawling up the hill like a ^ail. 
We have had enough of this ; now, let 
the horses go like hares down the other 
side. — ^Forward ! Pfund, no more chat- 
tering and gossipping — forward I ” 

And away they went down the hill, 
and along the highway, at a sweeping 
pace, into the country town, where they 
stopped at the posthouse to change 
horses ; but so quicldy was this done, 
that, before the mayor had finished the 
first sentence of his address, Frederick 
again motioned to Pfund to drive om 
Forward again they went, out of the 
town, over the uneven road, now by 
woods and villages, now between the 
rows of poplars, up hill, down dale, 
always at a trot. Pfund was happy I 
— Ma’m’selle Amalie, the pension fbr 
the pastor’s widow, and the feast for' 
the coachman of the stadtholder, occu-r 
pied his thoughts, so that he gave the 
reins to his horses, and scarcely noticed i 


242 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


the road. The king had ordered, “ For- 
ward, always forward I ” And he was 
certainly pleased, for he had not said a 
word, or once scolded, as was his man- 
ner, when not satisfied with the driying. 
The coachman never looked back, — 
Perhaps he would have gone a little 
slower had he observed that the king 
had sunk back on the cushions, and 
was sound asleep. But Pfund was too 
much engaged with himself to notice 
it, and it did his heart good to drive 
at full speed. 

A great stone lay in the middle of 
the highway, which Pfund did not see, 
because the dust was so thick and the 
horses moved so rapidly. With a loud 
crash the fore-wheel passed over it, but 
the larger hind-wheel refused, and the 
carriage overturned. It was fortunate 
that the horses stopped, and did not 
drag the coach forward — ^that the sud- 
den shock had done the king no inju- 
ry. He was somewhat roughly awa- 
kened, but the alarm was really the 
only inconvenience which the accident 
caused him. Poor Alkmene stood 
barking at the window. Both the 
lackeys sprang from their seats with- 
out harm, and Pfund himself escaped 
with a slight contusion. He raised 
himself, notwithstanding his years and 
corpulence, with wonderful celerity, 
and cast a glance into the interior of 
the coach, where he saw the king ly- 
ing among the cushions, and met his 
threatening eyes. 

“Your majesty,” he said, humbly, 
“ are you hurt ? I hope nothing is the 
matter.” 

“ Matter I ” cried the king, in a rage. 
“ The matter is, that my donkey of a 
coachman has turned me over ! — that 
I lie here like a bundle of rags in the 
middle of the highway, and my lack- 
eys, fools as they are, stand and stare, 
instead of helping me out I ” 

“God be thanked!” exclaimed the 
toachmao, with a joyful expression. 


“ Hurrah ! Nothing is the matter with 
his majesty, for he can scold like a 
sound man ! ” 

“ Help me out, you rascals ! ” cried 
the king. 

“ There is no need of it,” said Pfund, 
mildly. — “ Here, boys I Take hold of 
the carriage on this side I Pull at the 
wheels that stand in the air 1 I will 
go round and push against the other 
side. Only sit still, your majesty, I 
will have it all right in a moment.” 

One strong pull, and then another, 
and the coach was righted. 

“Now let us see if any thing is 
broken,” said the coachman, as he tried 
the spokes, and carefully examined the 
springs and axles. “ It is like a mira- 
cle,” he continued, shaking his head 
solemnly. “ It seems as if nothing 
could happen to a carriage in which 
the king sits. With any other gentle- 
man it would have been broken into a 
thousand pieces. It is all right, boys 
— ^you can get up again. But, first,” as 
he moved with humble mien, and hat 
in hand, to the carriage door, “ I have 
a word to say to his majesty. I beg 
pardon most submissively. It is the 
truth — I never shall forgive myself for 
what has happened to-day ; but remem- 
ber, your majesty, it is the first time, 
and forgive the old man.” 

“I forgive you,” said the king, se- 
verely, “but you shall not drive me 
another day. You must be pensioned. 
That will be no punishment for you, 
for you will still retain your full wages, 
but I owe it to my subjects not to risk 
my life through your carelessness. I 
am determined ; you must be dis- 
missed.” 

“No, that is not possible I Your 
majesty is not in earnest I You cannot 
wish to cause the death of your hon- 
est servant, just because a misfortune 
befell him for the first time in his life I 
No, your majesty must remember that 
it is so warm, and there is so much 


THE OVERTURNED CARRIAGE. 


243 


dust— and you ordered me to drive at 
full speed ; I was bound to obey, and I 
could not suppose that such an obsta- 
cle lay in the middle of the public 
road. No, your majesty never can be 
so unmerciful as to discharge me for 
this accident.” 

“ Nonsense I ” replied the king ; “ to 
be dismissed and pensioned will do you 
no harm.” 

“Yes,” cried Pfund, “it would be 
the death of any one who lov^s his 
king as I love him, and when one is in 
dread all the time that some young 
coachman will turn him over and kill 
him. No, your majesty, it is not pos- 
sible I You couldn’t live without your 
old Pfund. Think how I have been 
driving your majesty for six-and-forty 
years, and always well, and on the right 
road. Bad luck may happen some- 
times to the best of us, and your ma- 
jesty, of all men, ought to think of his 
own case, and be silent.” 

“How so?” asked the king, whose 
sudden anger had already cooled, and 
who began to be amused by the alarm 
of his favorite. “ Why should I be si- 
lent ? ” 

“ Well, I will tell your majesty,” re- 
plied Pfund, coolly. “You want to 
turn me out and pension me because I 
have had an accident. Now, I just ask 
your majesty, have you never lost a 
battle? Haven’t we lived to see Co- 
logne ? and what would your majesty 
have said if your people had turned 
you out and pensioned you for that ? ” 

Frederick laughed aloud, and point- 
ed through the door at the highway. 
“ And this is your Cologne, then ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Pfund, solemnly, 
“ this is my Cologne, the first battle I 
ever lost.” 

“Well,” rejoined the king, “don’t 
take it amiss, old general of the coach- 
box, that I have regarded the matter 
from a false stand-point. As my peo- 
ple did not pension me on account of 


the battle of Cologne, number one, so I 
will not turn off General Pfund on ac- 
count of the battle of Cologne, number 
two. Moreover, I will forgive and for- 
get the whole, and not another word 
shall be said about the miserable busi- 
ness. And now I have only to com- 
mand the noble field-marshal of the 
coach-box to mount his war-steed for 
new victories.” 

“Your majesty,” cried Pfund, with 
tears in his eyes, “ if there were a drop 
of blood in my heart that did not be- 
long to you, you have gained it now, 
and I am yours, body and soul. If you 
should send me to the infernal regions, 
I would go there, and if you wish to 
trample upon me you may. I ask your 
majesty only this — give me your hand 
as a sign to me of grace and pity, that 
I may kiss it.” 

“Well, there it is,” ‘said the king, 
extending his hand, “ since you wish 
it.” 

The old coachman seized the little, 
meagre hand of the king with his 
thick fingers, and pressed it close to his 
lips. 

“Believe me,” cried he, “the kiss 
which I gave your wrinkled hand was 
sweeter to me than that of a pretty 
woman. I thank your majesty a thou- 
sand times, who is the best and most 
gracious king that ever lived or ever 
will live on this earth.” 

“Be silent!” exclaimed Frederick, 
“and drive on.” 

“In a moment, your majesty. I will 
only look at the hind-wheels, to see if 
they are all right.” 

Pfund went behind the coach, and, 
after trying the wheels, and finding 
them in good order, turned his face up 
to the lackeys, and cast a threatening 
look at them from his little half-shut 
eyes. 

“ Rascals, if you ever tell a word of 
our ill-luck of to-day — ^if you are old 
women enough to blab it, I swear thaf 


244 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


I’ll thrash you like an empty coal-sack, 
until there won’t be life enough left in 
you to tattle again. The king and I 
are agreed to be silent about this little 
mischance. You must keep quiet, too, 
or look out for the Old Boy and Pfund 1 
Mark that, and act accordingly.” 

After whispering this good counsel 
to the lackeys, the coachman sprang to 
his place, cracked his whip — a present 
from his fellow-coachmen in honor of 
his five-and-twentieth jubilee — and the 
carriage moved forward again. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE PROPOSAL. 

The young pastor and the beautiful 
maiden followed the carriage with 
thoughtful eyes and earnest looks, until 
it disappeared behind a cloud of dust. 
When it could no longer be seen, the 
pastor turned his face slowly toward 
Amalie, and their glances met. 

“You are displeased with me,” said 
the maiden; “you think I ought not 
to have rejected the offer of the king ? ” 

“ I never permit myself to judge of 
what you have done,” answered the 
pastor, mildly. “But I wish you to 
grant me a moment’s hearing. Will 
you permit me to go with you to your 
room ? ” 

“ Why ? It is dark and dismal there. 
Let us go into the garden. What you 
have to say need surely not be hidden. 
Come.” 

Amalie turned, passed through the 
little hall, and, followed by the pastor, 
entered the garden, which lay behind 
the rectory. At the lower end a bower 
stood beside the stone wall, which in- 
closed the churchyard. Behind the 
honeysuckles and vines the youthful 
pair sealed themselves. 

“Here we are alone,” said Amalie. 
“This bower is my apartment in the 


summer time. Now speak, my friend; 
reprove me, ask me by what means I 
hope to live, or whether I can permit 
myself to remain longer a burden on 
the rector’s widow. I am prepared foi 
this, and yet cannot give you an an- 
swer.” 

“You misjudge me, Amalie,” said 
the young man, sighing, “ and already 
your error shows me how little you care 
to read my heart.” 

“ Your heart I ” exclaimed Amalie. 

A sad smile of resignation trembled 
on the lips of Pastor Werner. “ You 
wonder, it seems, that I even possess a 
he'art ? You have only seen me quietly 
performing my duties, and — ” 

“ I have noticed you kind and gener- 
ous to every one,” she interrupted him, 
earnestly. “I have seen you full of 
gentle pity for all who suffer — ^full of 
comfort to the unhappy, and helping 
the unfortunate. You have gone about 
among us like an apostle, and your 
poverty - stricken flock call you their 
good angel. The people have ceased to 
lament for their departed pastor since 
you came among them. You are to 
them a good friend, a teacher, a father, 
a physician — thus have you appeared 
to me, and therefore it was that your 
question surprised me. We, who are 
human, have hearts, and God knows 
how much they err, but His messen- 
gers, who go about doing good among 
men, have not hearts subject to deceit 
and error.” 

“ I am a poor, sinful man,” said the 
preacher, in a voice full of tender sad- 
ness. “ A life of sorrow, pain, and 
self-denial, of poverty and resignation 
has better fitted me, perhaps, to under- 
stand and comfort the afflicted than 
those who have grown up in fortune 
and happiness; I have become accus- 
tomed to suffering, and have learned to 
lay all trustfully in the hands of God ; 
but still I feel pain not less keenly, and 
am not less susceptible of happineSvS 


THE PROPOSAL. 


lieart yearns for an object cf sincere 
Jove, and, Amalie, it is in your hands 
whether I shall attain it.” 

“ In my hands I ” she said, turning 
pale and starting back in terror. 

“ Yes I ” he continued, fervently. “ I 
love you, Amalie, I have loved you 
from the first day I saw you. I seek 
your love as a beggar, who craves after 
costly viands. Amalie, will you accept 
me and become my wife ? ” 

“You ask me that I ” she exclaimed. 
“ Nothing then has been told you about 
me ? Calumny has whispered no slan- 
der in your ear ? ” 

“ She has,” replied he, calmly looking 
iato Amalie’s face. “ She has told me 
a sad history — the history of a noble, 
generous maiden, whom the oaths of a 
brilliant and amiable cavalier betrayed. 
Unconscious herself of deceit, she knew 
not that falsehood could speak like 
truth, and that libertines have often the 
appearance of honest men. Yes, I was 
told that the maiden living in retire- 
ment had been deceived by such a 
hollow-hearted man; my heart bled, 
and I suffered with her and bore her 
agony.” 

“ Is that all the information you re- 
ceived ? ” she inquired, softly, and with 
a downcast look. 

“No,” he replied as gently; “it is 
not all ; the existence of a child was 
mentioned in connection with this sad 
story — a child found six months ago in 
the rector’s garden — in this very arbor, 
a few days before the death of my pre- 
decessor, and which, the dying man 
blessed and adopted in his family.” 

“ And have you never asked the rec- 
tor’s widow, if there were any truth in 
this story ? ” 

“ No, Amalie, I would not compel a 
confidence not voluntarily accorded to 
me ; and then, to confess the truth, I 
have learned to read your eyes, and I 
noticed the love with which you 
nursed the child when it was sick ; I 


245 

heard the prayers which your silent 
glance sent up to God.” 

“ You saw that it was my child foi 
whom I prayed, and yet you love me 
you offer me your hand I ” 

“ You have passed through the school 
of sorrow,” he replied.“ You have, in the 
secrecy of your own heart, surely done 
ample penance for the error of your 
unguided youth. May God forgive the 
betrayer that could beguile and desert 
you! But your soul has remained 
pure, and I ask this soul; will you 
give me your love ? Will you receive 
me as your friend, as the father of your 
child? Amalie, I have no rich and 
brilliant life to promise you, but all 
that I have and am, my whole being 
with all its affection, I promise to you. 
Will you receive it, beloved of my 
heart ? ” 

Amalie did not reply, but tears 
streamed from her brown eyes, and her 
proud form shuddered. Suddenly, be- 
fore Werner could prevent it, she 
clasped his hand, and pressed it fer- 
vently to her lips. 

“ I thank you,” she whispered. “ My 
heart will thank you as long as I live. 
You believed in me when all reviled me ; 
you have done me the highest honor, 
while I must yet seem to you a casta- 
way. I thank you, but I dare not be 
to you more than your friend — your 
sister. — I must tell you a secret, which, 
besides the rector’s widow, and the 
good old pastor in heaven, is only 
known to him to whom . that child 
binds me — I am married ! ” 

“Married!” echoed Werner, with a 
cry of anguish. “ And your husband 
lives ? ” 

“Yes, he lives,” she repeated. “In 
knowing this lies my whole misfortune 
— he lives, and is not with me ! 0 

my friend,” she continued, as she saw 
how he pressed his folded hands upon 
his breast, as if he would restrain the 
emotions of his tortured heart, “ O mj 


246 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


friend, forgive me, since, in the egotism 
of my own grief, I did not consider 
that I am also the cause of grief to you ; 
that I, in the sorrow of my bitter love, 
did not know how your generous heart 
had turned to me with other feelings 
than sympathy and pity. I endured 
humiliation and shame, and never an- 
ticipated that one so pure and noble 
could deem me worthy of his love. 
Forgive me, I pray you I ” 

While Amalie, with a trembling 
voice, thus spoke to her lover, he slowly 
clasped his hands before his face, and 
with bowed head listened to her words. 
When she ceased, nothing was heard 
save his sighs, and the rustling of the 
leaves in the summer wind. The still- 
ness was interrupted by the song of a 
bird that had alighted on the flowery 
roof of the arbor, as if it would remind 
these sorrowing children of humanity 
of the peace of Nature and the love and 
happiness of Heaven. “ ‘ God is love,’ ” 
said Werner aloud, as the song of the 
bird ceased. “ ‘ God is love, and he 
who lives in it, lives in God, and God 
in him.’ ” He looked earnestly at the 
pale young wife, who beheld him with 
an expression of admiration. He forced 
a smile to his lips, and saluted her with 
a gentle inclination of his head. “ Be 
welcome as my sister, as my friend,” he 
said, extending his hand toward her. 
“ I have conquered, and my soul will 
learn to be content with its own hap- 
piness, because you are worthier of my 
love and admiration than I could have 
anticipated. I repeat it, you are wel- 
come to me, my sister. Trust me, let 
me share in your sorrows, and when you 
need support or council, you may know 
that I am always ready to serve you — 
to do all for you that a brother and 
a friend can do ; for I take nothing 
back of what I have already said : ‘ all 
that I have and am, my whole being, 
belongs to you. Let me be of service 
to you 1 Confide in me, my sister ! ” 


Amalie gave him both her hands, and 
they gazed long, and with a sad smile, 
at each other. Thoughts, to which 
they dared give no words, and which 
God only understood, moved their 
hearts. 

“ I owe it to my child, that I must do 
and suffer for him,” said Amalie, after 
a pause. “ Were I alone, I would en- 
dure disgrace in silence, and not de- 
mand, from a sense of duty, what my 
love renounces — the recognition of my 
rights. But I am not alone, and I have 
done for my offspring what I never 
would have done for myself. I have 
addressed myself, with both supplicat- 
ing and threatening words to him who 
holds my fate in his hands. I have de- 
manded of him that he should come to 
me — that he should order and decide 
the future for me and his child. I ex- 
pect him every moment, for, yesterday, I 
received a short note from him, in 
which he promised his speedy arrival.” 

“Ah,” said Werner, “now I under- 
stand the words you spoke to the king : 
— ‘ I await my fate I ’ ” 

“Yes, my friend, for I await my hus- 
band, the father of my child I Ask me 
to tell no more. I have sworn to be si- 
lent, until that time when my husband 
himself shall absolve me from my oath. 
The next moment may decide the hap- 
piness of my whole life, then — ” 

The rattling of a post-chaise was 
heard on the highway, which passed 
near the garden. Amalie sprang from 
the arbor, ran down to the fence, and 
looked out on the road. 


CHAPTER IV. 

TEE MEETING. 

An open post-carriage was passing, 
A gentleman wrapped in a military 
cloak, sat in the closed coupe. Amalie 
uttered a cry, and extended her arms 


THE MEETING. 


247 


toward him, while the postilion whis- 
tled a tune, and his horses trotted 
gayly onward. But the gentleman 
heard the cry. “ Halt ! ” he said to the 
postilion; and, as the latter suddenly 
stopped the horses, the officer threw 
back his dust-covered cloak and re- 
vealed the tall, slender figure of a young 
man in the uniform of a Prussian cap- 
tain of cavalry. He sprang lightly 
from the carriage, leaped over the fence, 
and, in haste and silence, drew Amalie 
back along the path toward the bower. 

“ Not there I oh, not there I ” mur- 
mured Amalie; but the young man 
did not listen to her, and compelled 
her toward the still, green retreat. It 
was empty. In this place, where no 
eye could observe, no ear hear them, 
the handsome officer clasped the lady 
in his arms, and covered her mouth 
with kisses. 

“ Here you have me again, Ama- 
lie,” he said, laughing, as he released 
her. “ And, what seldom happens, in 
the very place where we parted — amid 
the honeysuckles of the old rector’s gar- 
den we meet again.” 

“ In the same arbor where you swore 
that you would return in a few weeks 
to claim your wife,” she replied, with 
a tone of gentle reproof. 

“ It was impossible, you know, Ama- 
lie, I had hoped to overcome the ob- 
stacles in my way more easily. What 
does not one hope when he loves pas- 
sionately, and what cares he for diffi- 
culties when he holds a lovely woman 
m his armsl You were so beautiful, 
and I so madly in love, that I believe 
I should have died, if you had not 
yielded at last to my warm entreaties. 
You are still beautiful, Amalie,” he 
continued, as he viewed with admiring 
glance the graceful figure and noble 
face of the young woman. “ Truly, you 
are like a queen of the gods — Aphro- 
dite herself— and, as I gaze at you now, 
I comprehend the rash act to which 


the insanity of love impelled me, and I 
forgive myself for it with all my heart. 
Yes, Amalie, you are enchantingly 
beautiful. Let me embrace and kiss 
you, my lovely child ! ” He endeavored 
to draw her to him once more, but, 
with a proud, repelling gesture, she 
disengaged herself from his arms. 

“ You have no right to embrace your 
wife before you have excused yourself 
to her,” she said, earnestly. “ Had you 
come at last from the free promptings 
of your love, notwithstanding this long 
separation, I would have borne with- 
out reserve, or complaint, all the suf- 
ferings you have caused me, and said, 
‘I have waited for you in love and 
trustfulness. You have come at last. 
God bless you 1 ’ But you are not here 
of your own free-will ; you have only, 
after long entreaties, determined to 
come to me. Because I threatened to 
disclose our secret — ^to appeal to the 
king for help and protection — ^you re- 
visit me.” 

“ You are wrong, my beautiful Ama- 
lie,” he replied, laughing. “ I had re- 
solved to see you, and speak serious 
words to you. We must come at last 
to some definite conclusion. We must 
settle accounts with the past, in order 
to regulate the future. Ma foi^ other- 
wise nothing can be done, and we can 
never escape from this state of uncer- 
tainty. You must be aware of that, 
ma toute lelle^ and will listen to reason. 
Come, let us be seated on this bench — 
here, on the very place where I once 
called upon heaven and earth, and all 
the stars, to help me soften your heart. 
Come, sit at my side, let my arm encir- 
cle your lovely form, as when we sat 
beside each other in the silent blessed- 
ness of love. Oh, my beloved, we are 
still young — let us forget all, and be 
happy again.” 

Amalie leaned her head wearily upon 
his shoulder. “Yes,” she said, softly, 
“ all seems fair again, and yet how 


248 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


changed. “Ah, Conrad, I have sor- 
rowed so much on your account that I 
Bometimes think I hate you for my 
tears. Say only that you love me still, 
that you have never forgotten me — ^re- 
peat to me that you would have come 
without ray entreaties, that your affec- 
tion urged you to come to me, and I 
will forget all, and only remember that 
I am your wife — the mother of your 
child. Oh, my son — ^you must see him I 
I will bring him to you, that you may 
take him in your arms, and bestow 
upon him a father’s blessing.” 

She sprang up, and would have 
hastened away, but the captain pre- 
vented her. 

“ I beg of you not to bring him,” 
said Conrad, impatiently. “ I hate 
such scenes. Besides,” he continued, 
again assuming a tone of tenderness, 
“ my time is limited. I have come to 
see you alone.” 

“ Not your child, Conrad, your first- 
born, your beautiful child — you will 
not see him ? not — ” 

The captain made an impatient 
movement, and interrupted her with 
words of vexation. “ I am certainly not 
a preacher, and understand nothing 
about blessings ; I only understand 
beauty and happiness. Do not assume 
such a tragic face, my angel. Look 
not so darkly on me.” 

“ Conrad,” she said, solemnly and 
firmly, “ I ask you this only : Do you 
still love me ? Have you come to take 
your child and your wife — to acknowl- 
edge them at last ? ” 

“ Gracious heaven 1 do you insist on 
becoming Baroness von Pinto ? ” 

“ I need not become so, I am that al- 
ready,” replied Amalie, proudly. 

“ Perhaps you are ; that is, if I ac- 
knowlege it, and the king recognizes 
my marriage, ma toute 'belleP 
“And if the king does not, shall I 
be the less your lawful wife ? Oh, 
Conrad, think of the past; think of 


your vows and protestations — how you 
cast yourself at my feet, and swore 
eternal love ! — ^how, with the most sa- 
cred words you overcame my resistance, 
till at length I surrendered my hearty 
and rejoiced in the love that I would 
have hidden in my soul. Think how, 
with passionate assurances, you gained 
the poor bailiff’s daughter ! ” 

“I was then foolishly in love, my 
child,” responded Conrad, shrugging 
his shoulders, “ and only remembered 
that the poor bailiff’s daughter was 
also the child of Countess von Schmit- 
tau, my aunt. You know, from your 
mother, that when one is in love, there 
seems nothing so very disgraceful in a 
misalliance.” 

“ So now you look upon an unequal 
marriage in another light ? This mis- 
alliance seems to you a disgrace ? Do 
not hesitate, Conrad, speak frankly ! 
At least, let there be truth between 
us.” 

“ Well, fair Amalie, you shall know 
the truth. I have come to tell it to 
you. Yes, our marriage is unfortunate, 
and you will ruin my entire future, if 
you insist upon revealing the secrets of 
our senseless love.” 

“ Proceed,” said Amalie, with a calm 
voice, as he ceased, and looking at him 
with a face white with agony, — “ Pro- 
ceed — am listening.” 

“Yes, my beautiful child, I will in- 
form you of all I I find myself in a 
critical — a very disgraceful position. I 
owe many debts ; my creditors are con- 
stantly at my heels. Should the king 
know this, he would cashier me with- 
out mercy, for he said to me when pay- 
ing my debts, a year and a half ago, for 
the second time ; ‘ Pinto, if you are not 
more economical — ^if I hear again o1 
your debts, I will cashier you, ‘paroU 
d'lwnneur 1 ’ When the king talks that 
way he is serious; he will keep his 
word, and I would be ruined, if a lucky 
accident did not afford me a chance at 


THE MEETING. 


esc ape. The old Count von Schmittau 
has lost his only son, and the estate 
falls to collateral heirs, for it is a male 
fief. But the count has an only daugh- 
ter, whom he loves dearly, and, as he is 
in great favor with the Emperor Jo- 
seph, he has obtained permission to 
select from his relatives any unmarried 
male who is acceptable to himself and 
his daughter, and whom she may 
marry. The choice of the Countess 
von Schmittau, and of our beloved 
uncle, has fallen on me.” 

“ But you cannot accept it, for you are 
not unmarried.” 

“ Let us talk of that matter. I am 
here for that purpose. I loved you pas- 
sionately, and was guilty of folly. In- 
deed, I am often thoughtless and im- 
pulsive — that is why my companions 
call me the ‘ mad Pinto ; ’ but my pas- 
sion for you excuses me, for truly you 
are an enchanting beauty. Your love 
for me excuses you also for yielding to 
my wishes, consenting to my proposal 
of a secret marriage, and promising to 
conceal it until I had succeeded in ob- 
taining the consent of the king of Prus- 
sia, when our union would be publicly 
acknowledged. But there is nothing 
to excuse the old rector, who lent him- 
self to solemnize such a union, and 
consecrated it with the seal of legality. 
He was not justified in this ; he should 
have used all his power to prevent the 
unwise marriage.” 

“You know that he did so,” said she, 
sadly. “He refused you, even when 
you cast yourself on your knees, and be- 
sought him with tears ; but the vener- 
able man had no power to withstand 
my tears, for he loved me as his own 
child ; and, when he saw that I also de- 
sired this ‘ folly,’ as you name it, he at 
length consented.” 

“ He ought never to have united us,” 
said Pinto, furiously. “ He acted not 
only as a man of a weak judgment, 
who knew nothing of the world, but 


24>1 

also thoughtlessly and dishonorably as 
a preacher, and — ” 

“ Be silent,” interrupted Amalie, vio- 
lently ; “ no word of blame against 

that worthy man ! He stands now be- 
fore the throne of God. Reproach not 
the dead ! ” 

“ What I the Rector Retschlag lives 
no more I ” inquired Conrad, with sur- 
prise. “ He seemed such a strong, 
healthy man ! ” 

“ Grief can kill even the strong and 
healthy. Grief for the misfortune oi 
his parish brought on his death.” 

“What misfortune has befallen his 
parish ? ” 

“You have not even read my letters, 
then,” she said, calmly. “ Now I under- 
stand your silence, and how you could 
leave all my complaints and entreaties 
unanswered. You never read what I 
wrote to you.” 

“ My presence here proves the con- 
trary. You wrote that I must come, 
and here I am.” 

“You read that letter because the 
address was not in my handwriting. 
Misfortune had made me wise, and I 
began to imagine what was amiss; 
therefore I asked the widow Retschlag 
to direct the last missive ; and, because 
I threatened that I would appeal to 
the king, you thought it safer to come 
yourself. You see my eyes are open.” 

“ The Rector Retschlag is dead I ” 
repeated Captain Pinto, thoughtfully. 
“What other misfortune has befallen 
his parish ? ” 

“ The fire which destroyed the church 
and the bailiff’s house, last spring, also 
burned the barns of the peasants with 
all their grain,” 

“A fire 1 The church and the bail- 
iff’s house burned! Poor child, you 
must have suffered, and I, unhappily, 
did not know it.” 

“ Is it so ? ” cried Amalie, with eyes 
full of scorn. “ Is it true that you did 
not read my letters ? I informed you 


250 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS OOACHMilN'. 


of all that had befallen me, and yet 
you do not know it ? ” 

“You ladies write such long letters, 
and we men have little patience. I 
opened them all, and read the begin- 
ning, ‘ My dear Conrad ! ’ and the close, 
‘your ever true and loving Amalie.’ 
When I had done that I laid them aside 
with satisfaction, for I knew that you 
loved and confided in me. But your 
last was a little difierent, for it had 
no ‘ Dear Conrad,’ and ended abruptly 
with ‘ Amalie von Pinto.’ That wor- 
ried me, for I supposed you did not 
love me longer, and so — I read it; I 
was shocked to learn that your father 
had died, and that you were dependent 
on the rector’s widow; I regarded it 
as my sacred duty to come and make 
provision for you.” 

“What cold, unloving words, are 
these I ” she said, sadly. “ Ah, Con- 
rad, scarcely two years have passed 
since you swore eternal love at the al- 
tar of God, and now it is only duty 
which brings you back to your wife 
and child! Your lawful wife stands 
before you like a beggar ; the innocent 
lips of your offspring have never yet re- 
ceived a father’s kiss! You cannot 
know how I have suffered — ^how I have 
been scorned, despised, and scoffed at 
— how people have derided me as a 
dishonored, fallen woman. They have 
insolently and shamelessly reproached 
me, and yet I have borne all with a 
smooth brow and upraised head. The 
world supposed tliat I must bow my- 
self in sorrow, and shrink from its pres- 
ence. I have had the courage to en- 
dure all this, and honestly and faith- 
fully to hide the secret of our union, as 
I had promised you when we were 
married. Why should I be troubled 
that men reviled me? my conscience 
afl^rmed my innocency, and that was 
enough ! ” 

“ You have acted very bravely,” said 
Conrad, pressing her hand to his lips. 


“You have kept your promise, but I 
fear the rector has not; he has not 
been silent.” 

“ Do not slander the dead,” she an- 
swered, warmly. “Did he not, after 
the marriage was over, lay his hand 
on the Bible and say, ‘ I swear to pre- 
serve your secret until the hour you 
remove the seal from my lips ? ’ ” 

“ It is true,” replied Von Pinto ; “ but 
that did not prevent him from regis- 
tering our marriage, with the date and 
hour. He assured me, however, that 
no one but himself had access to the 
book, which was locked up in the re- 
cess behind the altar, of which he alone 
had the key. He promised me that 
he would allow no one to take it, 
and — ” 

“And he kept his word,” interrupted 
Amalie, “ he held the key in his own 
possession till the day fate made it 
useless.” 

“ What do you mean ? Wliat hap- 
pened on that day ? ” 

“ On that day the church was struck 
by lightning. A few minutes after- 
ward, the whole building was in flames 
and soon a heap of ashes.” 

“ The church wholly burned ? ” he 
asked, in breathless expectation. 

“With all it contained, and there- 
fore I said that the good pastor needed 
the key no longer, for the altar, with the 
hidden recess, was destroyed.” 

“ And the church register ? ” 

“That also, Conrad,” Amalie an- 
swered, looking up to him with mourn- 
ful eyes. “ Besides God, only we two 
now know of our union.” 

“And ‘He will be silent,” said the 
captain, with a coarse laugh. “ He will 
not bear witness. On the contrary. 
He has already taken care that our se- 
cret should be buried. The rector is 
dead, the church register burned, and, 
as it seems to me, God Himself has de- 
creed our divorce. Yes, the word 
must be spoken — we cannot belong tc 


THE MEETING. 


251 


each other; we must part! We com- 
mitted a folly, yet we shall both re- 
member it, while life lasts, as a paradise- 
lost ; but man must be ever driven forth 
to suffer disappointment and sorrow as 
the heritage of Adam I We were happy 
for two months, but must now submit to 
the prose of common life, and the re- 
quirements of reason. An acknowledg- 
ment of our union is utterly impossible, 
the sweet dream has ended, and we 
awake to a sad reality. My whole fu- 
ture depends on my being unmarried, 
so that I can unite myself to the daugh- 
ter of the Count von Schmittau, in or- 
der to become the inheritor of his es- 
tate. Amalie, if you ever loved me — if 
you were in earnest when you promised 
before the altar of Gk)d to devote your 
life to me, ‘then fulfil your oath I By 
a renunciation you make me happy, 
while you give freedom to yourself.” 

Amalie looked at him with a burn- 
ing sense of anger and contempt. “ I 
have permitted you to speak to the 
end,” she said, while the words fell 
from her lips slowly, as the rain-drops 
that precede the tempest. “ I wished 
to look into the depths of your heart, 
and I know now how dark is that 
abyss into which all my love — my 
dreams and hopes of life — have been 
cast. I have borne the disgrace this 
marriage brought upon me bravely and 
joyfully, for love gave me courage; 
but now I am ashamed of it. Could I 
wash out the past with my heart’s 
blood, I would thrust a dagger into 
my bosom. But what has taken place 
cannot be remedied. We must both 
bear the bonds which fetter us. I can- 
not give you back your freedom, for we 
were wedded by the priest’s benedic- 
tion — do not wish it, for you are the 
father of my child, and he shall not go 
into the world dishonored. He shall 
have a name and a father. I will not 
be ashamed before my child. I will 
maintain his rights; and, if you will 


not accord them to him voluntarily, 1 
will never rest till I find means which 
will force you to acknowledge him and 
me.” 

“ I am curious as to what means you 
can use,” said the captain, with a de- 
riding laugh. “ Poor and unknown, it 
would be next to impossible to gain a 
recognition of your doubtful rights, 
and it would be far better to arrange 
the matter with me, than to become 
my enemy.” 

“ Oh I ” cried Amalie, raising her 
arms toward heaven, “ has it come to 
this, that I must submit to such a dis- 
grace I Thou knowest it, O my God, 
that I am this man’s wife — his lawful 
wife ; and yet he would disown me, and 
cast off my child! Assist me. Thou 
who heardst him swear at Tliy altar 
to be true to me, and who knowest 
that I was never his, without the bless- 
ing of Thy minister. Have pity on 
me, O my God ! and give me consola- 
tion and support against my own hus- 
band, and the father of my child ! ” 

“ Enough ! ” cried the cai^tain, im- 
patiently, as he drew down her arms 
with an angry movement ; “ let us talk 
like sensible persons, who wish to 
agree upon their future with each 
other, and arrange for the best, under 
present circumstances. Believe me, I 
would deem myself happy, if fate per- 
mitted me to call you mine forever, 
and to acknowledge our espousals. 
You are beautiful, charming, and sensi- 
ble, and would learn very well to per- 
sonate the noble lady in fashionable 
salons. The proud blood of the Schmit- 
taus fiows in your veins, and will not 
be disowned. You are worthy to be- 
come the Baroness von Pinto ; and I 
lament it, as a severe misfortune, that 
I cannot make you such. For, I re- 
peat, it is impossible ; I am ruined, if 
you insist upon it. The king would 
never pardon me ; the Count von 
Schmittau would select another relative 


252 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT Aa'D HIS COACHMAN. 


for his son-in-law ; the rich inheritance 
would be lost to me, and with it the 
hope of paying my debts and legstab- 
lishing my position. If, then, you con- 
sent to part from me, I see a happy, re- 
putable future, and you shall be the 
first to enjoy its fruits. I promise to 
secure an income for yourself and your 
child, on which you can live comforta- 
bly and respectably.” 

“ No more I ” cried Amalie, in a loud 
and angry voice, as she sprang from 
her seat, and faced him with burning 
eyes. “ No more 1 I am no Hagar 
that permits herself to be thrust forth 
into the wilderness. I am your lawful 
wife, and will drive from your house 
any woman usurping the place of 
honor that belongs to me.” 

“ Amalie,” besought Pinto, while, in 
the agony of his excitement, he sank 
upon his knees before her, and raised his 
hands in entreaty, “ I adjure you, for 
the sake of our peace hereafter, have 
pity I My honor and fortune are in 
your hands! If you have ever loved 
me, have mercy, and make me free ! ” 

“ I cannot ; oh, my God, I can never 
consent to make a jest of lawful wed- 
lock, and to regard as never spoken 
the vows we made before the holy 
altar. The church register is burned, 
in which our secret was inscribed, se- 
cure from the eyes of man, but it re- 
mains in our hearts, and we cannot 
erase it. We cannot make the past as 
if it had not been.” 

“ You will not consent, then ? ” said 
Conrad, with threatening aspect, as he 
sprang from his knees. “ You will not 
part from me ? ” 

“No! Neither you nor I have the 
power to separate from each other.” 

“You insist on becoming Baroness 
von Pinto ? ” 

“Yes, and that my son shall be rec- 
ognized as legitimate.” 

“ Can nothing shake your resolu- 
tion — cannot my prayers and entreaties. 


and the certainty that you will ruin 
me?” 

“Nothing! though I know that 1 
make myself unhappy, that I go to 
meet a dreary future; for I love you 
no longer, my esteem for you is gone, 
and I shall be more miserable than the 
pauper on the streets. She begs for 
bread, but I for my honor, and the 
consciousness of this will crimson my 
cheek with shame. But my resolution 
is unchangeable,” 

“ I ask you, for the last time, said 
Pinto, pale with excitement, “ are you 
determined to become Baroness von 
Pinto ? ” 

“ Yes,” was the short and firm reply. 
A moment their glances met, as those 
of combatants in deadly conflict. 

“ This is your last word ? ” 

“ My last ! ” 

“ Now then,” exclaimed the captain, 
his voice hoarse and trembling with 
passion, “ hear my last word also ! 
You have rejected the hand that was 
extended to you in friendship ! Let 
there be war between us, then, even to 
death ! I tear loose the bonds that 
my mad passion once bound around 
us ; I cast from me you and your child 
forever ! Should you become reasona- 
ble, and accept support from me, you 
will find me ready to give it to you, 
but I will never be forced to make you 
my wife — the bailifl'’s daughter the 
Baroness von Pinto ! ” 

“ Conrad, you sin against yourself as 
well as against God. You degrade 
yourself, for you falsify. I am your 
lawful wife — you cannot, before God 
and your own soul, commit perjury ! ” 

“ Prove that it is perjury. Produce 
your witnesses who can testify that you 
are my wife ! Summon the old rector 
from his grave, restore the register 
from its ashes, and let them prove that 
you are my wedded wife. But since 
you cannot do this, I will declare that 
your pretensions are false — an insane 


THE MEETING. 


253 


fancy — and 1 will appeal to the law 
and to my king against your persecu- 
tion.” 

Amalie stood opposite him, pale as 
death, with threatening mien and eyes 
burning with scorn and anger. “ At- 
tempt it, Conrad von Pinto I God has 
heard your words, and He will punish 
you ; He will send me an avenger. 
Deny my sacred rights before the law 
and before the king, but God knows 
them, and He will provide that the 
truth shall be discovered. He will 
send me a witness of my innocence ! ” 

“ I am curious to see him,” said 
/into, laughing derisively. “ Vraiment^ 
very curious to see the witness that 
God will send from heaven, to prove 
what cannot be proved.” 

“ Here is the witness I ” exclaimed a 
deep, solemn voice behind him, and 
the lofty figure of the clergyman Wer- 
ner appeared at the entrance of the ar- 
bor. 

“ Who are you, sir, and what do you 
want?” said the captain, turning an- 
grily toward him. 

“ I am the successor of him who cel- 
ebrated your espousal with this true 
and noble sufferer,” answered Werner. 
“ I am the witness whom she needs to 
prove her innocence and her rights; 
for I have heard all I God has willed 
that your voices should reach me, 
while I was kneeling yonder in the 
churchyard, where I had gone to pray, 
at the grave of the departed rector, for 
peace to my own heart I Your loud 
voices disturbed me in the struggle 
with my own sorrow. Involuntarily 
I am the witness of your admissions 
and denials, and will prove Amalie’s 
claims 1 ” 

“ Very beautiful, truly,” sneered the 
captain. “You will testify on the mere 
word of one who is in love, and ambi- 
tious of rank. How can you swear to 
that which is totally unknown? At- 
tempt it, my good sir I If you have 


listened to us you have also heard that 
I have just declared to Amalie Hart- 
man that I would never recognize her 
pretensions-^would never make a tem- 
porary mistress my wife. Your extem- 
porized appearance cannot change my 
determination. I would be silent and 
forbearing, from pity for the woman 1 
once loved,” continued the young man, 
“but if she will wage war with me, 
she will find me armed! There is 
nothing more to be said between us — 
let me pass, good rector ; I will leave 
you, and be sure I will not obey Ama- 
lie or her accomplices. Form your 
plans — I do not fear them, for I will 
shatter them as glass, and lay you in 
the dust at my feet. — Adieu.” 

Pinto passed Amalie without casting 
a single glance at her. His attention 
was directed to the rector (who stood 
without at the entrance of the arbor), 
on whom he bestowed a cold, con- 
temptuous look, and a threatening 
smile. He walked hastily down the 
path to the fence which separated the 
garden from the highway. He did not 
look back ; erect and proud was his 
carriage, free and careless, as if the re- 
cent scene were but a pastime. Spring- 
ing over the hedge, he called the pos- 
tilion, who was waiting at no great 
distance, in the shade of a cluster of 
trees. 

Amalie, motionless, breathless, gazed 
after him, as though she expected Con- 
rad would return. As the rumbling of 
his departing post-chaise was heard, 
her proud figure gave way, and her 
pale lips uttered that cry of agony so 
oft expressed by betrayed woman, “I 
have loved and am deserted ! ” 

“But God, Amalie, has not deserted 
you,” said the soft, sad voice of the 
rector, “and a friend stands at your 
side, who is ready to devote his life to 
you. Arise, and be of good courage ! 
God is with the pure and innocent, 
and He will direct you in the way l)y 


254 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


which justice will be vindicated.” The 
young rector extended his hands toward 
her, and raised her gently. 

“ Werner,” she said, with that calm- 
ness which the excess of misery pro- 
duces. “ My friend, you are convinced 
that I am his wife ? ” 

“ Yes, Amalie, I am.” 

“ You are also convinced that, if I 
insist upon my rights, it is not because 
I am ambitious to become a great lady, 
but because I must preserve my own 
honor and that of my child.” 

“ I am certain that it is not from am- 
bition and worldly pride that you wish 
to become Baroness von Pinto.” 

“ You may know, too, that I do not 
wish it on account of my love for him. 
His cruelty has destroyed the affection 
I entertained for him, but I will pursue 
the path of duty for my child’s sake. 
Could I still choose I would rather 
earn my bread as a household drudge, 
than be his wife. Remember this, my 
friend, but understand, also, that no 
choice is left me, and that I must atone 
for the fault of my unguarded youth 
by a life of sorrow, submission, and 
resignation.” 

“ Your fault was love,” replied Wer- 
ner, “and may God pardon you and 
all of us I You have resolved to do 
what is right and honorable. You 
could not consent to a falsehood, for 
what God has joined let not man put 
asunder. You are his wife, and noth- 
ing can separate you, but the decree 
of God and the king. Come to some 
resolution, therefore ; collect all your 
strength, and exert yourself ; for what 
is to be done must be done quickly.” 

“My plan is already formed,” said 
Amalie, earnestly and calmly. “ I will 
visit Berlin ; I will go to the king, or 
rather,” added she, with a slight smile, 

“ I will go to my old friend, the coach- 
man Pfund. You heard how, a few 
hours ago, he promised me his assist- 
ance in his plain, frank way, and I 


know that his words come from the 
heart. To him I will go ; he will give 
me counsel and aid, and obtain for me 
an audience with the king. I will ap- 
peal to Frederick for justice, and he 
will not refuse it, for he is the repre- 
sentative of God on earth, and God is 
just.” 

“Go,” said Werner, warmly; “God 
Himself has shown the way through 
which counsel and support will come. 
It was not chance that brought Pfund 
here to offer you his assistance. I am 
satisfied from his face that he is a kind, 
honest man, and will protect you. If 
you need another friend, summon me, 
my sister, and I will come, should your 
call find me on my death-bed.” 

The young woman held out her hand 
to him with a sad smile. “ My friend, 
I thank you. I have learned to suffer, 
and will not complain 1 I go to Ber- 
lin to see the old coachman. To over- 
take him would be impossible, for the 
king travels fast, and the poor but slow- 
ly. Besides, I need rest and compo- 
sure. By the day after to-morrow I 
will commence my pilgrimage, and go 
where my husband is. Ah, my friend, 
how different is his position from mine ! 
The Baron von Pinto fearlessly visits 
Frederick the Second, while his wife 
must steal timidly to the coachman 
Pfund I” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE AUDIENCE. 

The king had returned to Sans-Souci 
after his Silesian journey, and recom- 
menced his usual regular and laborious 
life. A little change was made in the 
previous course of business: the cabi- 
net council, which had always met at 
eight every morning, in order to give 
the king their opinions, and to receive 
his decisions and orders, were notified 
to appear at six. 


THE AUDIENCE. 


255 


“The candle burns almost to the 
socket,” said the king, “and I must 
make haste to accomplish all I can be- 
fore the light leaves me in eternal dark- 
ness. I must make good use of the lit- 
tle time left me, for it belongs not to 
me but the state.” 

On the fifth of October, after the 
council had concluded its sitting, the 
king passed from the chamber into his 
cabinet to grant the audiences which 
had been appointed. “Go,” he di- 
rected his chamberlain Schoning, who 
had with solicitous care wrapped the 
gouty feet of the .king in furs; “go, 
Schoning, and see whether there are 
many people in the anteroom, and then 
let them enter one by one, in the order 
of their arrival. I think there are 
many audiences to-day.” 

The chamberlain hastened away, and 
returned after a few moments, with an 
air of vexation. “Your majesty,” he 
said, respectfully, “there are truly a 
great many people in the antechamber, 
and of a very curious sort.” 

“How so?” said the king, “why 
curious? What sort of people are 
they ? ” 

“Your majesty, there are six fellows 
looking like the devils in the story- 
book, and four ladies, who seem to be 
their grandmothers I ” 

The king cast a stern and reproving 
look on the humorous chamberlain. 
“You must conduct yourself' here as it 
becomes a royal official. Tell me plain- 
ly who are these people ? ” 

The chamberlain looked down with 
an expression of chagrin and mortifica- 
tion, and his voice trembled as he an- 
swered: “Your majesty, such people as 
I never saw before in the king’s ante- 
chamber. The men wear jackets, and 
cloth stockings, laced as high as the 
knee; on their heads, cloth caps; in 
their hands, they carry short rakes, and 
baskets on their backs, fastened by 
straps to their shoulders, like knap- 


sacks. The women are dressed in 
coarse, dark gowns, with cloth spen- 
cers, party-colored handkerchiefs round 
their heads; aprons of blue, striped 
linen, and baskets on their backs.” 

“Ah, I know who they are,” ex- 
claimed the king, as he hastily took 
several pinches of snuff from his vest 
pocket. “They do not bring a fra- 
grance of Eau de Cologne f ” 

“ Who, your majesty ? ” 

“The gentlemen rag-pickers and 
their ladies, who you say are the dev- 
il’s grandmothers.” 

“ Your majesty, I beg pardon, I will 
never again venture thus — ” 

“ No more 1 ” said the king, “ I am 
not angry with you, for you are an ex- 
cellent servant, and know I am satisfied 
with you. You understand how to 
humor an old man like me ; and I have 
noticed, by the way, that you leave the 
door of my chamber open, so that you 
can hear at once, if I call.” 

“ Ah, your majesty, that is only my 
duty.” 

“ It is something when a man does 
his duty,” muttered the king quietly to 
himself. “ People grow more heedless 
and trifling every day; as the world 
now goes, it is not duty but pleasure 
that seems the greatest good.” 

“ Pardon, your majesty, but your or- 
ders were that the visitors should be 
admitted in the order of their coming ; 
these persons are not the first here.” 

“ Who is before them ? ” 

“ The two court physicians, and the 
cook with the bill of fare.” 

“ The cook I What does that fellow 
want?” said the king, impatiently. 
“I wrote out the bill early this morn- 
ing, and ordered every thing.” 

“Yes, your majesty, but you know 
the gentlemen doctors must always 
have a word to say, and they examine 
the bill every day, to see that nothing 
is inserted injurious to your majesty’s 
health.” 


256 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


“I hope that the gentlemen have 
found nothing to object to on the bill 
to-day?” cried the king. “At any 
rate they must wait, for what concerns 
my person can be postponed.” 

“Your majesty,” ventured the cham- 
berlain, “ the doctors have waited long, 
and they have many patients.” 

“ That is true, the sick must not wait 
for their physicians.” 

The king greeted the two court phy- 
sicians, Selle and Frese, with a hurried 
nod, and beckoned them to approach. 
“ Well, I see all manner of admonition 
in your face, my good Selle, and the 
worthy Frese looks as if he had just 
swallowed a dozen of his o'^n pills.” 

“ Your majesty,” said the latter, 
“ they would do you more good than 
the mock - turtle soup, seasoned with 
nutmegs, set down on the bill of fare 
for to-day, and, as to the admonition 
which the acute observation of your 
majesty has discovered in my counte- 
nance,” remarked the physician and 
privy-councillor Selle, “ I regret that it 
must remain there, and that respect for 
my king forbids me to transfer it from 
my face to my lips.” 

“But I am curious to hear the re- 
primand,” insisted Frederick, “ and, 
since you cannot address it to me, call 
in my chamberlain Schoning, and ad- 
minister it to him, sans geney 

Councillor Selle bowed, opened the 
door of the antechamber, and beckoned 
in the chamberlain, who respectfully 
awaited the king’s orders. The arm- 
chair of Frederick stood beside his 
desk, opposite the door, and his great 
sparkling eyes were directed, with a 
sharp glance, toward the councillor, 
who met the chamberlain with an 
angry face. “ I see,” he said, “ from 
your looks, that you have disregarded 
all my directions.” 

Schoning stared, with a puzzled ex- 
pression, at the court doctor. “ But, 
Ml'. Privy-councillor — ” 


“ Silence ! ” interrupted Selle, “ it Is 
now my turn, when I speak the patient 
must be attentive ; for, in the sick- 
chamber, the physician is the sovereign 
lawgiver, and must be obeyed.” 

“ That is a severe rule,” remarked 
the king, shaking his head. 

“ But a just one,” replied the privy- 
councillor. “ The physician is responsi- 
ble for his patient, and, when he once 
undertakes the duty of curing him, he 
should be able to count as certainly 
upon obedience to his orders as the 
general in the battle-field. — ^You have 
been disobedient and rebellious, Schon- 
ing, and that is a sin against yourself 
and an insult to me. I have not been 
able to conceal from you that your sys- 
tem is shattered, and exhausted from 
much fatigue. It requires, therefore, 
the most careful nursing. We must 
exercise the greatest watchfulness, that 
the gout which lurks in your system — 

“ But, sir,” cried Schoning, astound- 
ed, “ this is very alarming ; I never 
knew before that the gout was lurking 
in my system — ” 

“ Schoning,” said the king, “ bo 
quiet I He is attacking me ; you need 
not be alarmed ! — Go on, Selle.” 

“ I repeat, we must take the greatest 
care that the gout, which lurks in 
your system, should be subdued by 
mild remedies, a quiet mode of life, 
and light diet. You must be careful 
of your life, for you are the head of a 
great family, who look up to you with 
love, respect, and admiration ; whose 
happiness and welfare depend on you. 
You must preserve your health for the 
sake . of those who love you, and to 
whom you are indispensable.” 

“ No man on earth is indispensable, ' 
said the king, shaking his head. “ ‘ The 
king is dead, long live the king I ’ ” 

“ Self-preservation is a sacred duty,” 
resumed Selle; “what answer would 
you make if you stood before the throne 
of God, and He asked you : — ‘ Whv do 


THE AUDIENCE. 


26 


you come so soon ? Your days had 
not yet expired!’ I know well how 
you would reply : ‘ Lord, I kept a 
couple of court doctors to cure me, 
who sent me here before my time.’ 
But the good Lord would not believe 
you. He would say : ‘ The science of 
the physician was disregarded in the 
cook’s bill of fare. You, and you alone, 
must bear the guilt of your death 1 ’ — 
Think, then, Schoning ; be reasonable, 
and do not disgrace your poor, anxious 
physicians, who are responsible before 
the world for your life, second our 
efforts to restore your health, by obey- 
ing those regulations as to your diet on 
which your recovery depends. When 
one is taking antimony, and various 
other medicines, and was bled only a 
week ago, he should indulge in only 
he lightest diet. You promised me 
that you would confine yourself to this. 
Now how does your bill of fare to-day 
read ? I will glance it over, and you will 
acknowledge that such dishes are im- 
possible for an invalid. We have here : 
‘ 1. Mock-turtle soup with nutmeg. 2. 
Bamf d la Rimienne in French brandy. 
3. Polenta with garlic, baked in but- 
ter. 4. Eel-pie. 5. Fowls in sour 
cream — ' Oh, Schoning, Schoning, is 
that a bill of fare suitable for an in- 
valid ? No ! such food, with their 
heating spices, is out of the question. 
Have pity on your physicians, Schon- 
ing, you would not make your restora- 
tion impossible, and render all their care 
and science vain. Y ou ra ay t ake to-day 
a light brotli, and some roast chicken. 
Be an obedient patient.” 

The chamberlain cast a look of em- 
barrassment at the king, who nodded 
in reply: “Yes, Mr. Councillor, I will 
eat nothing to-day but what you re- 
commend — that is,” he added, “ if his 
majesty permits it.” 

“ 1 1” exclaimed the king. “ Go down 
into the kitchen forthwith, and order 
the dinner according to Selle’s arrange- 
IJ 


ment. I wish you a good appetite, 
and congratulate myself that I shall 
not partake of your dinner.” 

“ Your majesty will not partake of 
it ? ” asked Selle and Frese at the 
same time. 

“ Certainly not,” laughed the king. 
“ Your reprimand was excellent, but I 
am not converted by it, and you know 
I am one of the unbelievers in the in- 
fallibility of doctors. As the Turks 
say : ‘ What is to be, will be.’ But, as 
to my bill of fare, the physicians can 
only judge of my recipes after they 
have enjoyed them as my guests. The 
old Romans said: ‘Nothing can hurt 
when the doctor is present.’ In order 
that my dinner may not injure me, it 
will be best that I invite you both to 
dine with me to-day at one o’clock. 
— We shall therefore meet again, gen- 
tlemen.” 

“ But, sire — ” 

“There is no ‘ but,’ when I have 
spoken,” interrupted the king, with a 
stern look. “ Besides, the people in 
the antechamber await me ; and your 
patients, you.” 

The king followed the court docto-rs 
as they took their departure, with a 
dark, earnest look. 

“ As if I could be cheated I ” muttered 
he, shrugging his shoulders ; as if I 
did not know that the lamp must go 
out when it has no more oil t The 
doctors cannot cure me of my thrcc- 
and-seventy years, and, when Nature 
says to a plant, ‘ You have ceased to 
bloom,’ no science can revive it. Truly, 
I have little wish to live longer in tlm 
world — it is cold and lonesome.. AH 
my friends have gone, and await me in 
Elysium. What have I to do here 
now ? lam tired of ruling slaves,, and 
life disgusts me. — But no I As long, as 
I have life, I must fulfil the req^iiire- 
ments of duty.” He rang the bell. 
Schoning, who stood in the antecham- 
ber, knew the signal, and understood 


258 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


that his master wished to give the 
second audience. 

The door opened very softly. With 
abashed faces, and stepping upon their 
toes, entered the personages whom 
Schoning had described as such extra- 
ordinary visitors — the rag-pickers of 
Berlin. The king laughed, and while 
he liberally used his snuff, he motioned 
them, with his crutch, to defile by his 
arm-chair. 

“ Is this, then, the ordinary garb in 
which you follow your calling ? ” asked 
the king, as the men and women again 
posted themselves in two columns before 
the door. 

“ Yes, your majesty,” replied an old 
man whom the others had selected as 
their spokesman, “only that it does 
not always look so clean, for your royal 
majesty knows that, when one has to 
root in the gutters all day, he cannot 
look so clean and elegant as when he 
pays his monarch a visit.” 

Yes, certainly, I can very easily un- 
derstand that,” laughed Frederick. “ It 
is not a very agreeable business, but a 
very useful one ; and it is for this reason 
I have sent for you, to tell you that you 
ought to devote great care and atten- 
tion to your business and fear no pains 
or trouble.” 

Your majesty,” said the spokes- 
man, mournfully, “ if people would only 
'not consider us so disreputable, and 
look upon us as if we were altogether 
useless, whom every respectable man 
‘must avoid 1 ” 

-“You must not concern yourselves 
-about that,” replied the king, cheerfully, 
•“ for -those who take that stand-point 
are stupid fellows, and do not com- 
prehend how necessary your trade is. 
Where would good paper come from if 
•you did not gather good rags ? Much 
depends on rags — ^they are a more im- 
portant article than, for instance, the 
• coffee which the foolish Berliners are so 
<T(*nd i©f .nowadays. One can dc very 


well without coffee, but rags are an ab 
solute necessity. I wish to have paper 
mills established, and this cannot be 
done without rags, and these you and 
your comrades must provide. If you 
do your duty, you are as respectable as 
other laborers who do theirs.” 

“ I thank your majesty, in the name 
of us all,” cried the old man, with a 
trembling voice, and tears in his eyes ; 
“ I thank you in the name of all the 
poor, crippled, and stupid, who, as 
myself, have never learned a trade, 
and like sparrows pick up their food 
in the streets. When people pass bjf 
us haughtily, and saucy boys call us 
names, we won’t trouble our heads 
about it, but think that it is no matter 
what they say ; our king has spoken to 
us, and now we are of just as much ac- 
count as any other subjects in his king- 
dom. — Is it not so, comrades ? ” 

“Yes, yes,” repeated the others, in 
joyful chorus. 

“ You must take great care of your 
rags, and leam how to sort them,” said 
the king, “ for that is very necessary to 
the paper-maker, and you will be so 
much the better paid. Tell your com- 
rades all that I have said to you, and let 
them know that your king thinks it 
all very important, and that he will be 
much pleased, if you gather industri- 
ously and sort carefully. — Do you look 
for rags in the street only ? ” 

“No, your majesty, we go to the 
neighboring villages Treptow and Steg- 
letz, Schonhausen and Pankow, for our 
article of trade can be found every- 
where.” 

“Just so,” said Frederick, “ only be 
active, go to the villages with barrows, 
and buy the rags ; give the people punk 
for them with which to kindle their 
fires, so that linen may not be burned 
for tinder. Remember this ! ” 

“We shall remember it carefully 
your majesty, and endeavor to be indaa- 
trious and orderly people.” 


THE AUDIENCE. 


259 


The king gave a friendly nod, and 
asked how much they could make by a 
day’s labor, and how many rags they 
could collect in the course of a week. 
Tlie old man answered plainly and 
sensibly, and Frederick seemed satis- 
fied with the replies. At length he 
dismissed them with kind words, and 
directed them to go to his cabinet- 
souncillor Miller, who had already re- 
ceived orders to give each of them a 
piece of money, because they had been 
mentioned as the best of their class in 
Berlin. 

When the rag-gatherers had taken 
their leave, with expressions of grati- 
tude and faces glowing with pleasure, 
the king rang again and ordered the 
chamberlain to summon the privy- 
councillor Trarbach. 

“Trarbach,” said his majesty, “ I am 
convinced that we have as good rags 
and can make as good paper as the 
people of Holland or France, if we 
only have the proper mills. How much 
do you think is sent from Berlin to 
other countries for printing-paper ? ” 

“I have, by order of your majesty 
made some investigations on this sub- 
ject, and the result is, that fifty thou- 
sand thalers are sent from Berlin to 
other countries for that purpose.” 

“Ah, what a shame that is! and, 
though I suppose that, in all the cities 
of Prussia, there is not another so given 
to writing as overwise and pretentious 
Berlin, yet we may reckon that at least 
twice as much altogether is used in 
other places, and thus at least two hun- 
dred thousand thalers go out of the 
country. This shall not be! You 
must issue a decree in my name forbid- 
ding the exportation of rags, and ob- 
tain a competent paper manufacturer 
from France or Holland, who may 
commence operations here.” 

“ Your majesty, I have already had 
an interview with the factor Dubois, 
whom Baron von Grimm sent here 


from Paris, and he is ready to establish 
a paper-mill in Spechthausen, if your 
majesty will have the grace to allow 
him a subsidy for the first few years. I 
find, however, that his demands are too 
high.” 

“ How much does he require ? ” 

“ Ten thousand thalers a year.” 

“That is a dear price, yet I will 
grant to Monsieur Dubois, out of my 
privy purse, ten thousand thalers a year 
for five years, should I live so long, 
which is very doubtful. He shall be 
paid for two years at once. See to it, 
Trarbach, remember this matter, and 
that I consider it very important.” 

“There are others who propose to 
establish paper-mills — a citizen of Ber- 
lin, named Heyl, and — ” 

“ It is all the same to me whether he 
is called Tom, Dick, or Harry, if he will 
only start it properly. All depends on 
the rags. — Go now, Trarbach, and speak 
with Monsieur Dubois.” 

Frederick was now alone again, and, 
as his blue eyes wandered thoughtful- 
ly around the apartment, they rested 
on the console^ where stood the bust 
of Voltaire. “Ah, Sir Poet,” said 
he, smiling, “what Homeric laughter 
would you have indulged in, had you 
heard that the philosopher of Sans- 
Sovci was busying himself about rags ! 
I shall be among you soon, illustrious 
dead ! and then we shall have an eter- 
nity wherein to interchange our ideas. 
I must devote for the welfare of my 
people the brief time left me on earth. 
If I cannot furnish a chicken for the pot 
of each of my subjects, I can at least 
procure the pot, and let my successors 
provide the chicken. Do not deride 
me, then, for I am a poor king, and a 
slave to duty ! ” 

He nodded to Voltaire’s bust, and 
turned away. This apartment con- 
tained for the old hero-king many mem- 
ories, speaking to him of past years 
of joy and sorrow — many hopes and 


260 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


disappointments — great expectations 
and insignificant results. There, upon 
that arm-chair opposite him by the ta- 
ble, Voltaire had often sat, and with his 
satirical smile looked down on the pa- 
per, where the king penned verses 
which he diffidently submitted to the 
great poet’s inspection. Voltaire had 
gone to the spirit-land long ago, and 
the king composed poetry no more. 
Age had dried up the fountain of his 
inspirations, and he was fast sinking to 
the grave. 

There, on, the tabouret in the window 
had the Marquis d’Argens sat and 
smiled upon his royal friend, while he 
narrated the gay legends of his own 
Provence, and made the king laugh with 
his humor and harmless wit. How 
often had Marechal been in this apart- 
ment, in the happy years gone by — 
that high-souled nobleman, of whom 
Frederick used to say, ‘ that the mem- 
ory of that man could reconcile him to 
miserable humanity.’ And here, too, 
had the king listened to the delicate 
sallies of Algarotti, and enjoyed the 
conversation of the learned. All gone 1 
with the years of social enjoyment, of 
poesy and love I 

Frederick turned his eyes toward 
that door where she once had knelt 
and prayed, when for the last time he 
beheld her whom he loved so well — 
when he thrust her from him, because 
he would not that a woman should en- 
chain him or obstruct his devotion to 
the service of his people I He thought 
of Barbara 1 Her memory came to 
him as the voice of sad and distant 
music, whispering of the days of love 
and beauty, and moving his soul to 
tears. 

All dead ! One only reality remains 
- fame ! Friendship perished like 
love, youth vanished, hope withered, 
fancy drooped its wing. Of the all- 
asph’ing youth nothing is left but the 
old and decrepit man. But fame never 


grows old— the laurel crowning the 
poet and the hero is ever fresh. 

The king awoke from a short sleep, 
such as now often revived him wearied 
by the cares- of the day. His eyes 
turned by chance toward his sword, 
lying among papers and books on the 
writing-table beside him — ^that sw’ord 
with which he had marched before his 
legions, from the day he had won his 
first victory. The blade was as gleam- 
ing as ever, but the scabbard rusty, A 
strange smile played on the lips of 
the aged monarch as he noticed this, 
and thought of the laurels which he 
had just seen in his dreams. It was 
with him ns with his sword : his soul 
was still bright, while his body was old 
and worn. The physicians prolonged 
his life, but could not restore the beauty 
of his youth. 

“ Poor scabbard I ” murmured the king, 
“you are placed here to remind me 
that I must throw you aside and wear 
another; but I will not I We have 
been young and grown old together, 
and so we shall remain. I will do that 
for you which the doctors are doing for 
my body. I will repair you as well as I 
can.” 

Frederick drew the blade with a 
quick motion, and laid it beside him. 
With a melancholy look, he lighted a 
lamp, took a stick of sealing-wax, and 
busied himself in patching the sheath. 
While the king was thus engaged the 
Marquis Lucchessini was standing in 
the antechamber in earnest conversa- 
tion with Chamberlain Schoning. 

“You think then, Schoning, that I 
may venture it to-day ? ” asked the 
marquis, who was one of the few per- 
sons in whose conversation Frederick 
still took pleasure, and whose wit was 
always pleasant. 

“ Marquis, you know that his majesty 
likes your grace, and I am certain that 
he will not deny you.” 

“ I am not so certain of it, my friend 


THE AUDIENCE. 


261 


His majesty, the last evening I had the 
honor of waiting on him was in very 
bad humor. I was not surprised at it, 
for he told me that he had suffered 
much from want of sleep.” 

“But last night he was better, and 
to-day he is in good-humor. He has 
already had the kindness to administer 
a sharp rebuke to me, and has there- 
fore been as friendly and amiable ever 
since as if he wished to make amends 
for it. It is always so; whenever he 
has been a little severe with one of us 
in the morning, he is the moi’e gracious 
afterward, and we don’t get another 
angry word for the whole day.” 

“Well, I will venture it, then,” said 
the marquis, laughing ; “ I will go to 
him and make my requesl:, provided I 
do not disturb him. You know that 
he has had the goodness to permit me 
access at all times, and to-day I will 
dare enter unannounced; but, still, I 
should not like to do so, if he is en- 
gaged in business. Could you not 
make some excuse to see what he is do- 
ing?” 

“ Impossible, marquis, if his majesty 
does not ring or call. — Listen, your 
grace 1 Alkmene is scratching at the 
door to get out. I will open it for her, 
and then get an opportunity to look 
in.” 

The chamberlain walked on tiptoe to 
the door, opened it more slowly than 
usual, and, as the dog glided into the 
antechamber, Schoning returned to the 
marquis. 

“Well, my dear Schoning, what is 
the king doing ? Is he reading or writ- 
ing?” 

“ Neither. The king — yes I saw it 
with my own eyes — is mending his 
sword-scabbard I ” 

“That is unfavorable, for it shows 
that his majesty is in an economical hu- 
mor to-day. But I must enter, for I 
have promised. — Throw open both 
wings, and announce my name dis- 


tinctly.” The chamberlain opened the 
doors and said, in a loud voice, “Hia 
Grace the Marquis Lucchessini, first- 
chamberlain to your majesty.” 

The marquis advanced with a little 
book in his hand. At the threshold ol 
the royal apartment he bowed; then 
took another step and again respect- 
fully bent his tall, slender figure, while 
he held the book in his outstretched 
hand. 

“ My friend,” cried Frederick, laying 
aside the scabbard, “wbat has hap- 
pened — what means this solemn eri' 
tr^ ? ” 

“ Sire,” said the marquis, advancing 
two steps nearer, and making another 
profound salutation, “ Sire, this is the 
way in which the ambassadors of Genoa 
made their appearance at Vienna, and, 
as I come to-day as an ambassador, 
I venture to bring the court customs of 
my country to my assistance.” 

“ Ah, sir ambassador said Frederick, 
laughing, “ I bid your grace welcome 
to my states, and permit me the very 
pertinent inquiry, From which of the 
little Italian republics have I the honor 
to receive you ? ” 

“ Sire, I come not as the ambassador 
of a republic, but as that of suffering 
humanity.” 

“ Ah ! ” then you are the representa- 
tive of more than half of mankind and 
also mine.” 

“ Sire, when kings suffer, it is to God 
alone to whom they can address their 
petitions, but, when the people suffer, 
they have a source of relief through 
their ambassadors. Sire, I cOme as the 
deputy of the hospital at Potsdam. 
Your majesty has hitherto graciously 
granted assistance to that charitable in- 
stitution, but this year it has hoped in 
vain ; and, since it is in great need of 
money, the worthy head of the institu- 
tion has determined to give a public 
concert at the Stadt Theatre for the 
benefit of the poor. The concert wiU 


262 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


take place to-morrow evening, and I 
would ask permission to lay at your 
majesty’s feet this little book, which 
contains the text of the music ; and, at 
the same time, to present this paper, on 
which you will write your subscription 
for the tickets which you may wish to 
take.” 

Frederick’s smiling face become sol- 
emn. He rose and walked slowly to 
and fro in the apartment, leaning upon 
his stick. The marquis still held the 
book and* subscription-list in his hand, 
and looked anxiously at the silent king. 

“ Sire, I beg for pardon, if I have of- 
fended your majesty ; for I see plainly 
that my presumption has displeased 
you.” 

The king shook his head slowly. “ I 
am grieved, simply because I had quite 
forgotten the charity hospital. I have 
not much at present in my private 
purse, but I will think over the matter. 
I assure you, I am mortified that this 
has happened — that I had forgotten the 
poor ! ” 

“ Sire, you give them hope to-day.” 

“ And that is little for those who are 
hungry ; we cannot fatten very well on 
hope. That is what you would say, is 
it not ? And you are right, monsieur. 
Certain and immediate realization is 
better than a thousand hopes, though 
ever so flattering. Give me the list, 
or rather subscribe in my name four 
tickets.” 

“At your majesty’s command, and, 
as the price of the tickets is optional, I 
take the liberty to ask, at how much ? ” 

“Wait a moment, marquis; I must 
solve a little sum in division, first. 
Four into twenty goes five times. Yes, 
that is right! Well, then, five thou- 
sand thalers.” 

“ O, sire,” cried Lucchessini, filled 
with joyful surprise, “ how noble, how 
generous I Permit me, your majesty, to 
thank you on my knees in the name of 
the poor and suffering, and to kiss the 


beneficent hand which not only wjna 
victories, but dispenses blessings to 
those that suffer.” And, ere the king 
could hinder him, the marquis bowed 
and kissed Frederick’s hand. 

“ R^e/’ said the king, “ for you really 
shame me; I do not merit your com- 
plimentary address; I have neglected 
my duty, and that is a serious charge ; 
but I will endeavor to atone for it, and 
let these twenty thousand thalers be a 
pledge of my sincerity, and determina- 
tion to do better in future.” 

“Oh, sire, the whole city will rejoice 
when they know of your subscription ” 

“Well, it shall be spared this re- 
joicing. The few good deeds which 
we can do must not be done too pub- 
licly and ostefitatiously, as if they were 
of an extraordinary character. The 
twenty thousand thalers we pay pri- 
vately, and the hospital board can send 
us a receipt within a week; but we 
shall only subscribe four tickets at one 
Frederick d’or. Besides this, I require 
another condition.” 

“ Your majesty has only to com- 
mand.” 

“ Very well, I command that neither 
you nor the hospital managers make 
any talk about my gift, but keep it en- 
tirely secret.” 

“Your majesty, that is not possible I 
Such an act of royal generosity ought 
to be known to your people.” 

“I do not care for that; besides, 
marquis, we cannot exhibit the light 
without the shade; when you tell of 
my generosity you tell of my negli- 
gence at the same time — ^how I forgot 
the claims of the hospital so long, and 
have .thus been guilty of a great sin, 
and what a morceau that would be for 
the chroniclers. No, no, my fiiend, I 
have not the least desire to be in the 
mouths of these people, and therefore I 
repeat my wish that you will never 
speak of the matter.” 

“ Sire, the poor at least may be per 


THE AUDIENCE.' 


203 


mitted to mention it in their thanks- 
givings to God I ” 

“ That they may do, marquis, only it 
18 a question whether the great God 
thinks it worth while to take notice of 
this bagatelle I I thank you for re- 
minding me of my duty, and for hav- 
ing given me an opportunity at last to 
hear an application from you. Do you 
know that it is the first time you have 
ever preferred a request ? ” 

“ Sire, I know it I I have made it 
an obligation never to ask any thing 
from your majesty, that I might have 
the satisfaction of proving to you that 
my love and reverence are disinterest- 
ed, and that I only follow my heart’s 
impulses when I devote to your majesty 
its most tender devotion. But now, 
I beg leave to retire, for I confess I de- 
sire to inform my clients of the happy 
result of my petition.” 

“Go, my dear marquis, and accept 
my thanks at the same time. I expect 
you this evening, and I hope you will, 
by that time, have forgotten the whole 
affair. We shall not converse to-night 
about the poor, but the rich — of those 
on whom the treasures of knowledge 
have been bestowed by the gods, and 
who soar on the pinions of the poet’s 
art far above the sorrows of earth. 
Go, my friend, and have the goodness 
to tell my chamberlain that I grant no 
more audiences to-day.” 

When the king was left alone again, 
he opened his Lucretius, and had soon 
forgotten the world’s annoyances in hLs 
favorite author. 

A noise in the antechamber, and 
voices loud in dispute, aroused him 
from his pleasant abstraction, and 
brought his thoughts back to the pres- 
ent. He laid his book aside and lis- 
tened. “What is the matter there, 
und who ventures to disturb my quiet ? 
Schoning defends my door, and the 
other demands admittance. — Is not 
that the voice of my old coachman ? 


It is he who wishes to see me, and to 
whom Schoning refuses admission.— 
Ah, that is too hard, and I must my- 
self—” 

The king rose from his fanteuil, and 
hastening to the door opened it. — 
“What noise is this? Who ventures 
to make such a disturbance here ? ” 

“I, your majesty; it’s I,” said the 
coachman, as he turned his angry face 
toward the king. “ It is likely enough 
I have made a noise, but when a man 
has to drive over a rough stone dike, 
why he can’t go softly; and just so 
when such an up -start chamberlain 
stops the coachman, who has kept his 
king on the right way for fifty years, 
and driven with him through thick 
and thin — when such a whipper-snap- 
per of a chamberlain tries to push 
back the coachman who wants to go to 
his master, because he has something 
important to tell him, — well, there 
comes naturally a tussle, and it is as if 
the carriage- wheels were going over a 
stone lying in the middle of the road 
— the wheels give way, or — ” 

“Or the carriage overturns,” inter- 
rupted the king. “We experienced 
that only a week ago on our journey 
from Silesia.” 

“Your majesty, you promised never 
to tell that I too had had ray battle of 
Cologne.” 

“Why,” said Frederick, laughing, 
“ does not the whole world know of 
my battle of Cologne? Why should 
you fare better than I? — But that is 
not the question. You wi^h to speak 
with me ? ” 

“ I must, your majesty, at once, and 
in secret.” 

“ Well, I am very curious to hear you 
then,” said the king, as he reentered 
his cabinet and beckoned Pfund to fol- 
low ; but the old servant turned round 
instead, strode quickly through the an- 
techamber, opened the door that led 
into the hall, and said in a loud voice r 


264 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


“ Come, ma’m’selle, the king -will give 
you an audience.” 

A lady dressed in black, her face 
hidden by a black veil, entered the 
anteroom. The coachman offered her 
his broad, powerful hand, and, as she 
laid her own so delicately gloved in 
his, he conducted her with a trium- 
phant smile, and the air of a cavalier, 
past the chamberlain, who looked after 
them with a stare of amazement. 

On the threshhold of his apartment 
stood Frederick, and with a command- 
ing gesture checked the strange pair. 
“ You are impudent, sir coachman, 
and you carry your presumption too far. 
I promised an audience to you, but to 
no one else.” 

Pfund turned with perfect coolness 
to his veiled companion. “Don’t be 
frightened, ma’m’selle, that’s the way 
he always talks. He will receive you 
as soon as I have told him the whole 
story. So be ^uiet, and stand here 
waiting till you are called. I promised 
that the king would receive you, and 
he will, for he will not make his old 
coachman a word-breaker and a falsi- 
fier, So just wait till I return to fetch 
you.” 

With resolute step the coachman 
marched into the cabinet, and met with 
a fearless look the eyes of the king, 
which, half in wonder, half in amaze- 
ment, were fixed upon him. 

“I am really curious how you can 
gain an audience for any other, since I 
do not intend it.” 

“ Your majesty, it is only because you 
don’t know who the ma’m’selle is ; we 
are well acquainted with her, and so I 
am sure you won’t make your old ser- 
vant unhappy, but will grant the lady 
the interview I ask.” 

“Who is she, then, you simpleton, 
md why does she come here veiled ? ” 

“ Who is she, your majesty ? Why 
she is my benefactress, the lovely 
Ma’m’selle Amalie, whom we saw a 


week ago at Ottmannsliof. You rt 
member her, don’t you ? ” 

“ The bailiff’s daughter, whose mo- 
ther was a runaway Countess Sohmit* 
tau ? ” 

“ The same, your majesty, the beauti- 
ful Ma’m’selle Amalie Hartman, who 
saved my life, and without whose nurs- 
ing I would have died, and then your 
majesty would have been every day in 
danger of your life, because of some 
new coachman. Yes, it is the same 
Amalie Hartman, who has been to me 
as an angel, whom the good Lord had 
sent down expressly for the coachman 
of the King of Prussia.” 

“A proud, haughty maiden, who 
stood there as if she were a princess. I 
promised her assistance, but she refused 
it, and declared that she did not need 
it.” 

“ And said she ‘ waited her fate.’ I 
remember her words perfectly, for they 
have rung in my ears the whole week, 
and I have kept thinking what sort 
of misfortune they meant for the good 
ma’m’selle.” 

“And do you know now ? ” 

“Yes; and I will tell your majesty. 
But, first, I have a request.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ I know very wc/i it is not respectful 
for ordinary people to sit in the king’s 
presence ; but, in the first place, I am 
the coachman ; secondly, I am old ; and, 
thirdly, when we travel together I al- 
ways sit in the presence of the king, 
and now I think it is just the same 
whether I am seated on a coach-box, 
or on a chair. My limbs a’n’t used to 
standing.” 

“Well, we will just imagine we are. 
riding,” said the king, laughing. - 
“ Take a chair, and believe it a coach- 
box.” 

Pfund placed his chair directly op- 
posite the king. Then, with a sigh of 
relief sank into it, and thanked hig 
master with a nod of satisfaction. 


THE AUDIENCE. 


265 


“ Now make, haste, my friend ; tell 
me where the lady comes from, and 
what she wants.” 

“As to the last question,” replied 
the coachman, with a sigh, “I don’t 
know, for she says she can only tell 
your majesty ; but whence she comes 
I do know : naturally from the village 
of Ottmannshof, — left there the same 
day as ourselves ; but naturally she had 
no coachman Pfund, and no post-horses ; 
she has travelled by the public coach, 
and the men have such broken-down 
horses that a respectable driver ought 
to be ashamed of them, and so the 
ma’m’selle arrived here five days later 
than we.” 

“ Yesterday evening, then ? ” 

“Yes, yesterday evening, your ma- 
jesty, about bedtime. I was just going 
to sleep, and had said 1 ) 01 X 716 nuit to my 
old woman, because she is from the 
French colony, and is always mightily 
pleased when I throw her a bit of 
French — was going into the bedroom, 
when somebody knocked at the sitting- 
room door. I felt alarmed, your ma- 
jesty, thought that you had sent for 
me, and sprang like a buck to open 
the door. Who was standing outside ? 
Amalie, as pale as death ; she trem- 
bled, and stretched out both her hands 
to me ; ‘ Father Pfund, will you take 
me in, and give me a jfiace to sleep ? ’ 
and I naturally took her in my arms, 
as a father would his child, and carried 
her into the room, and laid her in the 
easy-chair, and said, ‘ Is it so at last ? 
Do you need an old fellow who would 
give his life for you, just to show how 
thankful he is for all the favors you 
have done him ? Has any one in God’s 
world injured you — just tell me his 
name, and I will beat the rascal to 
death. Has any thing of yours fallen 
into the water, I will fetch it out like 
a spaniel, or drown myself. Only 
speak, and say what I can do for you, 
and it is done I ’ She looked at me 


with her heavenly eyes, that warmed 
my heart, and said, ‘Dear friend, I 
must have an audience with our noble 
king. I must speak with him; my 
honor and life depend on it I ’ — ‘ Good 
Lord,’ I answered, ‘why didn’t you 
speak to him at Ottmannshof, when we 
were there ? ’ — Then she sighed, ‘ I did 
not know at that time what a terrible 
misfortune had befallen me, and when 
I learned it two hours afterward, it was 
too late ; for his majesty was doubtless 
already miles away. But I must speak 
to him ; and you, my friend, will ob- 
tain me a private audience. You 
must not tell my name to any one, for 
I have a powerful enemy here, and 
should he suppose that I came for the 
purpose of seeing the king, he would 
find some means of preventing it.’ ” 

“ Curious,” said Frederick to himself. 
“ Wliat enemy can she have here ? She 
only gives herself airs, it is only a trick 
to fool you, old fellow. Ma’m’selle has 
concluded, after a night’s refiection, 
that she would do better to accept my 
assistance and protection, and now 
seeks what she rejected.” 

“ Your majesty, if you had seen her 
pale face — her tearful eyes — you would 
know that she is unhappy, and guilty 
of no deceit. She is not one of your 
affected ladies, such as I have seen in 
the Berlin theatre, who can play with 
tears and sighs before the people, 
nearly die of grief, and, when they re- 
turn behind the scenes, laugh and 
make themselves meiTy, No, Amalie 
does not come without serions purpose. 
It moved my heart when she begged 
me so sadly to obtain an interview for 
her with the king, and when I said to 
her, ‘Be contented and don’t trouble 
yourself any more, for, as sure as I am 
the coachman of the king, I promise 
you that his majesty will grant you an 
audience early in the morning,’ ah, then 
you should have seen how happy she 
looked, and how s!ie thanked mey.say- 


266 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


ing I was her good angel. No one in 
the world ever before called me an 
angel, and I cried for joy to think that 
now at last I could do a favor to the 
maiden who had done so much for 
me.” 

“ Yes, but you didn’t know whether 
I would grant the audience you prom- 
ised her.” 

“ Oh, yes, I did know it,” replied 
Pfund, with quiet energy. “ Your ma- 
jesty is much too good to be willing to 
let your servant come to disgrace and 
make a lying rascal out of an honest 
man. I have promised the lady, in her 
great need and anxiety of mind, that 
your majesty would receive her early 
this morning, and now you will not 
disappoint old Pfund.” 

“Well, since you know it so cer- 
tainly,” laughed the king, “ I suppose I 
shall have to accede. It is true that I 
must not allow my coachman to dis- 
grace himself, and be driven by a lying 
fellow. — Let her enter.” 

“ Good I ” cried Pfund, springing from 
his seat. “ Long live my generous king 
and master ! ” 

“Do not make such a disturbance,” 
interrupted Frederick. “ Let the good 
ma’m’selle come in, and then we shall 
know what she desires of us.” 

“ She wants nothing from me, your 
majesty — only from you.” 

“ I only spoke of myself.” 

“No, your majesty, you said ‘ us.’ ” 

“ Pfund, you are a fool 1 Go back 
to the antechamber, and let the young 
woman enter.” 

It was a long interview which Fred- 
erick had with Amalie Hartman. She 
unveiled her sorrowing heart, and sup- 
plicated that the king would save her 
in this her utmost need, beseeching 
him to restore her rights to insure le- 
gitimacy to her child and honor to her- 
self. 

Frederick’s fiery eyes were immovably 
fixed on the pale, beautiful face before 


him, as with the energy of suffering 
and the pathos of outraged innocence 
she appealed to him, but his brow grew 
darker, and he assumed a hard, forbid- 
ding expression. 

“ I must say that your story sounds 
very romantic,” said the king, after she 
had ended her narrative, and answered 
his questions. Pinto is certainly a wild 
fellow, but he never would have been 
so demented as to have married a com- 
mon bailiff’s daughter; had he done 
so, he surely would not be such a crim- 
inal as to marry a second time. That 
is bigamy, and the penalty is twenty 
years’ imprisonment.’ No, no, Pinto is 
not such a scoundrel ! I doubt not that 
he promised you marriage, while he 
was making love to you, but that he 
really wedded you, I do not believe. 
You have perhaps mistaken the hopeful 
for the actual.” 

“Your majesty,” replied Amalie, 
proudly, “ I should be a sad creature 
did I dare to utter to you, who are the 
representative of God on earth, that 
which is false. For your eyes, in 
which the holy fire of heaven shines, 
look into my heart and recognize its 
truthfulness. As sure as there is a God 
above us, I am the wedded wife of 
Baron von Pinto ; my son is his lawful 
child. Therefore do I come to you, and 
beseech your majesty to have pity on 
me, since all have turned from me, and 
Providence itself, concealing the truth, 
seems against me.” 

“ You should be warned by it, and 
become reasonable. You should see 
that it is best to be silent, and to en- 
dure what cannot be amended. Baron 
von Piuto is a reckless man ; he is 
deeply involved, and I have sworn that 
I would not pay another penny of his 
debts, though it is unpleasant for me 
that a cavalier of so good a family 
should go to ruin. Now it happens 
luckily that Pinto has an opportunity 
to retrieve his fortunes by a w’ealtln 


THE AUDIENCE. 


267 


marriage ; he has just obtained four 
weeks’ leave of absence in order to 
visit Austria, and celebrate his nup- 
tials. And would you make me be- 
lieve that Pinto is already married, and 
has legitimate offspring? That is a 
pretty fable, but you will gain nothing 
by it : evidence will be demanded for 
what you aflSrm. It is easy to assert, 
but I cannot believe without proof.” 

“ Your majesty,” interrupted Ama- 
lie, with glowing cheeks and fl ashing 
eyes, ‘‘ I came here, because I believed 
the king was called to protect the in- 
nocent and the right — I came with the 
courage which a pure conscience and an 
unblemished honor lent me, and I 
sought to supplicate you for justice 
but I see now, with bitter agony, that I 
have deceived myself, and that your 
majesty, instead of defending me, only 
accuses and scoffs at me, and that 
pains me more than all. For where 
shall I seek the right, when even the 
king will not grant it ? ” 

“You have dared to speak pre- 
sumptuous words,” said Frederick, 
sternly, “but I will not have heard 
them, for disappointed hopes make 
the heart desperate. Be calm, and 
do not demand the impossible. I will 
appeal to Pinto’s conscience, and take 
care that you are provided for.” 

“Your majesty, I will receive no dis- 
honorable alms, but I demand justice.” 

“ Well, then, go to the mischief and 
get it, for you will not have it jfrom 
me I I believe nothing of your romance, 
and I have no wish to make ma’m’- 
selle Hartman Baroness von Pinto.” 

“ Then I have to place my hope in 
God, and from Him alone can help 
come to me I Your majesty disdains 
to exercise justice, and permits a crime 
10 be committed, which you can pre- 
vent. I appeal to Heaven to intervene 
in my behalf. God of justice. Pro- 
tector of innocence and of virtue, have 
mercy on me ! Send me help, since all 


desert me — reveal the witnesses of my 
honor, since the king will not believe 
me I ” 

At this moment, and as if in answer 
to her appeal, the doors were violently 
forced open, and the coachman, hold- 
ing back the chamberlain, who was 
vainly endeavoring to close them agaii., 
appeared panting on the threshold. 

“Your majesty, here is some one 
who must speak with you at once — 
who says that he brings weighty testi- 
mony for Amalie Hartman.” 

“Ah, God has heard my prayer!” 
cried Amalie, joyfully. “He sends me 
the help for which I besought him 1 ” 

“ Who is without ? ” cried the king, 
sensibly affected. 

“It is the Kector Werner of Ott- 
mannshof, and he says that there is 
great need that he should speak with 
you, for he comes to prevent crime.” 

“ Let him enter. Schoning, away 
from the door, and let the rector pass.” 

The coachman gave signs of satisfac- 
tion, and the mortified chamberlain re- 
treated. In the doorway appeared the 
tall form of the young rector, with his 
mild, beaming eyes, holding a large 
packet in his hand. He advanced di- 
rectly to the king. 

“ Your majesty, I bring you the 
proof that she whom the world has 
hitherto known as Amalie Hartman is 
in truth Baroness von Pinto, the lawful 
wife of that gentleman. I bring your 
majesty the church register of Otmanns- 
hof.” 

“ Oh, Werner, my brother, my 
friend,” cried Amalie, “ you come to res- 
cue me 1 ” With a look of unutterable 
gratitude and love, she extended both 
her hands to him. He held them a 
moment in his own, looked at her with 
a smile, and turned again to the king, 
who asked how it was that the church 
register should suddenly appear like a 
I dem ex machina^ since Amalie had in- 
i formed him that it had been burnt. 


268 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


“So we all believed, sire,” replied the 
rector, with his soft voice. “ The reg- 
ister had always been kept in the 
closet behind the altar, and since this, 
with the other woodwork of the church 
was consumed, we supposed that the 
book was destroyed also. The sexton 
had several times attempted to discover 
whether this was the case ; but it was a 
fruitless labor, for the church was noth- 
ing but a heap of ashes, and where the 
altar stood, the roof had fallen through. 
Now,” continued the rector, “ when 
your majesty gave the money for the 
rebuilding, the work of clearing away 
the ruins began, but no one doubted 
that every document was destroyed, 
since even the communion service and 
the silver candlesticks had melted. 
Amalie had no doubt of it, and for that 
reason she came to her king, in order 
to ask that justice from him which no 
other man had the power to award her. 
As she left us, I prayed God to grant 
her help and strength ; I prayed for 
myself, too, that he would make me 
his instrument to aid her; and, after 
I had thus strengthened my faith, I 
went to the late rector’s widow, who 
knew a part of the secret, which Ama- 
lie had communicated to me for the 
first time on the day of her departure. 
I asked the widow to tell me all the 
circumstances of her husband’s death.” 

“ The rector was stricken with apo- 
plexy ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, and died after 
three days of suffering and silent sor- 
row, for he could not apeak. But 
once, with great difficulty, he pointed 
to the closet in which his books were, 
and his look, as the widow thought, 
was directed with a strangely-anxious 
and supplicating expression to the up- 
permost row. This was all that she 
could tell me, but it was at least a clew 
that I could follow. I spent the whole 
night in turning over these books, and 
after many failures my labor was at 


length crowned with success. In oi.e 
of the church books I found a slip of 
paper on which were written the words ; 
‘ The church register for the year 1783, 
which contains an important secret, 
was inclosed by me in an iron box, and 
buried on a moonlight night, without 
witness, in the churchyard, close to the 
wall behind the arbor iu my garden.’ ” 

“ And you sought the book in that 
place?” inquired Frederick, quickly, 
“ and found it ? ” 

“ Sire, here it is.” The rector tore 
oflf the paper, and handed the king the 
great book, with its brass-bound covers. 
“ Permit me to say, your majesty, that 
the page marked with a strip of paper 
contains the recorded evidence of the 
celebration of the marriage.” 

“ Is it all true, then ? Let me see ! Is 
it really so ? ” 

While the king examined scrutiniz- 
ingly the book, which the rector had 
opened at the place indicated, Amalie, 
with cheeks wet with tears, fell on her 
knees, her countenance beaming as if 
transfigured, and her eyes resting upon 
the young rector : “ To him I owe it that 
I am released from this shame. He re- 
stores me my honor and binds me to 
himself forever ! ” 

“ Truly,” said the king, looking up, 
“ it is so, and here is a complete proof, 
against which that miserable baron 
will not venture to contend. Made- 
moiselle, or rather baroness, I must beg 
your jDardon for my incredulity. I see 
now that I was wrong, and I am 
grieved that I hurt your feelings ; but 
I will atone for it, and, although I am 
usually opposed to misalliances, and seek 
to prevent them, yet in this special case 
I shall reverse the proverb, and right 
shall go before favor. You have asked 
me for it, lady, and you shall have it. 
Although your husband has requested 
consent to his espousals with the Count 
ess von Schmittau, I assure you, that I 
had my reasons for wishing that these 


THE AUDIENCE. 


269 


parties could have jcen united ; but 
you shall not appeal to my justice in 
vain, and the frivolous Baron von 
Pinto shall be made to acknowledge 
that I will not be deceived. We shall 
teach him . -to honor his lawful wife, 
madame ; but we must go about it cau- 
tiously, so that this foe may not escape. 
He is an incorrigible roug, madame, 
and I fear you will never experience 
much happiness from your marriage, or 
have occasion to prize your fortune 
very highly.” 

“ I renounced all happiness when I 
resolved to prosecute my right.” 

“You no longer love Baron von 
Pinto, then ? ” 

“No, your majesty, and it is great 
agony that I have been forced to en- 
diure, because I bestowed my love on 
one who is so unworthy. It was an er- 
ror, for which I must atone by a life 
of affliction; but I may not therefore 
shrink from it — my honor and my 
child forbid it. He has renounced me, 
and refused to recognize his dear little 
son I If the register with the proof of 
the celebration of our marriage had not 
been discovered, through the faithful 
exertions of my noble friend, that man 
who swore an eternal faith in me — ^to 
whom in the innocence of my heart, 
and ignorance of the world, I had de- 
voted my whole life — would have 
thrust me from him, and disowned' 
me. He would have permitted me, 
burdened with unmerited disgrace, 
to drag out a wretched existence, 
while he, by perjury lived in wealth 
and respectability. Bowed down by 
these memories, I appeal to your ma- 
jesty for the favor of compelling the 
baron to recognize his wife and child, 
that the world may not point the 
finger of scorn at me — that my son may 
not have cause to reproach me.” 

“ I cannot but respect your motives,” 
said the king. “You, shall be known 
as the wife of the baron, and we will 


perhaps compel the fellow to do you 
justice. But, as I said, we must work 
cautiously, lest he take flight. Keep 
yourself concealed, and live a quiet and 
retired life until the moment for action. 
See no one, and do not let your name 
be known. You had better remain 
with Pfund.” 

“ Your majesty, I fear I shall be bur 
densome to the old man.” 

“ We shall ask him about that,” said 
the king, laughing, as he went himself 
to the door to call the coachman, who 
stood near the entrance of the cabinet, 
awaiting with anxiety the result of his 
favorite’s interview with the monarch. 

“Well, my friend,” said Frederick, 
smiling, “ I must tell you, that you have 
succeeded in your affair. Amalie will 
probably soon rise to wealth and posi- 
tion, and will have you and the rector 
to thank for it.” 

“ Your majesty,” said Pfund, shaking 
his head, “ I don’t know what it all 
means, but this I do know, that the 
rector and I never could have brought 
it about, if you hadn’t taken the reins 
into your own hands and turned the 
wagon into the right road.” 

“ Oh, I do not understand any thing 
about driving, and I will take heed 
not to blunder into your department. 
You have well handled the reins for 
Amalie, for she will soon be in a coach 
with the qu.orterings of a baroness. 
We must, however, wait awhile on the 
cross-road, before we turn into the high 
way. She must remain concealed for a 
few days longer, though she is afraid 
of being burdensome to you, and I ask 
you if that is the case.” 

“Your majesty, I can’t believe that 
. the savior of my life is afraid of any 
such thing — else she must take me for 
an ungrateful rascal, or that I have lost 
my memory, and don’t know how many 
long, weary nights she watched by 
me, and how much trouble she had 
with me, just from pure humanity. 


270 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


What can it do but please me, if she, so 
young and pretty, so amiable and 
obliging, will condescend to make her- 
self contented with me and my old 
woman, live with us a few days, and 
try to make herself comfortable among 
such folks as we are ? ” 

“You hear, madame,” said the king, 
smiling, 

Amalie Hartman ran to the coachman, 
taking his hands and regarding him 
with a look full of tenderness and 
gratitude. “ My good, true friend, I 
thank you as deeply and truly as a 
daughter can. I accept your invita- 
tion, and shall rejoice to live with you 
a few days.” 

“There is no ‘but ’about it, then,” 
said Frederick. “The lady must be 
altogether incognito, no one must know 
that she is here, or learn her name. Can 
you manage that, old gentleman ? ” 

“Oh, your majesty,” said Pfund, 
with a contemptuous shrug of his shoul- 
ders, “that is simple enough. She 
shall live in the best parlor, and I will 
guard the door like a watchdog. If 
any one tries to go in, or asks her name, 
I will order him ofl.” 

“ Those measures will be very ener- 
getic, and in that way the secret will 
be well kept. — Go, madame, and await 
my messenger — and you, also, Mr. 
Werner. Wait here a few days, and 
whenever I send for you, come at once 
with the book. You have had a fa- 
tiguing journey and need a few days’ 
rest. Are you acquainted with Ber- 
lin?” 

“ No, your majesty, I completed my 
studies in Frankfort and Wiirtemberg, 
and was never before in Berlin.” 

‘‘Well, then, spend a few days in see- 
ing this babel. Lodge at a good house, 
and do not trouble yourself about the 
expense. I will pay the reckoning. 
Adieu 1 ” 


CHAPTER VL 

THE CONJUBATION. 

A FEW days later the king gave a 
dinner at Sans-Souci, to which, how- 
ever, only a few invitations were is- 
sued. Only Minister von Hertzberg, 
Marquis Lucchessini, First Consistorial 
Judge von Sack, and Baron von Pinto, 
were invited, and toward the last 
named the king showed himself partic- 
ularly gracious. He seated the “ mad 
captain,” as he used to call him, oppo- 
site himself, and many a biting proverb 
and stinging jest fell from the lips of 
the sarcastic king into the baron’s 
guilty heart ; but he still seemed to feel 
no anxiety, for he believed his secret 
securely kept in the grave of the rector 
and in the ashes of the church register. 
Who could appear against him, since 
these witnesses had both disappeared i 
— The baron could therefore laugh 
heartily at the witticisms of the king, 
knowing that they were generally ad- 
dressed to those in special fwor — that 
they were, so to speak, the thorns of 
the full rose. 

“ So, my mad captain,” said his ma- 
jesty, after the lackeys had served the 
dessert, and, at a nod from their master, 
retired into the antechamber, closing 
the doors, “ you are really in earnest — 
you wish to flee from the storms of life 
into the haven of matrimony ? ” 

“Yes, sire ; as soon as I receive leave 
of absence, and you consent to my nup- 
tials, I take my departure.” 

“ And you are certain that nothing 
will interfere with your voyage ? Your 
papers are all in order — no contraband 
goods on board that could be confis- 
cated by a parson port inspector ? ” 

“ All in order, I only await the royal 
sanction.” 

“ That you shall have, baron, I give 
you my royal word ; but not immedi- 
ately! We must first have evidence that 


THE CONJURATIOX. 


271 


you are a perfectly wortliy candidate 
for matrimony. — Sir Chief- Justice von 
Sack, ask him a few questions. Let 
him undergo a little examination before 
he appears at the altar of Hymen I 
Propose the necessary questions I ” 

“ Well, then,” said the chief justice, 
solemnly, “ Baron von Pinto, I ask you 
if you can assure me, before God and 
your conscience, that there is no im- 
pediment to the consummation of this 
marriage with the Countess Schmittau 
— if there is no other marriage promise 
to prevent it.” 

“Before you answer, baron,” said the 
king, “remember that the chief jus- 
tice has asked you ‘ in the name of God 
and your conscience.’ ” 

The king sent a lightning glance at 
the baron, but his sprightly manner 
showed no trace of suspicion. 

“No, my lord chief justice,- no other 
promise of marriage prevents me, and I 
feel myself prepared to unite my for- 
tunes with those of the Countess 
Schmittau.” 

“ You have arranged your affairs, 
then, and balanced the past ? For the 
marriage state you are about to enter 
upon is like the commencement of a 
new life. Before you step beyond its 
threshold you must have paid all 
debts I ” 

“ As for that, my lord chief justice, I 
must admit that this is the single point 
where I am unworthy, and which can 
only be amended through my mar- 
riage. It is well known to your ma- 
jesty that I have debts, but I swear to 
pay them off as soon as the grace of the 
king has sanctioned my nuptials with 
the Countess Schmittau.” 

“You acknowledge your pecuniary 
obligation, but is there no other, and 
which you refuse to acknowledge ? Ask 
your conscience if you are free from 
debt, lest it accuse you as a traitor. 
Will you commit no perjury when you 
swear the oath of fidelity ? ” 


The eyes of tue king rested with a 
penetrating glance on the baron, notic- 
ing his momentary paleness and the 
hesitation of fear. But his natural 
color returned to his cheeks, and he 
resumed his usual manner. 

“ One repeats the oath of fidelity only 
for the future. My lord chief justice, 
it has no retroactive force. I confess 
that I have often sworn to credulous wo- 
men in a moment of passion, and have 
broken my promise, but what man has 
not ? and who would adjudge him a 
perjurer at the altar, with these broken 
vows of love, when he forswears the 
past, and binds himself for the fu- 
ture ? ” 

“ He is a hard-shelled sinner,” said 
the king, “and his satanic majesty 
will have to kindle a lively fire to soften 
him. — The examination is ended, the 
candidate is proved, and found worthy 
of installation in a place where he will 
be likely to say it is rather warm.” 

The captain laughed. “ Then, of 
course your majesty grants me leave of 
absence, and I may depart ? ” 

“Why depart? Why leave of ab- 
sence? We can manage the matter 
much more conveniently here, and, if 
necessary, the lord chief justice can 
perform the ceremony forthwith. ” 

“ But, your majesty, the presence of 
the bride is necessary,” replied the 
captain. “I cannot be married by 
proxy like the princes royal.” 

“No, but I can charm the bride 
hither. Do you not know that I can, 
as well as conjurers, summon spirits ?” 

“ But the question is, will they come 
when you summon them ? ” 

' “ You may be certain of that. I will 

give you proof that the spirits are obe- 
dient to my call.!* The king rose from 
his chair, and cried in a loud voice, 
“ Bareness von Pinto, appear I appear I 
appear I ” At the third summons the 
door of the reception-chamber was 
thrown open, and a lady in white gar- 


272 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


ments, covered by a white veil, which 
swept down to her feet, appeared on 
the threshold. The captain could not 
repress a shudder, and an involuntary 
cry forced itself from his lips at the 
sight of this tall, spectre-like object. 

“ Now, captain,” said the king, in a 
stern, commanding voice, “go and em- 
brace your ];)ride.” 

The baron advanced, and then 
stopped, hesitating. “ Sire, I know 
not who this lady is ! ” 

“ It is your spouse, upon my royal 
word ; it is Baroness von Pinto. Have 
I not told you that I knew how to call 
spirits, and that they obey me? Go, 
then, and embrace her I ” 

“ But, sire, I have no wife — there is 
no Baroness von Pinto 1 ” 

“ A falsehood I ” exclaimed the king, 
angrily. “You are married, and that 
lady is the Baroness von Pinto 1 If 
you have not the heart to embrace her, 
then ask her name and beseech her to 
unveil herself.” 

The baron, whose heart trembled 
with anticipation, approached the white 
figure, who slowly and haughtily ad- 
vanced to meet him. 

“ Madame,” said he, in a low voice, 
“ I pray you tell your name, and un- 
cover your face.” 

“ I am Baroness von Pinto \ ” replied 
she, solemnly. “ Look at me, and deny 
it if you dare 1” And with a sudden 
motion of her hand she put back her 
veil, and revealed her pale, beautiful 
face, with gleaming eyes and haughty 
lil^s. 

“ Amalie ! ” cried the captain, shrink- 
ing back confounded. “You here — 
you ! ” — Becoming suddenly collected, 
he felt that his whole future hung on 
this moment, and he was resolved to 
improve it. “ How can.you venture to 
appear here?” he asked, with an air 
of calm rebuke. “Have you had the 
presumption to execute your threats? 
Have you actually undertaken to tell 


his majesty the fable of our secret mar- 
riage ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, with a look of 
unspeakable disdain, “ I have told this 
fable to his majesty.” 

“ But your majesty will not listen to 
the stories of a creature whom vanity 
and ambition have driven mad ? If 
a maiden has been seduced by some 
heedless young man, surely the mere 
promise of the seducer is not an ac- 
knowledgment of a legal marriage ! ” 

“Pinto,” said the king, with a se- 
vere look, “ you do your name and sta- 
tion little honor — you do not act like a 
nobleman. I am ashamed of you, for 
the device of every nobleman should 
be : ‘ NoMesse obliged ” 

“But your majesty will not give 
more credit to her falsehoods than to 
me? My word at least will count as 
much hers, and I assert that her 
marriage with me is only an idea — she 
has no witnesses.” 

“ Pastor Werner,” called the king, in 
a loud voice. Again the door opened, 
and the rector entered with a heavy 
book in his hand. 

“ Is that the church register of Ott- 
mannshof?” asked the king, beckon- 
ing the young preacher to approach. 

“ Yes, your majesty, for the year 
1783, which the late rector had con- 
cealed in the churchyard, and which 
was not destroyed by the burning of 
the church.” 

“Give the book to the chief justice. 
— And you, my dear Sack, read the 
passage the rector will point out to you, 
and then tell me, and all who are here 
present, if it is not complete evidence 
of marriage?” 

The worthy old gentleman bowed 
his white head over the book, and read 
attentively the lines which the rector 
indicated. 

“ Yes,” said the justice, after a pause ; 
“it is direct proof of marriage. It is 
indisputable that the Baron von Pinto 


THE CONJURATION. 


273 


was two years since legally united to 
Amalie Hartman.” 

“You are a Tillanous falsifier, Pin- 
to!” 

The baron threw himself upon his 
knees before the king: “Mercy, your 
majesty ; mercy ! It is true I I confess 
my fault I ” 

“ Because you cannot do otherwise — 
you cannot longer deny the fact. You 
wished to commit a great crime — to 
renounce your lawful wife and child, 
and consummate a second marriage. 
That is a deed for which I would have 
cashiered you, and sent you to prison 
for life. Your wife, however, has 
asked me to pardon you, and for the 
sake of your poor young bride, who 
has suffered so much through your 
wickedness, I will remit a richly-de- 
served punishment. For her sake I 
will again pay your debts, that you 
may have an opportunity to commence 
a new life. Show yourself worthy of 
this favor ; strive to atone for the past, 
and be a faithful husband and a tender 
father. And I require that, in my 
presence, and before these witnesses, 
you beg your wife’s forgiveness for all 
the wrongs you have done her.” 

“Amalie,” said the baron, in a peni- 
tent voice, “ Amalie, I pray you forgive 
me 1 By all the happy days of our 
first love I conjure you, forgive me ! I 
will atone for it ; say only that you for- 
give me ! ” 

Amalie did not answer — her eyes 
rested on him with an expression of 
deep sorrow, and painful contempt. 
Then, turning slowly to Frederick, she 
said, “Your majesty, I am now his 
acknowledged wife ? ” 

“Yes, the marriage is admitted ; you 
are Baroness von Pinto.” 

“ And my son will bear his father’s 
name — ^he will never, when he becomes 
a man, have to blush for his mother or 
his birth ? ” 

“ No, surely not, lady baroness ; you 
18 


have proved yourself a brave and vir- 
tuous woman, and your son will have 
reason to be proud of his mother. I 
hope that his father, through her ex- 
ample, will learn to become a real no- 
bleman, and that she will lead him 
back to the path of virtue.” 

Amalie’s glance passed from the 
convicted, dovmcast captain, and rested 
on the pure face of the rector, who 
had proved his disinterested love, re- 
nounced his own hopes, and brought 
her the evidence of her marriage, 
though he knew they must part for- 
ever. 

“ Do you, Baron von Pinto,” resumed 
the king, after a short pause, “ arrange 
your debts and hand the statement to 
Minister von Hertzberg, who is author- 
ized to pay them, in order that you 
may commence an orderly life with 
your young spouse. I will not station 
you in another garrison, for I wish to 
watch you and see how you conduct 
yourself.” 

“I thank your majesty,” said the 
baron, bowing profoundly. 

“ You will make the usual visits with 
your lady, and introduce her as the 
Baroness von Pinto. Moreover, that 
you may not say your wife brought you 
no dowry, I give her twenty thousand 
thalers. Besides this, my dear baron- 
ess, I empower you to ask any favor 
now, in addition to this. Consider, and 
speak ! ” 

“ Your majesty, may I venture a 
question ? ” 

“ Speak, madame.” 

“ Would my son, in case of my death, 
be secure in his rights ? Could he never 
again be robbed of his name ? ” 

“ No, madame, for the law protects 
him. Besides, I appoint your son a ca- 
det in the First Infantry, and his patent 
shall be made out to-day.” 

“I thank your majesty, and, since I 
am satisfied as to the future of my son, 
allow me another question : Your ma- 


274 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


jesty, as supreme head of the church, 
has power to dissolve the bonds of mat- 
rimony and to decree a divorce ? ” 

“ I have that power. I can command 
the courts to confirm the decree.” 

“Then I ask the favor which your 
majesty has promised to grant me — I 
ask that you dissolve the marriage be- 
tween myself and the Baron von Pinto, 
and, immediately after the publication 
of our marriage, to decree formally a 
divorce.” 

“ Amalie ! ” exclaimed the captain, 
“ do you wish to drive me from you ? ” 

“You drove me from you when I 
prayed for my honor, and the recog- 
nition of my child. You rejected me 
and him — you trod under foot my love. 
Now I despise you, and contempt and 
love cannot dwell together.” 

“You desire revenge,” said the baron, 
with suppressed anger. “You came 
here only to disgrace me, and to render 
impossible the rich marriage which I 
hoped for.” 

“ I came here to save mine and my 
son’s honor, and — to save you from 
crime ! I love you no more, but I 
would not that you should be a crimi- 
nal. Now, let the past be forgotten ; I 
will not be angry with you, though I 
must still bear in my heart the scars of 
cruel wounds! — Sire, pronounce a di- 
vorce of our miserable marriage ; then 
I ask it, as a last favor, give Baron von 
Pinto his leave of absence, and consent 
to his marriage with the heiress Von 
Schmittau.” 

“Oh, Amalie,” cried the captain, 
“ what a noble woman you are 1 Why 
did I not know how to value your vir- 
tue?” 

“And had you done so you would 
have deserted me, for your God is 
wealth, and I had nothing to give you 
but my love. When you had blighted 
my youth I was indeed poor, and so 
had no more value for you 1 — Sire, do 
you grant my request ? Will you pro- 


nounce the divorce, and then give the 
baron permission to wed as he wishes ? ” 

“ I will,” replied the king. “ It shall 
be as you desire, madame, and I com- 
pliment you, for you have acted well, 
and, though you scorn to be a baroness, 
you are truly a noble woman. I wifi 
take care of your future — you shall re- 
tain the dower I promised. You will 
yet find a husband worthy of you ! ” 

Amalie turned with a smile, and her 
eyes met those of the rector Werner. 

The king noticed this. “ The human 
heart is a wonderful thing; it hates 
and loves again — and this is a great 
blessing, for how could we endure life 
if our hearts were not weak and strong 
in love — weak, because it is so ready 
to pardon. — Go, Pinto, and repent. In 
three days, when the documents for 
the divorce are issued, you shall have 
the leave of absence for your journey 
to Austria. Go ! ” 

Conrad gave his military salute, bent 
with a sad, longing look before Ama- 
lie, and hastily left the royal apart- 
ment. A pause ensued. Werner no- 
ticed tears on Amalie’s cheeks, and, ap- 
proaching her, laid his hand on her 
arm. 

A smile passed over the thin lips of 
Frederick, and he beckoned the pastor 
to approach him : “ Well, Rector Wer- 
ner, you can now return to Ottmanns- 
hof, and the register will remain in your 
charge. You have' behaved as a true 
and earnest servant of the Lord, and 
the next good living to be presented 
you shall have. You shall not wait 
very long, and then you can lead a 
pretty young wife into the rectory, wlio 
will bring with her a dower of twenty 
thousand thalers.” 

“ Sire, the lady whom I love needs 
no fortune, for she is herself all that I 
desire — ” 

“Softly, my young enthusiast. A 
dower — something to live upon — Is 
also a strong bond for tender hearts, 


THE conjuration. 


275 


for we cannot live on moonshine and 
love alone. — Well, and now we have 
finished. I hope Pfimd is satisfied, and 
will not reproach me for being ungrate- 
ful to his benefactress.— Madame, go to 
your friend and thank him. If it had 
not been for him I should never have 
given you this audience, or have con- 
cerned myself about you; but he in- 
sisted, and what the man once gets into 
his head he accomplishes at all hazards. 
Go and greet Mr. Pfund for me, and 
tell him he must drive me out to-day. 
I will then ask him if my conduct has 
received his approbation.” 

But the coachman was not to-day 
in a condition to attend to his duties. 
He was confined by a violent fever, 
brought on by a cold; yet he heard 
with joy Amalie’s account of her fortu- 
nate audience, and her assurances of 
tender affection toward him. In the 
evening, when Amalie came to his bed- 
side to bid him farewell, as she was 
about to return to Ottmannshof in the 
public coach, she bent over him and 
whispered a few words that made the 
old man, notwithstanding his sickness, 
utter a loud exclamation. ^Vhile it 
echoed through the sick-room she 
slipped away, and, with Werner’s as- 
sistance, entered the coach. 

The words which Amalie whispered 
were: “Dear father Pfund, when you 
go next year with the king to the re- 
view in Silesia, my name will not be 
Amalie Hartman, but Amalie Werner 
— that of my husband. Rector Wer- 
ner I — ” 

The good old coachman’s fever next 
day rose to a dangerous height, and 
the two royal physicians whom the 
king had sent shook their heads du- 
biously. “ He has fallen into a kind of 
lethargy,” they reported, “ and, appa- 
rently taking no interest in any thing, 
he lies silent.” 

“ I will wake him out of his lethar- 
gy,” said the king. “ If your science 


has failed I will myself write my friend 
a prescription.” He went to his wn- 
ting-table, dashed with a hasty hand a 
few lines upon the paper, sealed and 
dispatched it by a page to the coach- 
man, with the direction that if the old 
man was too sick to read it himself, it 
must be read to him, and an answer 
returned. 

Pfund was in a burning fever when 
the messenger reached him, but the 
sick man’s eyes lighted up when the 
page said he brought a note in the 
king’s own hand. Having been re- 
quested, the page broke the seal and 
began to read : “ To my dear coachman 
Pfund ” — 

“ Only let me see that ! ” exclaimed 
the coachman. “ I must read that my- 
self!” He raised himself a little, and 
gazed on the letters that danced before 
his inflamed eyes ; but he was satisfied 
that the superscription was, “ To my 
dear Coachman Pfund.” He bade the 
page read on: “Old friend, I must, 
day after to-morrow, drive to the re- 
view at Berlin; now, how can I get 
through the sand, and over the rough 
road, comfortably and quietly, if you do 
not drive my carriage? I hope you 
will be well by that time, and not 
leave me in embarrassment. There- 
fore, I remain your afiectionate king 
and master I ” 

With a single bound Pfund was out 
of bed, and ran to the mirror. He was 
horrified at his beard, and called to his 
wife to fetch the barber, and a clean 
shirt, for he had to drive the king, and 
must get well at once. Dame Pfund 
came running in all haste, and it cost 
her a great deal of anxiety and trouble 
to get her excited husband into bed 
again. 

“ Very well,” said the sick man, de- 
fiantly, “ to-day I will do as you wish. 
I will lie here, but to-morrow I must 
get up and be well.” 

“ But the doctors will not allow it ; 


276 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COACHMAN. 


they have ordered that you must not 
get up at least for a week, and — ” 
“Bless me,” said Pfund, shrugging 
his shoulders, “how can they tell how 
long it needs for a man to recover ? I 
beg you, Herr von Pirch, go to his ma- 
jesty, and say to him from me that I 
will do my duty, and have no notion 
©f leaving him in embarrassment. He 
need not be anxious. I will be well in 
time to drive him to Berlin.” And 
so it was. To the astonishment of the 
court physicians the patient was up 
the next day, for the fever had left 
him. On the following morning the 
king’s carriage was in motion, and 
Pfund, a little pale, sat upon the box. 

“Well, my friend,” said Frederick, 
as his lackeys assisted him into the 
coach, “ so my prescription helped you ? 
I am very glad of it, and I thank you 
fofr your presence. But how did you 
manage to get well so soon ? ” 

“That was very easy, your majesty; 
I only needed to think you wanted me, 
and that it was my duty to keep you 
on the right road. — Shall we start, 
your majesty 1 ” 

“Yes, and who knows if it is not for 
the last journey ? ” 

“God forbid,” replied Pfund. “I 


have no idea of leaving off driving yet, 
and your majesty is a lusty stripling in 
comparison with me.” 

“ Ah, my God ! ” said the king, shak- 
ing his head, and following with a 
thoughtful look the flight of birds 
which rose from a neighboring tre^ 
and soared toward heaven, while Pfund 
lightly cracked his whip, and started 
his horses into a trot. vSoon a veil of 
dust shrouded the carriage which bore 
the aged master and servant who had 
loved each other from youth. Two 
yellow greyhounds lay on the seat be- 
side the king, and sometimes licked his 
cold, thin hand. Beside the coachman 
sat a lackey, who nudged him when he 
fell into a doze. That was indeed the 
last drive of Frederick the Great with 
his coachman 1 A few weeks after, the 
latter passed away, and the king re- 
marked when he heard of his death : 
“I shall never want him again. For 
that other journey no coachman is need- 
ed, but a good conscience I” That 
journey was soon undertaken. He 
seemed to have anticipated it when, in 
his last drive with the old coachman, 
he noticed the flight of birds, for his 
spirit soared heavenward the following 
year, on the 17th of August, 178fl 


THE END. 








FREDERICK AND THE COUNTESS 




FEEDEEICK THE GEEAT 


AND 


HIS FAMILY' 




^■. 

- -J2- 



AN HISTORICAL NOVEL. 


BY 

L. MUHLBACH. 

AUTHOR OF “JOSEPH 11. AND HIS COURT,’’ “FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS OOUBT,'' 
“BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI,” “ THE MERCHANT OP BERLIN,” BTC., BTC. 

t. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN, BY 

MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


wm 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1, 3, AND 5 BONI^ STREET. 

1891 . 


i 


i 


Eittebbu, accora.u? to Act of Congress, in the year 180T, by 
D. APPLETON & CO., 

la tfcA Clerk '6 (‘fSce of the District Court of the United States for tho Southern District of New Yc*t. 


/ 




‘•iif 

I 


CONTEITTS. 


rs- 


\ 


y 


BOOK I. 

PAGE 

Chap. I. — The King 1 

II. — ^Prince Henry 3 

III. — Louise von Kleist 4 

IV. — At the Masked Ball 6 

V. — A Secret Captain 10 

VI. — The Legacy of Von Trenck, Colonel 

of the Pandours 11 

VII. — The King and Weingarten 15 

VIII. — The Unwilling Bridegroom 17 

IX. — The First Disappointment 20 

X. — The Conquered 24 

XI. — The Travelling Musicians 27 

XII. — Travelling Adventures 30 

XIII. — The Drag-Boat. 33 

XIV. — In Amsterdam 86 

XV. — The King without Shoes 89 


BOOK II. 

I. — The Unhappy News 44 

II. — Trenck on his Way to Prison 49 

III. — Prince Henry and His Wife 55 

IV. — The Fete in the Woods 59 

V. — Intrigues 62 

VI. — The Private Audience 66 

VII. — The Traitor 68 

VIII. — Declaration of War 72 

IX. — The King and his Brothers 74 

X. — The Laurel-Branch 76 

XI. — The Ball at Count Bruhl’s 78 

XII. — The Interrupted Feast 81 

XIII. — The Archives at Dresden 85 

XIV. — Saxony Humiliated 88 


BOOK III. 

I. — The Maiden of Brunen 91 

II. — News of Battle 94 

III. — The Certificate of Enlistment 96 

IV. — Farewell to the Village 99 


FAGB 

Chap. V.— The Prisoner 102 

VI. — The Prison Barricade 107 

VII. — The Battle of Collin 108 

VIII. — The Inimical Brothers Ill 

IX. — The Letters 116 

X. — In the Castle at Dresden 119 

XL — The Te Deum 122 

XII. — Camp Scene 125 

XIII. — The Watch-Fire 127 

XIV. — The Battle of Leuthen 131 

XV. — Winter Quarters in Breslau 134 

XVI. — The Broken Heart 138 


BOOK IT. 

I. — The King and his Old and New Ene- 


mies 141 

11. — The Three OflScers 143 

III. — Ranuzi 146 

IV. — Louise du TrouflBe 151 

V. — The Fortune-Teller. 154 

VI. — A Court Day in Berlin 159 

VII. — In the Window-Niche 163 

VIII. — The Nutshells behind the Fauteuil of 

the Queen 165 

IX. — The Duel and its Consequences 168 

X. — The Five Couriers 170 

XI. —After the Battle 174 

XII. — A Heroic Soul 177 

XIII. — The Two Grenadiers 180 

XIV. — The Right Counsel 182 

XV. — A Hero in Misfortune 187 


BOOK V. 


1. — The Teresiani and the Prussiani 190 

11. — Frederick the Great as a Saint 193 

III. — The Cloister Brothers of San Gio- 

vanni e Paolo 195 

IV. — The Return from the Army 201 


IV 


CbNTENTS. 


PAGE 

CnAP. V. — The Brave Fathers and the Cowardly 


• Sons 204 

VT. — The Traitor’s Betrayal 207 

YII. — The Accusation 210 

VIII. — Revenge 214 

IX. — Trenck 217 

X. — “ Trenck, are you there?” 219 

XI.~The King and the German Scholar.. 222 
XII. — Gellert 227 

XIII. — The Poet and the King 231 

XIV. — The King and the Village Magis- 

trate 233 

XV.— The Proposal of Marriage 235 


XVI. — The Ambassador and the Khan of 


Tartary, 


240 


V 












BOOK VI. 

PAGE 

Chap. I.— The King’s Return 246;^, 

II. — ^Prince Henry 2W4 

ni.— Mother and Daughter 

IV. — The King in Sans-Souci 259 . 

V. — The Engraved Cup. 263 

VI. — The Princess and the Diplomatist.. .267 

VII.— The Royal House-Spy 270 

VIII.— The Clouds Gather 272 

IX. — Brother and Sister 276 

X.— The Stolen Child 280 

XI. — The Discovery 284 

XII. — A Morning at Sans-Souci 287 

XIII. — A Husband’s Revenge 298 

XVI. — The Separation 296 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


l1 . 

/ ■ 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE KING. 

The king laid his flute aside, and with his hands 
folded behind his back, walked thoughtfully up and 
down his room in Sans-Souci. His countenance was 
now tranquil, his brow cloudless ; with the aid of 
music he had harmonized his soul, and the anger 
and displeasure he had so shortly before felt were 
soothed by the melodious notes of his flute. 

The king was no longer angry, but melancholy, 
and the smile that played on his lip was so re- 
signed and painful that the brave Marquis d’Argens 
would have wept had he seen it, and the stinging 
jest of Voltaire have been silenced. 

But neither the marquis nor Voltaire, nor any of 
his friends were at present in Potsdam. D’Argens 
was in France, with his young wife, Barbe Co- 
chois ; Voltaire, after a succession of difiiculties 
and quarrels, had departed forever ; General Roth- 
enberg had also departed to a land from which no 
one returns — he was dead ! My lord marshal had 
returned to Scotland, Algarotti to Italy, and Bas- 
tiani still held his office in Breslau. Sans-Souci, 
that had been heretofore the seat of joy and 
laughing wit — Sans-Souci was now still and lone- 
ly ; youth, beauty, and gladness had forsaken it 
forever; earnestness and duty had taken their 
place, and reigned in majesty within those walls 
that had so often echoed with the happy laugh 
and sparkling jest of the king’s friends and con- 
temporaries. 

Frederick thought of this, as with folded hands 
he walked up and down, and recalled the past. 
Sunk in deep thought, he remained standing 


before a picture that hung on the wall above 
his secretary, which represented Barbarina in 
the fascinating costume of a shepherdess, as he 
had seen her for the first time ten years ago ; 
it had been painted by Pesne for the king. 
What recollections, what dreams arose before the 
king’s soul as he gazed at that bewitching and 
lovely face; at those soft, melting eyes, whose 
glance had once made him so happy ! But that 
was long ago ; it had passed like a sunbeam on a 
rainy day, it had been long buried in clouds. 
These remembrances warmed the king’s heart aa 
he now stood so solitary and loveless before thia 
picture ; and he confessed to that sweet image, 
once so fondly loved, what he had never admitted 
to himself, that his heart was very lonely. 

But these painful recollections, these sad 
thoughts, did not last. The king roused himself 
from those dangerous dreams, and on leaving the 
picture cast upon it almost a look of hatred. 

“ This is folly,” he said ; “ I will to work.” 

He approached the secretary, and seized the 
sealed letters and packets that were lying there. 
“ A letter and packet from the queen,” he said, 
wonderingly opening the letter first. Casting a 
hasty glance through it, a mocking smile crossed 
his face. “ She sends me a French translation of 
a prayer-book,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ Poor queen ! her heart is not yet dead, though, 
by Heaven ! it has suffered enough.” 

He threw the letter carelessly aside, without 
glancing at the book ; its sad, pleading prayer 
was but an echo of the thoughts trembling in her 
heart. 

“ Bagatelles ! nothing more,” he murmured, 
after reading the other letters and laying them 


2 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


aside. He then rang hastily, and bade the servant 
send Baron Pdllnitz to him as soon as he appeared 
in the audience-chamber. 

A few minutes later the door opened, and the 
old, wrinkled, sweetly smiling face of the un- 
daunted courtier appeared. 

“Approach,” said the king, advancing a few 
steps to meet him. “ Do you bring me his sub- 
mission ? Does my brother Henry acknowledge 
that it is vain to defy my power ?” 

PoUnitz shrugged his shoulders. “ Sire,” he 
said, sighing, “ bis highness will not understand 
that a prince must have no heart. He still con- 
tinues in his disobedience, and declares that no 
man should marry a woman without loving her ; 
that he would be contemptible and cowardly to al- 
low himself to be forced to do what should be the 
free choice of his own heart.” 

Pdllnitz had spoken with downcast eyes and 
respectful countenance ; he appeared not to notice 
that the king reddened and his eyes burned with 
anger. 

“ Ah ! my brother dared to say that ? ” cried the 
king. “ He has the Utopian thought to believe 
that he can defy my wishes. Tell him he is mis- 
taken ; he must submit to me as I had to submit 
to my father.” 

“ He gives that as an example why he will not 
yield. He believes a forced marriage can never 
be a happy one ; that your majesty had not only 
made yourself unhappy by your marriage, but 
also your queen, and that there was not a lady 
in the land who would exchange places with your 
wife.” 

The king glanced piercingly at Pdllnitz. “ Do 
you know it would have been better had you for- 
gotten a few of my wise brother’s words ?” 

“ Your majesty commanded me to tell you faith- 
fully every word the prince said.” 

“ And you are too much a man of truth and 
obedience, too little of a courtier, not to be frank 
and faithful. Is it not so ? Ah ! vraiment, I 
know you, and I know very well that you are 
playing a double game. But I warn you not to 
follow the promptings of your wicked heart. I 
desire my brother to marry, do you hear ? I will 
it, and you, the grand chamberlain, Baron Pdll- 
nitz, shall feel my anger if he does not consent.” 

“ And if he does ? ” said Pdllnitz, in his laugh- 
ing, shameless manner ; “ if I persuade the prince 
to submit to your wishes, what recompense shall 
I receive ? ” 

“On the day of their betrothal, I will raise 
your income five hundred crowns, and pay your 
debts.” 

“ Ah, sire, in what a pitiable dilemma you are 


placing me ! Your majesty wishes Prince Henry 
to engage himself as soon as possible, and I must 
now wish it to be as late as possible.” 

“And why? ” 

“ Because I must hasten to make as many debtn 
as possible, that your majesty may pay them.” 

“You are and will remain an unmitigated 
fool ; old age will not even cure you,” said the 
king, smiling. “ But speak, do you think mj 
brother may be brought to reason ? ” 

Pdllnitz shrugged his shoulders, gave a sly 
smile, but was silent. 

“ You do not answer me. Is my brother in 
love ? and has he confided in you ? ” 

“ Sire, I believe the prince is in love from 
alone, but he swears it is his first love.” 

“ That is an oath that is repeated to each lady- 
love ; I am not afraid of it,” said the king, smil- 
ing. “ Who is the enchantress that has heard hia 
first loving vows ? She is doubtless a fairy — a 
goddess of beauty.” 

“ Yes, sire, she is young and beautiful, and de- 
clares it is also her first love, so no one can doubt 
its purity ; no one understands love as well as this 
fair lady ; no other than Madame von Kleist, who, 
as your majesty remembers, was lately divorced 
from her husband.” 

“ And is now free to love again, as it appears,” 
said the king, with a mocking smile. “ But the 
beautiful Louise von Schwerin is a dangerous, dar- 
ing woman, and we must check her clever plana 
in the bud. If she desires to be loved by my 
brother, she possesses knowledge, beauty, and ex- 
perience to gain her point and to lead him into all 
manner of follies. This affair must be brought 
quickly to a close, and Prince Henry acknowl- 
edged to be the prince royal.” 

“ Prince Henry goes this evening to Berlin to 
attend a feast given by the Prince of Prussia,” 
whispered Pollnitz. 

“ Ah ! it is true the prince’s arrest ceases at six 
o’clock, but he will not forget that he needs per- 
mission to leave Potsdam.” 

“ He will forget it, sire.” 

The king walked up and down in silence, and 
his countenance assumed an angry and threaten- 
ing appearance. “ This struggle must be brought 
to a close, and that speedily. My brother must 
submit to my authority. Go and watch his move- 
ments ; as soon as he leaves, come to me.” 

Long after Pdllnitz had left him, the king paced 
his chamber in deep thought. “ Poor Henry ! I 
dare not sympathize with you ; you are a king’s 
son — ^that means a slave to your position. Why 
has Providence given hearts to kings as to othei 
men ? Why do we thirst so for love ? as the in 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


3 


loxicating drink is alwaj^s denied us, and we dare 
not drink it even when offered by the most be- 
witching enchantress ! ” 

Involuntarily his eye 'xjsted upon the beautiful 
picture of Barbarina. But he would have no pity 
with himself, as he dared not show mercy to his 
brother. Seizing the silver bell, he rang it hast- 
ily: 

“ Take that picture from the wall, and carry it 
immediately to the inspector, and tell him to hang 
it in the picture-gallery,” said Frederick. 

He looked on quietly as the servant took the 
picture down and carried it from the room, then 
sighed and gazed long at the place where it had 
hung. 

“ Empty and cold ! The last token of my youth 
is gone ! I am now the king, and, with God’s 
blessing, will be the father of my people.” 


CHAPTER II. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Prince Henry sat quiet and motionless in his 
lonely room ; dark thoughts seemed to trouble 
him ; his brow was clouded, his lips compressed. 
Had you not known him, you would have taken 
him for the king, so great was the resemblance of 
the two brothers ; but it was only an outward re- 
semblance. The prince had not the spiritual ex- 
pression, his eyes had not the passionate fire, his 
face (beautiful as it was) wanted the fascinating 
geniality, the sparkling inspiration, that at all 
times lighted the king’s countenance like a sun- 
beam. 

The prince possessed a greater mind, a clearer 
understanding, but he wanted soul and poetic 
feeling, and allowed himself at times to ridicule 
his brother’s poetic efforts. The king, knowing 
this, was inclined to regard the shortcomings of 
the prince as a determined contempt and resist- 
ance to his command ; and as the prince became 
more reckless and more indifferent, he became 
more severe and harsh. Thus the struggle com- 
menced that had existed for some time between 
the two brothers. 

For the last four days the prince had been in 
arrest for disobeying orders, but the hour of his 
release was approaching, and he awaited it with 
impatience. 

The bell of the nearest church had just an- 
nounced the hour of six. The door opened imme- 
diately, and an officer, in the name of the king, 
pronoiiucvd his arrest at an end. 1 


The prince answered with a low bow, ana re- 
mained seated, pointing haughtily to the door ; 
but as the officer left him he arose and paced hast- 
ily to and fro. 

“ He treats me like a school-boy,” he mur- 
mured ; “ but I shall show him that I have a will 
of my own ! I will not be intimidated — I will not 
submit ; and if the king does not cease to annoy 
me, if he continues to forget that I am not a slave, 
but son and brother of a king, no motives shall 
restrain me, and I also will forget, as he does, that 
I am a prince, and remember only that I am a 
free, responsible man. He wishes me to marry, 
and therefore has me followed, and surrounds me 
with spies. He wishes to force me to marry. 
Well, I will marry, but I will choose my own 
wife ! ” 

The prince had just made this resolve, when the 
door opened, and the servant announced that 
Messrs. Kalkreuth and Kaphengst awaited his 
commands. 

He bade them enter, and advancing smilingly 
gave them his hand. 

“ Welcome ! welcome ! ” he said ; “ the cage is 
open, and I may enjoy a little air and sunshine ; 
let us not delay to make use of this opportunity. 
Our horses shall be saddled.” 

“ They are already saddled, prince,” said Baron 
Kalkreuth. “ I have ordered them to the court, 
and as soon as it is dark we will mount them.” 

“ What ! is it not best that we should mount 
before my door and ride openly away ? ” said the 
prince, wonderingly. 

“ It is my opinion that is the best plan,” cried 
Baron Kaphengst, laughing gayly. “ Every one 
will believe your highness to be simply taking a 
ride, while curiosity would be raised if we left the 
city on foot.” 

“ I think leaving in the dark, and on foot, looks 
as if I were afraid,” said the prince, thoughtfully. 

“ Secresy is good for priests and old women, 
but not for us,” cried Kaphengst. 

“ Secresy suits all who wish to do wrong,” said 
Kalkreuth, earnestly. 

The prince glanced hastily at him. “ You be- 
lieve, then, we are about to do wrong ? ” 

“ I dare not speak of your highness, but we two 
are certainly doing wrong ; we are about to com- 
mit an act of insubordination. But still, my 
prince, I am ready to do so, as your highness wishes 
us to accompany you.” 

The prince did not answer, but stepped to the 
window, and looked out thoughtfully and silently. 
In a few moments he returned, looking calm and 
resolute. 

“Kalkreuth is right— we were going to do 


i 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


wrong, and we must avoid it. I shall write to 
the king, and ask leave for you and myself to go 
to Berlin.” 

“That is, unfortunately, impossible,” said a 
sweet voice behind him, and as the prince turned 
he saw the smiling face of Pollnitz. “I beg 
pardon, your highness, for having entered unan- 
nounced, but you allowed me to come at this hour 
and give you an account of the commissions you 
gave me.” 

“Why do you say it is impossible to obtain 
leave of the king to-day ? ” asked Henry, hastily. 

“ Because his majesty is already in the concert- 
saloon, and your highness knows that he has 
strictly forbidden any one to disturb him there.” 

“ We shall, then, have to give up our plan, and 
remain here,” said the prince. 

Kaphengst glanced angrily and threateningly at 
his friend. 

“ And why should your highness do this ? ” 
asked Pollnitz, astonished. “All your prepara- 
tions are made, all your commands fulfilled. I 
have procured your costumes ; no one will recog- 
nize you, and if they should, would not dare to 
betray you to the king. Only two persons know 
that you are to visit the ball, the Prince of Prus- 
sia, and a lovely lady, whose beautiful eyes were 
misty with tears when I delivered her your mes- 
sage. ‘ Tell the prince,’ she murmured, in a ten- 
der voice, ‘ I will await him there, even if I knew 
the king would crush me with his anger.’ ” 

The prince blushed with joy. “And you say it 
is impossible for me to see the king ? ” 

“ Impossible, my prince.” 

“Well, we will have to renounce it,” said the 
prince, sighing. 

“ Renounce seeing the king, yes ! for he will not 
leave his room in Sans-Souci to-day.” 

“ Then we would be entirely salt • he would not 
notice our departure,” said Kaphengst, quickly. 

“ Entirely safe,” said Pollnitz. 

“ That is, if Baron Pollnitz does not himself 
inform the king,” said Baron Kalkreuth, whose 
quick, clear glance rested upon the smiling face 
of the courtier, and appeared to read his inmost 
thoughts. 

Baron Pollnitz cast a suspicious and angry 
glance at Kalkreuth. “ I did not know that bor- 
rowing money from you gave you the right to 
speak rudely to me ! ” 

“Silence! gentlemen,” cried the prince, who, 
until now, had stood quietly struggling with his 
own wishes. “ Take your cloaks and let us walk. 
Lid you not say that horses were awaiting us at 
the door, Baron Kalkreuth ? ” 

“ I said so, your highness.” 


“And you Pollnitz? Did you not say that 
three costumes awaited us in Berlin ? ” 

“ Yes, your highness.” 

“Well, then,” said the prince, smiling, “we 
must not allow the horses and costumes to await 
us any longer. Come, gentlemen, we will ride to 
Berlin.” 

“ Really it was hard to get him off,” murmured 
Pollnitz, as he regained the street, and saw the 
three young men fading in the distance. “ The 
good prince had quite a dutiful emotion ; if the 
king only knew it, he would forgive him all, and 
renounce the idea of his marriage. But that 
would not suit me — ^my debts would not be paid ! 

I must not teil the king of his brother’s inward 
struggle.” 

“ Well ! ” said the king, as Pollnitz entered,; 
“ has my brother really gone to Berlin ? ” ® 

“Yes, your majesty, and accompanied by the 
two Messieurs — ” ^ ' 

“ Silence ! ” cried the king, hastily ; “ I do not 
wish to know their names, I should have to punish 
them also. He has then gone, and without any 
hesitation, any reluctance ? ” ^ 

“ Yes, sire, without hesitation. He thinks he 
has the right to go where he pleases, and to 
amuse himself as he can.” 

“ Order the carriage, Pollnitz,” said the king. 

“ Without doubt my brother has taken the short- 
est road to Berlin ? ” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Then there is no danger of our meeting them 
and being recognized ; and as we have relays on 
the road, we will reach Berlin before them.” 


CHAPTER III. 

LOUISE VON KLEIST. 

Madame von Kleist was alone in her boudoir. 
She had just completed her toilet, and was view;* | 
ing herself with considerable pleasure in a large ^ 
Venetian glass. She had reason to be pleased. ^ 
The costume of an odalisque became her wonder- 
fully ; suited her luxuriant beauty, her large, 
dreamy blue eyes, her full red lips, her slender, 
swaying form. At twenty-eight, Louise von 
Kleist was still a sparkling beauty; the many 
trials and sorrows she had passed through had not 
scattered the roses from her cheek, nor banished 
youth from her heart. 

Louise von Kleist resembled greatly the little 
Louise von Schwerin of earlier days — ^the little 
dreamer who found it romantic to love a gardener, 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


5 


»nd was quite ready to flee T/ith him to a paradise 
of love. The king’s watchfulness saved her from 
this romantic folly, and gave her another husband. 
This unhappy match was now at an end. Louise 
was again free. She still felt in her heart some of 
the wild love of romance and adventure of the 
little Louise ; she was the same daring, dreamy, 
impressible Louise, only now she was less inno- 
cent. The little coquette from instinct was 
changed into a coquette from knowledge. 

She stood before the glass and surveyed once 
more her appearance ; then acknowledged with 
a pleased smile that she was beautiful enough to 
fascinate all men, to arouse in all hearts a painful 
longing. 

“ But I shall love no one but the prince,” she 
said, “ and when my power over him is sufficient 
to induce him to marry me, I shall reward him by 
my faith, and entire submission to his wishes. Oh ! 
I shall be a virtuous wife, a true and faithful moth- 
er; and my lovely little Camilla shall find in 
her mother a good and noble example. I shall 
promise this to my angel with my farewell kiss ; 
and then — to the ball ! ” 

She entered the next chamber, and stood at her 
child’s bed. What a strange sight ! This wo- 
man, in a fantastic, luxuriant costume, bending 
over the cot of the little girl, with such tender, 
pious looks, with folded hands, and soft, murmur- 
ing lips, uttering a prayer or holy wish ! 

“ How beautiful she is ! ” murmured Louise, not 
dreaming that her own beauty at this moment 
beamed with touching splendor — that mother 
love had changed the alluring coquette into an 
adorable saint — “ how beautiful she is ! ” 

The gay, ringing laughter of her daughter inter- 
rupted her ; the child opened her large black eyes, 
and looked amused. 

“ You naughty child, you were not asleep,” said 
Louise. 

“ No, mamma, I was not asleep ; I was playing 
comedy.” 

“ Ah ! and who taught you to play comedy, 
you silly child ? ” said Louise, tenderly. 

The child looked earnestly before her for a few 
moments, as children are wont to do when a ques- 
tion surprises them. 

“I believe, mamma,” she said, slowly — “I be- 
lieve I learned it from you.” 

“ From me, Camilla ? When have you seen me 
act?” 

“Oh, very often,” she cried, laughing. “Just a 
few days ago, mamma, don’t you remember when 
we were laughing and talking so merrily together. 
Prince Henry was announced, and you sent me in- 
to the next room • but the door was open, and I 


saw very well that you made a sad face, and I 
heard the prince ask you how you were, and you 
answered, ‘ I am sick, your highness, and how 
could it be otherwise, as I am always sad or 
weeping?’ Now, mother, was not that act- 
ing ? ” 

Louise did not answer. Breathing heavily, she 
laid her hand upon her heart, for she felt a strange 
sorrow and indescribable fear. 

Camilla continued, “ Oh ! and I saw how tender’ 
ly the prince looked at you ; how he kissed you, 
and said you were as lovely as an angel. Oh, 
mamma, I too shall be beautiful, and be loved by 
a prince ! ” 

“To be beautiful, darling, you must be good 
and virtuous,” said the fair odalisque, earnestly. 

Little Camilla arose in her bed ; the white 
gown fell from her shoulders and exposed her soft 
childish form, her brown ringlets curled down her 
neck and lost themselves in her lace-covered dress. 
The chandelier that hung from the ceiling lighted 
her lovely face, and made the gold and silver em- 
bwidered robes and jewels of her mother sparkle 
brilliantly. 

At this moment, as with folded arms she 
glanced up at her mother, she looked like an an- 
gel, but she had already dangerous and earthly 
thoughts in her heart. 

“ Mamma,” she said, “ why should I be virtu- 
ous, when you are not ? ” 

Louise trembled, and looked terrified at her 
daughter. “Who told you I was not virtu- 
ous ? ” 

“ My poor, dear papa told me when he was here 
the last time. Oh, he told me a great deal, mam- 
ma ! He told,” continued the child, with a sly 
smile, “ how you loved a beautiful gardener, and 
ran off with him, and how he, at the command of 
the king, married you and saved you from shame ; 
and he said you were not at all grateful, but had 
often betrayed and deceived him, and, because he 
was so unhappy with you, he drank so much wine 
to forget his sorrow. Oh, mamma, you don’t know 
how poor papa cried as he told me all this, and 
besought me not to become like you, but to be 
good, that every one might love and respect 
me ! ” 

Whilst Camilla spoke, her mother had sunk 
slowly, as if crushed, to the floor ; and, with her 
face buried in the child’s bed, sobbed aloud. 

“ Don’t cry, mamma,” said Camilla, pleadingly ; 
“ believe me, I will not do as papa says, and I will 
not be so stupid as to live in a small town, where 
it is so still and lonesome.” 

As her mother still wept, Camilla continued, as 
if to quiet her : “ I shall be like you, mamma ; in- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


deed, I will. Oh, you should but see how I watch 
you, aud notice how you smile at all the gentle- 
men, what soft eyes you make, and then again, 
how cold and proud you are, and then look at 
them so tenderly ! Oh, I have noticed all, and I 
shall do just the same, and I will run away with 
a gardener, but I will not let papa catch me — no, 
not I.” 

“ Hush, child, hush ! ” cried the mother, rising, 
pale and trembling, from her knees ; “ you must 
become a good and virtuous girl, and never run 
away with a man. Forget what your bad -father 
has told you ; you know he hates me, and has 
told you all these falsehoods to make you do the 
same.” 

“ Mamma, can you swear that it is not true ? ” 

“Yes, my child, I can swear it.” 

“You did not run off with a gardener ? ” 

“No, my child. Have I not told you that a 
virtuous girl never runs away ? ” 

“You did not make papa unhappy, and, being 
his wife, love other men ? ” 

“ No, my daughter.” 

“ Mamma,” said the child, after a long pause, 
“ can you give me your right hand, and swear you 
did not ? ” 

Louise hesitated a moment ; a cold shiver ran 
through her, she felt as if she was about to per- 
jure herself ; but as she looked into the beautiful 
face of her child, whose eyes were fixed on her 
with a strange expression, she overcame her un- 
willingness. 

“ Here is my hand — I swear that all your father 
told you is false ! ” 

Camilla laughed gleefully. “ Oh, mamma, I have 
caught you : you always want me to tell the truth, 
and never give my right hand when a thing is not 
true, aud now you have done it yourself.” 

“ What have I done ? ” said the mother, trem- 
bling. 

“ You gave me your right hand, and swore that 
all papa told me was false ; and I say it is true, 
and you have sworn falsely.” 

“ Why do you believe that, Camilla ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I don’t believe it, I know it,” said the child, 
with a sly smile. “ When papa spoke to you, for 
the last time, and told you good-by forever, he 
told you the same he had told me. Oh ! I was 
there and heard all ; you did not see me slip into 
the room and hide behind the fire-place. Papa told 
you that you had been the cause of all his unhappi- 
ness and shame ; that from the day you had run off 
with the gardener and he, at the king’s command, 
went after you, and married you — from that day, he 
bad been a lost man , and when he said that, you 


cried, but did not tell him, as you told me, that It 
was not true.” 

Louise did not answer. This last taunt had 
crushed her heart, and silenced her. Still leaning 
on the bed, she looked at her child with painful 
tenderness. Camilla’s mocking laughter had 
pierced her soul as with a dagger. 

“ Lost,” she murmured, “ both of us lost ! ” 

With passionate despair she threw her arms 
around the child, and pressed her closely ; kissed 
her wildly again and again, and covered her face 
with burning tears. 

“ No, Camilla, no ! you shall not be lost, you 
must remain good and pure ! Every child has its 
guardian angel ; pray, my child, pray that your 1 
angel may watch over you ! ” I 

She pressed her again in her arms, then re- | 
turned to her chamber, sadder and more hope- 
less than she had ever been before. „ 

U 

But this unusual sadness commenced to annoy 
her ; her heart was not accustomed to feel sorrow, 
and her remorseful, dreary feeling made her shud- 
der. “If the carriage would but come!” she 
murmured, and then, as if to excuse her thought- 
lessness, she added, “ it is now my holy duty to 
listen to the prince ; I must regain the respect of 
my child. Yes, yes, I must become the wife of 
Henry ! I can accomplish this, for the prince loves 
me truly.” 

And now, she was again the coquette, whose 
captivating smile harmonized perfectly with her 
alluring costume — ^no longer the tender mother, 
no longer the sinner suffering from repentance and 
self-reproach. 

She stood before the glass, and arranged her 
disordered dress and smoothed her dishevelled 
hair. 

“ I must be bewitching and fascinating,” she 
murmured, with a smile that showed two rows of 
pearl-like teeth ; “the prince must gain courag^,( 
from my glance, to offer me his hand. Oh, fiJ 
know he is quite prepared to do so, if it were onl^lfl 
to annoy his brother 1 ” ' | 

As she saw the carriage drive up, she exclaimed, 
with sparkling eyes, “ The battle begins — to vie- ^ 
tory 1 ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

AT THE MASKED BALL. 

The feast had commenced. As Louise von 
Kleist, the beautiful odalisquCy entered the danc- 
ing-saloon, she was almost blinded by the gay and 
sparkling assembly. The fairy-like and fantastic 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


1 


.•obes sparkled with gold and jewels. The sea of 
light thrown from the crystal chandelier upon the 
mirrors and ornaments of the brilliant saloon daz- 
zled the eye. The entertainments of the Prince 
of Prussia were renowned for their taste and 
splendor. 

Unrecognized, the beautiful Louise slipped 
through the gay assembly of masks, and, when 
detecting some friends under the muffled forms of 
their disguise, she murmured their names, and 
some mischievous and witty remark ; then spring- 
ing gayly on to shoot again her arrow, and excite 
astonishment and surprise. 

“ Oh, that life were a masked ball ! ” she mur- 
mured softly to herself, “ mysterious and sweet ! 
where you find more than you seek, and guess 
more than is known. No one recognizes me here. 
The brave and handsome Count Troussel, who is 
leaning against that pillar, and casting such mel- 
ancholy glances through the crowd, hunting for 
the one his heart adores, never dreams that she is 
standing opposito him, and is laughing at his per- 
plexity. No, ho does not recognize me, and no 
one knows my costume but the prince and Poll- 
nitz, and as *hej have not yet found me, I con- 
clude they have not arrived. I will therefore 
amuse myself during their absence.” 

She was just approaching the sentimental cava- 
lier, when she suddenly felt her arm touched, and, 
turning around, saw two masks wrapped in dark 
dominoes before her. 

“ Beautiful odalisque^ I bring you your sultan,” 
murmured one of them, in whom she recognized 
Baron Pollnitz. 

“ And where is my sultan ? ” she asked. 

“Here,” said the second mask, offering the 
beautiful lady his arm. Louise saw those glorious 
eyes beaming upon her through his mask — eyes 
which the kJrg and Prince Henry alone possessed. 

“ Ah, my prince ! ” she murmured softly and re- 
proachfully, “ you see that it is I who have waited.” 

The prince did not answer, but conducted her 
hastily through the crowd. They had soon reach- 
ed the end of the saloon. A small flight of steps 
led them to a little boudoir opening on a balcony. 
Into this boudoir Pollnitz led the silent pair, then 
flowing low he left them. 

“ My God ! your highness, if we should be sur- 
prised here ! ” 

•‘Fear nothing, we will not be surprised. Poll 
uitz guards the door. Now, as we are alone and 
andisturbed, let us lay aside our disguises.” 

Thus speaking, the supposed prince removed' 
his mask and laid it upon the table. 

“ The king ! ” cried Louise, terrified and step- 
ping back. 


The king’s eyes rested upon her with a piercing 
glance. “ "What ! ” he asked, “ are you still act- 
ing ? You appear astonished ; and still you 
must have known me. Who but the king would 
show the beautiful Madame von Kleist such an 
honor ? In what other cavalier could you place 
such perfect confidence as to accompany him 
into this lonely boudoir ? with whom but the king 
could you have trusted your fair fame? You 
need not be alarmed ; to be in my presence is to 
be under my protection — the kind guardianship 
of your king. I thank you that you knew me, 
and, knowing me, followed me trustingly.” 

The searching glance of the king alarmed Lou- 
ise ; his mocking words bewildered her, and she 
was incapable of reply. 

She bowed silently, and allowed herself to be 
conducted to the divan. 

“ Sit down, and let us chat awhile,” said the 
king. “ You know I hate the noise of a feast, and 
love to retire into some comer, unnoticed and un- 
seen. I had no sooner discovered the fair Louise 
under this charming costume, than I knew I had 
found good company. I ordered Pollnitz to seek 
out for us some quiet spot, where we might con- 
verse freely. Commence, therefore.” 

“ Of what shall I speak, your majesty ? ” said 
Louise, confused and frightened. She knew well 
that the king had not found her by chance, but 
had sought her with a determined purpose. 

“ Oh ! that is a question whose naivete reminds 
me of the little Louise Schwerin of earlier days. 
Well, let us speak on that subject which interests 
most deeply all who know you ; let us speak of 
your happiness. You sigh. Have you already 
paid your tribute ? Do you realize the fleetness 
of all earthly bliss ? ” 

“Ah! your majesty, an unhappy marriage is 
the most bitter offering that can be made to ex- 
perience,” sighed Madame von Kleist. “ My life 
was indeed wretched until released by your kind- 
ness from that bondage.” 

“ Ah, yes, it is true you are divorced. When 
and upon whom will you now bestow this small, 
white hand?” 

Louise looked up astonished. “What! ’’she 
stammered, confused, “ your majesty means — ” 

“ That you will certainly marry again. As 
beautiful a lady as you will always be surrounded 
by lovers, and I sincerely hope that you will mar- 
ry. You should go forward as an example to my 
brothers, your youthful playmates, and I will tell 
my brother Henry that marriage is not so bad a 
thing, as the beautiful Madame von Kleist has 
tried it for the second time,” 

“ I doubt very much, sire,” said Louise, timidly, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ if the example of so insignificant a person would 
have the desired effect upon the prince.” 

“ You do yourself injustice. The prince has 
too strong an admiration for you, not to be infiu 
enced by your encouraging example. My brothei 
must and shall marry according to his birth. I 
am assured that, contrary to my wishes and com- 
mands, he is about to make a secret and illegiti- 
mate marriage. I am not yet acquainted with 
the name of his w'ily mistress, but I shall learn it, 
and, when once noted in my memory, woe be unto 
her, for I shall never acknowledge such a marriage, 
and I shall take care that his mistress is not re- 
ceived at court — she shall be regarded as a dis- 
honored woman ! ” 

“ Your majesty is very stem and pitiless tow- 
ard the poor prince,” said Madame Kleist, who 
had succeeded in suppressing her own emotions, 
and, following the lead of the king, she was de- 
sirous to let it appear that the subject was one of 
no personal interest to herself. 

“ No,” said the king, “ I am not cruel and not 
pitiless. I must forget that I am a brother, and 
remember only I am a king, not only for the good 
of my family, but for the prosperity of ray people. 
My brother must marry a princess of wealth and 
infiuence. Tell Prince Henry this. Now,” said 
the king, with an engaging smile, “ let us speak 
of your lovely self. You will, of course, marry 
again. Have you not confidence enough in me to 
tell me the name of your happy and favored 
lover ? ” 

“ Sire,” said Louise, smiling, “ I do not know it 
myself, and to show what unbounded confidence I 
nave in your majesty, I modestly confess that I am 
not positively certain whether among my many 
followers there is one who desires to be the suc- 
cessor of Kleist. It is easy to have many lovers, 
but somewhat difficult to marry suitably.” 

“ We need a marrying man to chase away the 
crowd of lovers,” said the king, smiling. “ Think 
awhile — let your lovers pass in review before 
you — perhaps you may find among them one who 
is both ardent and desirable.” 

Louise remained thoughtful for a few moments. 
The king observed her closely. 

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “have you 
made your selection ? ” 

Madame von Kleist sighed, and her beautiful 
bright eyes filled with tears. She took leave of 
her most cherished and ambitious dream — bade 
farewell to her future of r<^gal pomp and splendor. 

“ Yes, sire, I have found an epouseur^ who only 
needs encouragement, to offer me his heart and 
hand.” 

“ Is he of good family ? ” 


“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Military ? ” 

“ Yes, sire. He wears only a captain’s epau- 
lets. Your majesty sees that I am modest.” 

“ On the day of his marriage he shall be major. 
When the Church pronounces her blessing, the 
king’s blessing shall not be wanting. We are, of 
course, agreed. When will you be engaged ? ” 

“ Sire, that depends upon my lover, and when I 
succeed in bringing him to terms.” 

“We will say in eight days. You see I am 
anxious to become speedily acquainted with one 
blissful mortal, and I think that the husband of 
the beautiful Madame Kleist will be supremely 
happy. In eight days, then, you will be engaged, 
and, to complete your good work, you must an- 
nounce this happy fact to my brother Henry. Of 
course, he must not even surmise that you sacri- 
fice yourself in order to set him a good example. 
No, you will complete your noble work, and tell 
him that a love which you could not control in 
duced you to take this step ; and that he may no< 
doubt your words, you will tell your story cheer- 
fully — ^yes, joyously.” 

“Sire, it is too much — I cannot do it,” cried 
Madame von Kleist. “ It is enough to trample upon 
my own heart ; your majesty cannot desire me to 
give the prince his death-blow.” 

The kings eyes flashed angrily, but he controlled 
himself. 

“ His death ! ” he repeated, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, “ as if men died of such small wounds. You 
know better yourself. You know that the grave 
of one love is the cradle of another. Be wise, 
and do as I tell you : in eight days you will be en- 
gaged, and then you will have the kindness to ac- 
quaint Prince Henry with your happy prospects.” 

“ Ah, sire, do not be so cruel as to ask this of 
me,” cried Louise, gliding from the divan upon 
her knees, “ be merciful. I am ready to obey the 
commands of my king, to make the sacrifice that 
is asked of me — ^let it not be too great a one. 
Your majesty asks that I shall draw down the 
contempt of the man I love upon myself ; that this 
man must not only give me up, but scorn me. 
You require too much. This is more than the 
strongest, bravest heart can endure. Your ma 
jesty knows that, the prince loves me passionately. 
Ah, sire, your' brother would have forfeited his 
rank and your favor by marrying me, but he 
would have been a happy man ; and I ask the 
king if that is not, at last, the best result ? Are 
you, sire, content and happy since you trampled 
your breathing, loving heart to death at the foot 
of the throne ? You command your brother to 
do as you have done. Well, sire, I submit — not 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


9 


»uly to resign the prince, bat to marry again, to 
marry mthout love. Perhaps my soul will be 
lost by this perjury, but what matters that — it is 
a plaything in the hands of the king ? He may 
break my heart, but it shall not be dishonored 
and trodden in the dust. The prince shall cease 
to love me, but I will not be despised by him. 
He shall not think me a miserable coquette, de- 
spise, and laugh at me. Now, sire, you can crush 
me in your anger. I have said what I had to say — 
you know my decision.” 

She bowed her heua almost to the earth ; mo- 
tionless, kneeling at the foot of the king, her hands 
folded on her breast, she might in reality have 
been taken for an odalisque but that her sad, tear- 
ful face was not in unison with the situation or 
costume. 

A long pause ensued — a solemn, fearful pause. 
The king struggled with his rage, Louise with 
her disappointment and distress. Sounds of laugh- 
ter, the gay notes of music reached them from 
the dancing-saloon. The ball had commenced, 
and youth and beauty were mingling in the dance. 
These sounds aroused the king, and the sad con- 
trast made Louise shudder. 

“ You will not, then, comply with my request ? ” 
said the king, sternly. 

“ Sire, I cannot ! ” murmured Louise, raising 
her hands imploringly to the king. 

“You cannot!” cried the king, whose face 
glowed with anger ; “ you cannot, that means you 
will not, because your vain, coquettish heart will 
not resign the love of the prince. You submit to 
resign his hand, because you must ; but you wish 
to retain his love : he must think of you as a 
heavenly ideal, to be adored and longed for, 
placed amongst the stars for worship. Ah, ma- 
'' dame, you are not willing to make the gulf be- 
j, tween you impassable ! You say you wish, at 
least, to retain the respect of Prince Henry. I ask 
you, madame, what you have done to deserve his 
respect ? You were an ungrateful and undutiful 
daughter ; you did not think of the shame and 
sorrow you prepared for your parents, when you 
arranged your flight with the gardener. I suc- 
ceeded in rescuing you from dishonor by marry- 
ing you to a brave and noble cavalier. It de- 
pended upon you entirely to gain his love and 
respect, but you forgot your duty as a wife, as 
you had forgotten it as a daughter. You had no 
pity with the faults and follies of your husband, 
you drove him to despair. At last, to drown his 
sorrows, he became a drunkard, and you, instead 
of remaining at his side to encourage and counsel 
him, deserted him, and so heartlessly exposed 
;u8 shame that I, to put an end to the scandal. 


permitted your divorce. You not only forgot youi 
duty as a wife and daughter, but also as a mother. 
You have deprived your child of a father, you 
have made her an orphan ; you have soiled, al- 
most depraved her young soul ; and now, after all 
this, you wish to be adored and respected as a 
saint by my poor brother I No, madame ! I shall 
know how to save him from this delusion ; I shall 
tell to him and the world the history of little 
Louise von Schwerin 1 Fritz Weudel still lives, 
and, if you desire it, I can release him, and he 
may tell his romantic story.” 

“ Oh, for the second time to-day I have heard 
that hateful name I cried Louise ; “ the past is an 
avenger that pursues us mercilessly through our_ 
whole lives.” 

“Choose, madame!” said the king, after a 
pause ; “ will you announce your betrothal to my 
brother in a gay and unembarrassed tone, or shall 
I call Fritz Wendel, that he may sing the unhappy 
prince to sleep with his romantic history ? ” 
Whilst the king spoke, Louise had raised her- 
self slowly from her knees, and taken a seat upon 
the divan. Now rising, and bowing lowly, she 
said, with trembling lips and tearful voice : “ Sire, 
I am prepared to do all that you wish. I shall 
announce my betrothal to the prince cheerfully, 
and without sighs or tears. But be merciful, and 
free me forever from that hideous spectre which 
seems ever at my side ! ” 

“Do you mean poor Fritz Wendel ? ” said the 
king, smiling. “Well, on the day of your mar- 
riage I will send him as a soldier to Poland; 
there he may relate his love-adventures, but no 
one will understand him. Are you content ? ” 

“ I thank you, sire,” said Louise, faintly. 

“ Ah, I see our conversation has agitated you 
a little ! ” said the king. “ Fortunately, we are 
now at an end. In the next eight days, remem- 
ber, you will be engaged ! ” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ The day of your marriage, I will make your 
captain a major.. You p.romise to tell my brother 
of your engagement, and that it is in accord- 
ance with the warmest wishes of your heart ? ” 

“ Yes, sire ; and you will banish the gardener 
forever ? ” 

“ I will ; but wait — one thing more. Where 
will you tell my brother of your engagement, and 
before what witnesses ? ” 

“At the place and before the witnesses your 
majesty may select,” said Madame von Kleist. 

The king thought a moment. “ You will do it 
in my presence,” said he; “I will let you know 
the time and place through Pollnitz. We have 
arranged our little affairs, madame, and we will 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


descend to the saloon where, I think, your epomeur 
is sighing for your presence.” 

“ Let him sigh, sire ! With your permission, I 
should like to retire.” 

“ Go, madame, where you wish. Pollnitz will 
conduct you to your carriage.” 

He offered her his hand, and, with a friendly 
bow, led her to the door. 

“ Farewell, madame ! I believe we part 
friends ? ” 

“ Sire,” she answered, smiling faintly, “ I can 
only say as the soldiers do, ‘ I thank you for your 
gracious punishment ! ’ ” 

She bowed and left the room hastily, that the 
king might not see her tears. 


CHAPTER V. 

A SECRBT CAPTAIN. 

The king looked long after her in silence ; at 
first with an expression of deep pity, but this 
soon gave place to a gay, mocking smile. 

“ She is not a woman to take sorrow earnestly. 
^\^hen mourning no longer becomes her, she will 
lay it aside for the rosy robes of joy. She is a 
oquette, nothing more. It is useless to pity her.” 

He now stepped upon the balcony that over- 
looked the saloon, and glanced furtively from 
behind the curtains upon the gay assembly be- 
low. 

“Poor, foolish mankind! how wise you might 
be, if you were not so very childish — if you did not 
seek joy and happiness precisely where it is not 
to be found 1 But how is this ? ” said the king, in- 
terrupting himself, “ those two giant forms at the 
side of the little Armenians are certainly Barons 
Kalkreuth and Kaphengst, and that is my brother 
with them. Poor Henry ! you have made a bad 
use of your freedom, and must, therefore, soon 
lose it. Ah I see how searchingly he turns his 
head, seeking his beautiful odalisque 1 In vain, 
my brother, in vain I For to-day, at least, we have 
made her a repentant Magdalen ; to-morrow she 
will be again a life-enjoying Aspasia. Ah, the 
orince separates himself from his followers. I 
nave a few words to whisper in the ear of the gay 
Kaphengst.” 

The king stepped back into the room, and after 
resuming his mask, he descended into the saloon, 
accompanied by his grand chamberlain. 

Mirth and gayety reigned ; the room was c ‘owd- 
sd with masks ; here stood a group in gay con- 
versation ; there was dancing at the other end of 


the saloon. Some were listening to the organ 
player, as he sang, in comical German and French 
verses, little incidents and adventures that had 
occurred during the present year at court, bring- 
ing forth laughter, confused silence, and blushes. 
Some were amusing themselves with the lively, 
witty chat of the son of the Prince of Prussia, the 
little ten-year-old. Prince Frederick William. He 
was dressed as the God of Love, with bow and 
quiver, dancing around, and, with an early-ripened 
instinct, directing his arrow at the most beautiful 
and fascinating ladies in the room. 

Prince Henry paid no attention to all this ; his 
wandering glance sought only the beautiful Louise, 
and a deep sigh escaped him at not having found 
her. Hastily he stepped through the rows of 
dancers which separated the two cavaliers from 
him. 

“It appears,” murmured Baron Kalkreuth to 
his friend, “ it appears to me that the prince would 
like to get rid of us. He wishes to be entirely 
unobserved. I think we can profit by this, and 
therefore I shall take leave of you for a while, 
and seek my own adventures.” 

“ I advise you,” murmured Baron Kaphengst, 
laughingly, “to appoint no rendezvous for to- 
morrow.” 

“ And why not, friend ? ” 

“ Because you will not be able to appear ; lor 
you will doubtless be in arrest.” 

“ That is true, and I thank you for your pru- 
dent advice, and shall arrange all my rendezvous 
for the day after to-morrow. Farewell.” 

Baron Kaphengst turned laughingly to another 
part of the saloon. Suddenly he felt a hand placed 
on his shoulder, and a low voice murmured his 
name. 

Terrified, he turned. “I am not the one you 
seek, mask,” he said ; but as he met those two 
large, burning eyes, he shuddered, and even his 
bold, daring heart stood still a moment from ter- 
ror. Only the king had such eyes ; only he had 
such a commanding glance. 

“ You say you are not the one I seek,” said 
the mask.' “ Well, yes, you speak wisely. I 
sought in you a brave and obedient officer, and it 
appears that you are not that. You are not, then, 
Lieutenant von Kaphengst ? ” 

Kaphengst thought a moment. He was con- 
vinced it was the king that spoke with him, for 
Frederick had not attempted to disguise his voice. 
Kaphengst knew he was discovered. There re- 
mained nothing for him but to try and reconcile 
the king by a jest. 

He bowed close to the king, and whispered : 
“ Listen, mask — as you have recognized me, I will 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


11 


ickuowledge the truth. Y es, I am Lieutenant von 
Kaphengst, and am incognito. You understand 
me — I came to this ball incognito. He is a scoun- 
drel who repeats it ! ” and, without awaiting an 
answer, he hastened away to seek the prince and 
Baron Kalkreuth, acquaint them with the king’s 
presence, and fly with them from his anger. 

But Prince Henry, whose fruitless search for his 
sweetheart had made him angry and defiant, de- 
clared he would remain at the ball until it was 
over, and that it should be optional with the king 
to insult his brother openly, and to punish and 
humble a prince of his house before the world. 

“ I, unfortunately, do not belong to the princes 
of the royal house, and I therefore fear that the 
king might regard me as the cat who had to pull 
the hot chestnuts from the ashes, and I might suffer 
for all three. I therefore pray your highness to 
allow me to withdraw.” 

“ You may go, and if you meet Kalkreuth, ask 
him to accompany you. You officers must not 
carry your insubordination any further. I, as 
prince, and Hohenzollern, dare the worst, but, be 
assured, I shall pay for my presumption. Fare- 
well, arid hasten ! Do not forget Kalkreuth.” 

Kaphengst sought in vain. Kalkreuth was no- 
where to be found, and he had to wend his way 
alone to Potsdam. 

“ I shall take care not to await the order of the 
king for my arrest,” said Baron Kaphengst to 
himself, as he rode down the road to Potsdam. 
“ I shall be in arrest when his order arrives. Per- 
haps that will soften his anger.” 

Accordingly, when Kaphengst arrived at the 
court guard, in Potsdam, he assumed the charac- 
ter of a drunken, quarrelsome officer, and played 
his role so well that the commander placed him in 
arrest. 

An hour later the king’s order reached the 
commander to arrest Baron Kaphengst, and with 
smiling astonishment he received the answer that 
he had been under arrest for the last hour. 

In the mean time, Kaphengst had not miscalcu- 
lated. The prince was put under arrest for eight 
days, Kalkreuth for three. He was released the 
next morning, early enough to appear at the pa- 
rade. 

As the king, with his generals, rode down to the 
front, he immediately noticed the audacious young 
officer, whose eye met his askance and pleadingly. 
The king beckoned to him, and as Baron Kap- 
hengst stood erect before him, the king said, 
laughingly ; 

“ It is truly difficult to exchange secrets with 
one of your height; bow down to me, I have 
something to whisper in your ear.” 


The comrades and officers, yes, even the gen- 
erals, saw not without envy that the king was so 
gracious to the young Lieutenant von Kaphengst ; 
whispered a few words to him confidentially, and 
then smiling and bowing graciously, moved on. 

It was, therefore, natural that, when the king 
left, all were anxious to congratulate the young 
lieutenant, and ask him what the king had whis- 
pered. But Baron Kaphengst avoided, with dig- 
nified gravity, all inquiries, and only whispered to 
his commander softly, but loud enough for every 
one to hear, the words, “ State secrets ; ” then 
bowing profoundly, returned with an earnest and 
grave face to his dwelling, there to meditate at his 
leisure upon the king’s words — words both gra- 
cious and cruel, announcing his advancement, but 
at the same time condemning him to secresy. 

The king’s words were : “ You are a captain, 
but he is a scoundrel who repeats it ! ” 

Thus Baron Kaphengst was captain, but no one 
suspected it ; the captain remained a simple lieu- 
tenant in the eyes of the world. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE LEGACY OP VON TRENCK, COLONEL OP THE 
PANDOURS. 

Baron Weingarten, the new secretary of legar 
tion of the Austrian embassy in Berlin, paced 
the ambassador’s office in great displeasura It 
was the hour in which all who had affairs to ar- 
range with the Austrian ambassador, passports 
to vise, contracts to sign, were allowed entrance, 
and it was the baron’s duty to receive them 
But no one came ; no one desired to make use 
of his ability or his mediation, and this dis- 
pleased the baron and put him out of humor. It 
w'as not the want of work and activity that an- 
noyed him ; the baron would have welcomed the 
dolce far niente had it not been unfortunately con- 
nected with his earnings ; the fees he received for 
passports, and the arrangement of other affairs, 
formed part of his salary as secretary of legation, 
and as he possessed no fortune, this was his only 
resource. This indigence alone led him to resign 
his aristocratic independence and freedom of ac- 
tion. He had not entered the state service from 
ambition, but for money, that he might have the 
means of supporting his mother and unmarried 
sisters, and enable himself to live according to his 
rank and old aristocratic name. Baron Weingar- 
ten would have made any sacrifice, submitted to 
any service, to obtain wealth. Poverty had do- 


12 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


moralized him, pride had laid a mildew on his 
heart and stifled all noble aspirations. As he 
read a letter, just received from his mother, com- 
plaining of wants and privations, telling of the at- 
tachment of a young officer to his sister, and that 
poverty alone prevented their marriage, his heart 
was filled with repining, and at this moment he 
was prepared to commit a crime, if, by so doing, 
he could have obtained wealth. 

In this despairing and sorrowful mood he had 
entered the office, and awaited in vain for peti- 
tioners who would pay him richly for his ser- 
vices. But the hours passed in undisturbed quiet, 
and Baron Weingarten was in the act of leaving 
the office, as the servant announced Baron von 
Waltz, and the court councillor, Zetto, from 
Vienna. 

He advanced to meet the two gentlemen, with a 
smiling countenance, and welcomed his Austrian 
countrymen heartily. 

The two gentlemen seated themselves silently ; 
Weingarten took a seat in front of them. 

A painful, embarrassed pause ensued. The ma- 
jestic Baron von Waltz looked silently at the 
ceiling, while the black, piercing eyes of the little 
Councillor Zetto examined the countenance of 
Weingarten with a strangely searching and pene- 
trating expression. 

“ You are from Vienna ? ” said Weingarten at 
last, jetting an end to this painful silence. 

“We are from Vienna,” answered the baron, 
with a grave bow. 

“ And have travelled here post-haste to have 
an interview with you.” 

“ With me ? ” asked the secretary of legation, 
astonished. 

“ With you alone,” said the baron, gravely. 

“We wish you to do the King of Prussia a 
great service,” said Zetto, solemnly. 

Weingarten reddened, and said confusedly; 
“ The King of Prussia ! You forget, gentlemen, 
that my services belong alone to the Empress Ma- 
•ia Theresa.” 

“ He defends himself before he Is accused,” said 
^etto, aside. “ It is then true, as we have been 
told, he is playing a double game — serves Austria 
and Prussia at the same time.” Turning to Baron 
Weingarten, he said: “That which we ask of 
you will be at the same time a service to our gra- 
cious empress, for certainly it would not only dis- 
tress, but compromise her majesty, if an Austrian 
officer committed a murder in Prussia.” 

“ Murder ! ” cried the secretary of legation. 

“Yes, an intentional murder,” said Baron 
Waltz, emphatically— “ the murder of the King 
»f Prussia. If you prevent this crime, you will 


receive ten thousand guilders,” said Zetto, exam* ' 
ining Weingarten’s countenance closely, lie re-.v 
marked that the baron, who was but a moment 
ago pale from terror, now reddened, and that hia 
eyes sparkled joyously. 

“ And what can I do to prevent this murder ? ” 
asked Weingarten, hastily. 

“ You can warn the king.” 

“But to warn successfully, I must have proofs.”, j 

“We are ready to give the most incontroverti- 
ble proofs.” 

“ I must, before acting, be convinced of the ve- 
racity of your charges.” 

“I hope that my word of honor will convince 
you of their truth,” said Baron Waltz, patheti- 
cally. 

Weingarten bowed, with an ambiguous smile, 
that did not escape Zetto. He drew forth his 
pocket-book, and took from it a small, folded pa-jjl 
per, which he handed to Weingarten. 

“If I strengthen my declamtion with this pa- it 
per, will you trust me ? ” > 

Weingarten looked with joyful astonishment at - 
the paper ; it was a check for two thousand j 
guilders. “My sister’s dowry,” thought Wein- ^ 
garten, with joy. But the next moment came . 
doubt and suspicion. What if they were only try- 
ing him — only convincing themselves if he could ji 
be bought ? Perhaps he was suspected of sup- ■ 
plying the Prussian Government from time to time : 
with Austrian news — of communicating to them ‘ 
the contents of important dispatches ! 

The fire faded from his eye, and with a firm ' 
countenance he laid the paper upon the table. 

“You are mistaken, gentlemen ! that is no doo- i 
ument, but a check.” ' 

“With which many documents could be pur- \ 
chased,” said Zetto, smiling Placing the paper 
again in his pocket-book, he took out another and 
a larger one. It was a check for three thousand ^ 
guilders. 

But Weingarten had regained his composure. 
He knew that men acting thus must be spies or 
criminals ; that they were testing him, or luring 
him on to some unworthy act. In either case, he 
must be on his guard. • 

“ I beg you to confirm your charge in the usual 
manner,” said he, with a cold, indifferent glance 
at the paper. “ Murder is a dreadful accusation 
— ^you cannot act too carefully. You say that an 
Austrian officer intends to murder the King of 
Prussia. How do you know this ? ” 

“ From himself,” said Baron Waltz ; “ he com- 
municated his intentions to me, and confided to 
me his entire plan.” 

“It appears,” remarked Weingarten, mocking- i 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


1 .^ 


i 

\ 

if “(y, “ that the officer had reason to believe he 
I might trust you with this terrible secret.” 

1 “ You see, however, that he was mistaken,” 
said the baron, smilingly. “ I demand of you to 
warn the King of Prussia of the danger that 
! threatens him.” 

' “I shall be compelled to make this danger 
clear, give all particulars, or the king will laugh 
at my story and consider it a fairy tale.” 

“ You shall give him convincing proof. Say to 
him that the murder is to be committed when his 
majesty attends the Austrian review at Konigs- 
. berg.” 

“ How will the officer cross the Prussian bor- 
j der?” 

He is supplied with an Austrian passport, and 
I under the pretence of inheriting a large property 
I in Prussia, he has obtained leave of absence for a 
f month.” 

^ “ There remains now but one question : why 
^ does the officer wish to murder the king ? what 
i motive leads him to do so ? ” 

Revenge,” said Baron von Waltz, solemnly — 
“ an act of vengeance. This Austrian officer who 
I is resolved to murder the king of Prussia, is Fred- 
erick von Trenck.” 

: Weingarten was embarrassed, and his counte- 

^ nance bore an uneasy and troubled expression. 
But as his eye fell upon the weighty paper that 
lay before him, he smiled, and looked resolved. 

“ Now I have but one thing more to ask. Why, 
if your story is authentic, and well calculated to 
i. startle even the brave king, have you thought it 
> necessary to remove my doubts with this docu- 
ment ? ” 

Baron Waltz was silent, and looked inquiringly 
at Zetto. 

' “ Why did I hand you this document ? ” said the 

; councillor, with a sweet smile ; “ because gold re- 
I mains gold, whether received from an Austrian 
t councillor or from a Prussian prince.” 

“ Sir, do you dare to insult me ? ” cried the sec- 
retary of legation, fiercely. 

Zetto smiled. “ No, I only wish to notify you 
that we are aware that it is through you that 
Baron von Trenck receives money from a certain 
aristocratic lady in Berlin. It is, therefore, most 
important that the king should be warned by you 
of his intended murder — otherwise you might be 
thought an accomplice.” 

Weingarten appeared not to be in the least dis- 
concerted by this statement — he seemed not even 
I to have heard it. 

“ Before I warn the king,” he said, with calm 
\ composure, “ I must be convinced of the truth of 
: the story myself,' and I acknowledge to you that I 


am not convinced, cannot understand your motive.^ 
for seeking the destruction of Baron von Trenck.” 

“Ah ! you search into our motives — you mis- 
trust us,” cried Zetto, hastily. “ Well, we will 
prove to you that we trust you, by telling j'ou our 
secret. You know the story of the inheritance 
of Trenck ? ” 

“ He is the only heir of the pandour chieftain, 
Franz von Trenck.” 

“ Correct. And do you know the history of this 
pandour chieftain Trenck ? ” 

“ I have heard a confused and uncertain state- 
ment, but nothing definite or reliable.” 

“ It is, however, a very interesting and instruc- 
tive story, and shows how far a man with a de- 
termined will and great energy can reach, when 
his thoughts are directed to one end. Baron 
Trenck wished to be rich, immensely rich — that 
was the aim of his life. Seduced by his love of 
money, he became the captain of a band of rob- 
bers, then a rdurderer, a church-robber; from 
that a brave soldier, and, at last, a holy penitent. 
Robbing and plundering everywhere, he succeeded 
in collecting millions. The pandour chieftain 
Trenck soon became so rich, that he excited the 
envy of the noblest and wealthiest men in the 
kingdom, so rich that he was able to lend large 
sums of money to the powerful and influential 
Baron Lowenwalde. You see, baron, it nqpds 
a determined will to become rich.” 

“ Oh ! the foolish man,” said Weingarten, shrug- 
ging his shoulders ; “ lending money to a noble 
and powerful man, is making an irreconcilable 
enemy.” 

“ You speak like a prophet. It happened, as 
you say. Lowenwalde became Trenck’s enemy. 
He accused him of embezzling the imperial money^ 
of treachery and faithlessness — ^and Trenck was 
imprisoned.” 

“His millions obtained his release, did they 
not ? ” 

“ No. His riches reduced him to greater mis- 
ery. His lands were sequestered, and a body of 
commissioners were selected to attend to them. 
Baron Waltz and myself belonged to this commis- 
sion.” 

“ Ah ! I begin to understand,” murmured 
Weingarten. 

Baron Zetto continued, with a smile : “ The 
commissioners made the discovery that report had 
greatly exaggerated the riches of Trenck. He 
had not many treasures, but many debts. In or- 
der to liquidate those debts, we desired his credit- 
ors to announce themselves every day, and prom- 
ised them a daily ducat until the end of the pro- 
cess.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND JIS FAMILY. 


“ T hope you two gentlemen were among his 
creditors,” said Weingarten. 

“ Certainly, we were, and also Baron Marken. 

‘‘Therefore you have a threefold advantage 
from Trench’s imprisonment : first, your salary as 
ft member of the commission ; secondly, as a cred- 
itor — 

“ And thirdly — you spoke of a threefold ad- 
vantage ? ” 

“ And thirdly,” said Weingarten, laughing, “ in 
searching for the missing treasures of Baron 
Trenck which had disappeared so unfortunately.” 

“ Ah, sir, you speak hke those who suspected 
us at court, and wished to make the empress believe 
that we had enriched ourselves as commissioners. 
Soon after this Trenck died, and Frederick von 
Trenck hastened from St. Petersburg to receive his 
intieritance. How great was his astonishment to 
find instead of the hoped-for millions a few mort- 
gaged lands, an income of a hundred thousand 
guilders, and sixty-three creditors who claimed the 
property.” 

“ He should have become one of the commis- 
sioners,” remarked Weingarten, mockingly. “ Per- 
haps it would have then been easier for him to 
obtain his possessions.” 

“ He attempted it in another way, with the aid of 
money, bribery, and persuasion. He has already 
succeed^ in obtaining fifty-four of his sixty-three 
pro^^®, and will win the others in a few days.” 

“ And then he will doubtless cause the com- 
missioners to give in their accounts, and close 
their books.” 

“ Exactly. He has already commenced to do 
so. He ordered an investigation to be made 
against the quartermaster, and the commander 
of the regiment to which Franz von Trenck be- 
longed. This man had acctfSed Trenck of having 
embezzled eight thousand of the imperial money, 
and Trenck succeeded so far, that it was declared 
that it was not him, but his accusers, who had 
committed the crime. The consequence was, that 
the quartermaster was deposed ; and it woiild 
have fared as badly with the commander, had he 
not found powerful protection.” 

“ And now the dangerous Frederick von Trenck 
will seize the property , of the commissioners.” 

“ He would do so if we did not know how to 
prevent him. We must employ every means to 
remove him, and, believe me, we are not the only 
men who wish for his disappearance. A large and 
powerful party have the same desire, and would 
Joyfully pay ten thousand guilders to be freed 
from his investigations.” 

Weingarten’s eyes sparkled for a moment, and 
his heart beat quickly; but he suppressed these 


joyful emotions, and retained his calm and indif- 
ferent expression. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, quietly, “as you are 
speaking of a real criminal, one who intends com- 
mitting so great a crime, I am at your service, and 
no money or promises are necessary to buy my 
assistance.” 

“ Is he really a man of honor, and have we re- i' 
ceived false information ? ” thought Zetto, who was i 
misled for a moment by the quiet and virtuous . . 
looks of the secretary of legation. 

“ In the mean while you will not prevent those 
for whom you are about to do a great service 
from showing their gratitude,” said Baron Waltz. 
“Every one has a right to give or to receive a 
present.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Baron Weingarten, smil- 
ingly, “ no one has spoken of a present, but of a 
payment, a bribery, and you can readily under- 
stand that this is insulting to a man of honor.” 

“ Ah, he leaves open a door of escape,” thought 
Zetto. “He is won, he can be bought. — You are ill 
right, baron,” he said aloud, “ and we are wrong I 
to offer you now that which hereafter will be a 
debt of gratitude. We will speak no more of 
this, but of the danger that threatens the king. 
You alone can save him by warning him of hi/i 
danger.” 

“You really believe, then, that Trenck has the 
intention of murdering the king?” said Wein 
garten. 

“We will believe it,” said Zetto, with an am- 
biguous smile. 

“We must believe it!” cried Baron Waltz, 
emphatically. “We must either believe in b‘.s 
murderous intentions, or be ourselves regarded as 
traitors and robbers. You will think it nat- 
ural that we prefer the first alternative, and as he 
resolved to ruin us, we will anticipate him, and 
set the trap into which he must fall.” 

“ Why could you not lay your snares in Aus- 
tria, gentlemen ? Why could you not accuse him 
of intending to murder the empress ? ” 

Zetto shrugged his shoulders, “ That would 
not be credible, because Trenck has no motive 
for murdering Maria Theresa, while he might very 
well thirst to revenge himself upon Frederick. 
You know that the king and Trenck are personal 
enemies. Trenck has boasted of this enmity often 
and loud enough to be understood by the whole 
world, and I do not believe that this animosity 
has diminished. Enemies naturally desire to 
destroy each other. Trenck would succeed if 
we did not warn the king, and enable him to 
anticipate his enemy.” 

“ How can this be done ? WiU- the king reaHv 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


go to Konigsberg to be present at the Austrian 
festivities ? ” 

“It has been spoken of.” 

“'Well, Trenck now proposes to go to Dant- 
ric, and he has boasted that he will enter Ko- 
nigsberg at the same time with the King of 
Prussia, who will not dare to arrest him.” 

“We have made a bet with him of a hun- 
dred louis d’or on this boast,” said Baron Waltz, 
“ and for greater security we have put it in writ- 
ing.” 

“ Have you it with you ? ” 

“Here it is.” 

The baron handed Weingarten a paper, which 
he seized hastily, unfolded, and read several 
times. 

“This is indeed written in very ambiguous 
language, and calculated to ruin Trenck should 
it reach the hands of the king,” said Baron 
Weingarten, with a cruel smile. 

Zetto returned this smile. “ I wrote the docu- 
ment, and you will naturally understand that I 
measured the words very closely.” 

“Who copied the letter?” asked Weingarten. 
“Doubtlessly Baron Trenck was not magnani- 
mous enough to do that.” 

“Baron Waltz is a great adept in imitating 
handwriting, and he happily possessed original 
letters of Trenck’s,” said Zetto, smilingly. 

“You will find it most natural that I should 
try to win my bet,” said Baron Waltz. “If 
Trenck is arrested before he goes to Konigs- 
berg, I have won my bet, and will receive the 
nundred louis d’ors from the commissioners.” 

All three laughed. 

“These commissioners will soon have to pay 
you ten thousand guilders,” whispered Zetto. 
“ Here is a bond. On the day that Trenck is a 
prisoner of the king of Prussia, this bond is 
due, and you will then find that the commis- 
sioners are not backward in paying.” Zetto 
laid the document upon the table. “You will 
now have the kindness to receive our testimony, 
and, if you desire it, we will add our accusations, 
or you can mention that this can be done.” 

Weingarten did not answer; a repentant fear 
tormented his heart, and for a moment it appeared 
as if his good and evil genius were struggling for 
&is soul. 

“ This involves probably the life of a man,” he 
said, softly ; “ it is a terrible accusation that I must 
pronounce : if not condemned to death, the king 
veil! imprison him for many long years, and I shall 
be responsible for this injustice.” 

Councillor Zetto’s attentive ear heard every 
word ; he stood near him like the evil one, and 


15 

his piercing eyes rested upon the- agitated coun* 
tenance of Weingarten and read his thoughts. 

“ Have you not lived the life of a prisoner for 
many years ? ” asked Zetto, in a low, unnatural 
voice ; “ have you not always been a slave of 
poverty ? Will you now, from weak pity, lose the 
opportunity of freeing yourself from this bondage ? 
Ten thousand guilders is no fortune, but it may he 
the beginning of one — it may be the thread of 
Ariadne to lead you from the labyrinth of pover- 
ty to freedom and light ; and who will thank you 
if you do not seize this thread — who recompense 
you for your generosity and magnanimity? If 
you tell it to the wise and cunning, they will laugh 
at you ; and if the foolish hear it, they will not 
understand you. Every one is the moulder of his 
own happiness ; and woe unto him who neglects 
to forge the iron while it is hot ! ” 

Baron Weingarten felt each of these words. 
He did not know if they were uttered by human 
lips, or if they came from the depths of his own 
base soul. 

“ It is true, it is true ! ” he cried, in a frighten- 
ed voice ; “ he is a fool who does not seize the 
hand of Fortune when tendered by the laughing 
goddess — a fool who does not break his fetters 
when he has the power to rend them. Come, 
gentlemen ! we take the testimony, and when that 
is done, I will conduct you to our ambassador, 
Baron Puebla.” 

“Not so— -when that is done, we shall depart 
with post-haste ; you alone shall receive thanks 
and recompense. Now to work ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE KINH AND WEINGARTEN. 

The king paced his room hastily ; he was very 
pale, his lip trembled, and his eyes sparkled an- 
grily. 

He suddenly remained standing before the 
Austrian secretary of legation, and gazed long 
and earnestly into his face ; but his glance, before 
which so many had trembled, was sustained by the 
secretary with so quiet and innocent a counte- 
nance that it deceived even the king. 

“ I see that you are convinced of the truth of 
what you tell me,” the king said at last ; “ you 
really believe that this madman has the intention 
of murdering me ? ” 

“I am convinced of it, sire,” replied Weingar- 
ten, humbly, “ for I have the proof of his intention 
in my hand,” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ The proof — wliat proof? ” 

“ This paper which I allowed myself to hand to 
your majesty, and which you laid upon the table 
without reading.” 

“ Ah, it is true ! I forgot that in my excite- 
ment,” said the king, mildly. “ I beg you to 
read me the contents of this paper.” 

Baron Weingarten received the paper from the 
king with a respectful bow ; his voice did not 
tremble in the least as lie read the important 
words which refined malice and cruel avarice had 
written there — words which, if literally interpret- 
ed, would fully condemn Trenck. 

The words were : 

“ ‘ In consequence of a bet, I pledge myself to 
be in Konigsberg the same day in which the King 
Frederick of Prussia, my cruel enemy and perse- 
cutor, shall arrive there. I shall go there to do, 
in the king’s presence, that which no one has 
done before me, and which no one will do after 
me. If I do not succeed in accomplishing my 
purpose, or if I should be arrested, I have lost my 
bet, and shall owe Baron Waltz one hundred 
louis d’or, which must be paid him by the com- 
missioners of the Trenck estate. 

“ ‘ Baron Frederick von Trenck.’ ” 

“And Trenck wrote this note himself?” said 
the king. 

“If your majesty is acquainted with Trenck’s 
handwriting, you will perhaps have the goodness 
to examine it yourself.” 

“ I know his handwriting ; give me the paper.” 

He took the paper and glanced over it search- 
ingly. “ It is his handwriting,” he murmured ; 
“ but I will examine it again.” 

Speaking thus, he stepped hastily to his escri- 
toire^ and took from a small box several • closely 
written yellow papers, and compared them with 
the document which Weingarten had given him. 

Ah, how little did Trenck dream, as he wrote 
those letters, that they would witness against him, 
and stamp him as a criminal ! They were already 
a crime in the king’s eyes, for they were tender 
letters that Trenck had dared to write from Vienna 
to the Princess Amelia. They had never reached 
her! 

And now those tender epistles of a tearful and 
unhappy love must bear witness against the 
writer, and condemn him for the second time ! 

“ It is his handwriting,” said the king, as he 
laid the letters again in the box. “ I thank you, 
Baron Weingarten; you have saved me from a 
disagreeable occurrence : for, if I will not even be 
lieve that Trenck intended murder, he was at all 
events willing to create a scene, if only to gratify 
his vanity. It appears that he has now played 


out his rdle at Vienna, as well as in St. Petersburg 
and Berlin ; and the world would forget him if 
he did not attract its attention by some mad piece 
of folly. How he intended to accomplish this I 
do not know ; but certainly not by a murder — 
no, I cannot believe that ! ” 

“ Your majesty is always noble and magnani- 
mous, but it appears to me that these words can 
have but one meaning. ‘ I shall go to Ko- 
nigsberg,’ writes Baron Trenck, ‘ and there do 
in the presence of the king what no one has 
done before me, and what no one will do after 
me.’ Does not this make his intention pretty 
clear ? ” 

“Only for those who know his intentions or 
suspect them, for others they could have any 
other signification ; some romantic threat, nothing 
more. Baron Trenck is a known adventurer, a 
species of Don Quixote, always fighting against 
windmills, and believing that warriors and kings 
honor him so far as to be his enemies. I pun- 
ished Trenck when he was in my service, for insub- 
ordination ; now he is no longer in my service, 
and I have forgotten him, but woe be unto him if 
he forces me to remember him ! ” 

“ Your majesty will soon see if he is falsely ac- 
cused. These reliable and. irreproachable men 
came especially to warn your majesty, through 
me. You will discover if they have calumniated 
Trenck, by giving this testimony. If he does not 
go to Dantzic, does not enter Prussia, they have 
sworn falsely, and Trenck is innocent.” 

“ He will not dare to ci^oss the borders of my 
state, for he knows he will be coui*t-martialled as 
a deserter. But I am convinced that he is a bold 
adventurer; he has boasted that he will defy me ; 
that is certainly what no one has done before 
him, and, what no one will do after him ; but it 
will rest there, you may believe me.” 

Baron Weingarten bowed silently. The king 
continued, with an engaging smile : 

“ However, monsieur, I owe you many thanks, 
and it would please me to have an opportunity of 
rewarding you.” 

Until this moment, Weingarten had been stand- 
ing with bowed head ; he now stood erect, and 
his eye dared to meet that of the king. 

“ Sire,” he said, with the noble expression of 
offended innocence, “I demand and wish no 
other reward than that you may profit by my 
w'arning. If the fearful danger that threatens 
your majesty is averted through me, that will be 
my all-sufficient recompense. I must decline any 
other.” 

The king smiled approvingly. “ You speak 
emphatically, and it appears that you really be- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FAMILY. 


17 


tieve in this danger. Well, I thank you only as 
that is your desire. I will respect your w'arning 
and guard myself from the danger that you believe 
threatens me; but to do that, and at the same 
time to convince ourselves of Trench’s evil inten- 
tions, we must observe the most perfect silence in 
this whole affair, and you must promise me to 
gpeak of it to no one.” 

“ Ff re, secresy appeared to me so necessary, that 
I did not even communicate it to Baron Puebla, 
but came to your majesty on my own responsibil- 
ity.” 

“You did well, for now Trenck will fall un- 
warned into the trap we set for him. Be si- 
lent, therefore, upon the subject. If you should 
3 ver have a favor to ask, come to me with this 
.aftatiere in your hand. . I will remember this 
iour, and if it is in my power will grant you what 
you wish.” 

He handed Weingarten his gold, diamond-stud- 
ded iabatiere^ and received his thanks with ap- 
proving smiles. 

After he had dismissed the secretary of lega- 
tion, and was alone, the smile faded from his face, 
and his countenance was sad and disturbed. 

“ It has come to this,” he said, as he paced 
ais room, with his hands folded behind his back. 
“ This man, whom I once loved so warmly, wishes 
to murder me. Ah ! ye proud princes, who ima- 
gine yourselves gods on earth, you are not even 
safe from a murderer’s dagger, and you are as vul- 
nerable as the commonest beggar. Why does he 
wish my death ? W ere 1 a fantastic, romantic 
hero, I might say he hoped to claim his sweet- 
heai't over my dead body ! But Amelia is no 
longer a person for whom a man would risk his 
life ; she is but a faint and sad resemblance of 
the past — her rare beauty is tear-stained and turned 
to ashes, but her heart still lives ; it is young and 
warm, and belongs to Trenck ! And shall I dissi- 
pate this last illusion ? Must she now learn that 
he to w'hom she sacrificed so much is but a com- 
mon murderer ? No, I will spare her this sorrow ! 
I will not give Trenck the opportunity to fulfil his 
work ; even his intention shall remain doubtful. 
I shall not go to Konigsberg ; and if, in his pre- 
sumptuous thirst for notoriety or for vengeance, he 
should enter Prussia, he shall be cared for — he 
shall not escape his punishment. Let him but 
try to cross my borders — he will find a snare 
spread, a cage from which he cannot escape. Yes, 
so it shall be. But neither the world nor Trenck 
shall suspect why this is done. If my brothers 
and wivious persons hold him up in future as an 
example of my hardness of heart, what do I 
tare for their approval or the praise of short- 


sighted men ! I do my duty, and am answerable 
only to God and myself. Trenck intends to mur- 
der me — I must preserve myself for my people. 
My mission is not yet accomplished ; and if a poi- 
sonous insect crosses my patli, I must crush it.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE UNW^ILLING BRIDEGROOM. 

Prince Henry had again passed eight days in 
arrest — eight tedious days, days of powerless an- 
ger and painful humiliation. This arrest had 
been, by the king’s express orders, so strict, that 
no one was allowed to see the prince but Pollnitz, 
who belonged, as the king said, to the inventory 
of the house of Hohenzollern, and, therefore, all 
doors were open to him. 

Pollnitz alone had, therefore, the pleasure of 
hearing the complaints, and reproaches, and bit- 
ter accusations of the prince against his brother 
Pollnitz always had an attentive ear for these 
complaints ; and after listening to the prince with 
every appearance of real feeling and warm sym- 
pathy, he w’ould hasten to the king, and with 
drooping eyelids and rejoicing heart rt^j^eat the 
bitter and hateful words of the unsuspicious 
prince — words that were well calculated to in- 
crease the king’s displeasure. The prince still 
declared that he would not marry, and the king 
insisted that he must submit to his will and com- 
mands. 

Thus the eight days had passed, and Pollnitz 
came to-day with the joyful news that his arrest 
was at an end, and he was now free. 

“ That means,” said the prince, bitterly, “ that 
I am free to wander through the stupid streets of 
Potsdam; appear at his table; that my clothes 
may be soiled by his unbearable four-legged 
friends, and my ears deafened by the dull, pedan- 
tic conversation of his no less unbearable two- 
legged friends.” 

“ Your highness can save yourself from all 
these small annoyances,” said Pollnitz; “you 
have only to marry.” 

“ Marry, bah ! That means to give my poor 
sister-in-law, Elizabeth Christine, a companion, 
that they may sing their sorrows to each other. 
No, I have not the bravery of my kingly brother, 
to make a feeling, human being unhappy in ordei 
to satisfy state politics. No, I possess not tho 
egotism to purchase my freedom with the life' 
long misery of another.” 

“ But, moii Dieu, I my prince,” said Pollnitz, in 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


his cynical way, ‘‘ you look at it in too virtuous a 
manner. All women are not as good and pure as 
poor Elizabeth Christine, and know how to com- 
pensate themselves in other quarters for the in- 
difference of their husbands. We are not speak- 
ing here of a common marriage, but of the be- 
trothal of a prince. You do not marry your 
heart, but your hand. Truly such a marriage- 
ceremony is a protecting talisman, that may be 
held up to other women as an iron shield upon 
which all their egotistical wishes, all their extrav- 
agant demands must rebound. Moreover, a mar- 
ried man is entirely sans consequence for all un- 
married women, and if they should love such a 
one, the happy mortal may be convinced tliat this 
love is really a caprice of the heart, and not a self- 
ish calculation or desire to marry.” 

. The prince regarded the smiling courtier ear- 
nestly, almost angrily. “ Do you know,” he said, 
“that what you say appears to me very im- 
moral ? ” 

“ Immoral ? ” asked Pollnitz, astonished ; “ what 
is that ? Your princely highness knows that I re- 
ceived my education at the French court, under 
the protection of the Regent of Orleans and the 
Princess of the Palatinate, and there I never heard 
this word immoral. Perhaps your highness will 
have the kindness to explain it to me.” 

“ That would be preaching to deaf ears,” said 
the prince, shrugging his shoulders. “We will 
not quarrel about the meaning of a word. I only 
wish to make you understand that I would not 
marry at my brother’s hon plaisir. I will not 
continue this race of miserable princes, that are 
entirely useless, and consequently a burden to the 
state. Oh I if Heaven would only give me the 
opportunity to distinguish myself before this 
* people, and give to this name that is so small, so 
unworthy, a splendor, a color, a signification ! ” 

“ Your highness is ambitious,” said Pollnitz, as 
the prince, now silent, paced his room with deep 
emotion. 

“ Yes, I am ambitious — I thirst for action, re- 
nown, and activity. I despise this monotonous, 
colorless exi.stence, without end or aim. My God ! 
how happy I should be, if, instead of a prince, I 
could be a simple private man, proprietor of a 
small landed estate, with a few hundred subjects, 
that I should endeavor to make happy ! But I am 
nothing but a king’s brother, have nothing but 
my empty title and the star upon my coat. My 
income is so small, so pitiful, that it would scarcely 
Buflace to pay the few servants I have, if, at the 
same time, they were not paid by the king as his 
spies.” 

“ But ail this will cease as soon as you speak 


the decisive word ; as soon as you declare youi 
self prepared to marry.” 

“ And you dare to tell me this ? ” cried the 
prince, with flashing eyes — “you, that know I 
love a lady who is unfortunately no princess ; or 
do you believe that a miserable p ince has not 
the heart of a man — ^that he does nut possess 
the ardent desire, the painful longing for the wo- 
man he loves ? ” 

“ Oh, women do not deserve that we should lovej 
them so ardently ; they are all fickle and incon-^ 
Btant, believe me, my prince.” 

The prince cast a quick, questioning glance at 
the smiling countenance of the courtier. 

“ Why do you say this to me ? ” he asked, anx- 
iously 

“Because I am convinced of its truth, your 
highness ; because I believe no w^oman has the 
power to preserve her love when obstacles are 
placed in the way, or that she can be faithful for 
the short space of eight days, if her lover is 
absent.” 

The prince was startled, and looked terrified at 
Pollnitz. 

“Eight days,” he murmured ; “it is eight days 
— ^no, it is twelve since I saw Louise.” 

“ Ah, twelve days ! — and your highness has the 
really heroic belief that she still loves you ? ” 

The prince sighed, and his brow clouded, but 
only for a few moments, and his countenance was 
again bright and his eyes sparkled. 

“ Yes, I have this belief; and why should I not 
have it, as my own heart has stood the trial ? I 
have not seen her for twelve days, have not heard 
of her, and still my love is as great and as ar- 
dent as ever. Yes, I believe that at the thought 
of her my heart beats more quickly, more long- 
ingly than if I had her in my arms.” 

“ The reason of this,” said Pollnitz, almost sym- 
pathetically, “ is that it is your first love.” 

Prince Henry looked at him angrily. 

“ You are wrong and most unjust to this beau- 
tiful woman, who remained good and pure in the 
midst of the corrupting and terrible circum- 
stances in which destiny placed her. She pre- 
served a chaste heart, an unspotted soul. Her 
misfortunes only refined her, and therefore I love 
her, and believe that God has placed me in her 
way that, after all her sufferings, I might make 
her happy. Oh, precisely because of her sorrows, 
the shameful slanders with which she is pursued, 
and aU for which she is reproached, I love her.” 

“Well, my prince,” sighed Pollnitz, with a 
tragical expression, “ I never saw a bolder hero 
and a more pious Christian than your highness.” 

“ What do you mean by that, Pollnitz ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


19 


“That an enormous amount of bravery is 
ftecessary, prince, to believe Madame von Kleist 
ehaste and innocent, and that only a pious Chris- 
tian can count himself so entirely among those of 
whom Christ says, ‘ Blessed are they that have not 
Been and yet have believed.’ May a good fairy long 
preserve you your bravery and your Christianity ! 
But surely your highness must have important and 
convincing proofs to believe in the innocence and 
faithfulness of this woman. I confess that any 
other man would have been discouraged in his 
godlike belief by facts. It is a fact that for twelve 
days Madame von Kleist has sent you no message 
through me ; it is a fact that she was not at the 
masked ball ; that as often as I have been to her 
in these last days, to deliver letters for your high- 
ness, and to obtain hers in return, she has never 
received me, always excused herself ; and, there- 
fore, I could not receive her letters, nor deliver 
those of your highness.” 

“ And were you not in Berlin early this morn- 
ing ? Did you not go to her as I ordered 
you, and tell her she might expect me this even- 
ing ? ” 

“ I went to her house, but in vain ; she was 
with the queen- mother, and I was told that she 
would not return until late in the evening, I 
therefore could not deliver the message, your high- 
ness.” 

The prince stamped his foot impatiently, and 
w'alked hastily to and fro ; his brow was clouded, 
his lips trembled with inward emotion. The sharp 
eye of the baron followed with an attentive, piti- 
less glance every movement of his face, noted 
every sigh that came from his anxious heart, that 
he might judge whether the seeds of mistrust that 
he had sown in the breast of the prince would 
grow. 

But Prince Henry was still young, brave, and 
hopeful ; it was his first love they wished to poi- 
son, but his young, healthy nature withstood the 
venom, and vanquished its evil effects. His coun- 
tenance resumed its quiet, earnest expression, and 
the cloud disappeared from his brow. 

“ Do you know,” he said, standing before Poll- 
uitz, and looking smilingly into his cunning face — 
“ do you know that you do not descend, as the 
rest of mankind, from Adam and Eve, but in a 
direct line from the celebrated serpent? And 
truly you do honor to your ancestor ! No para- 
dise is holy to you, and to do evil gives you pleas- 
ure. But you shall not disturb my paradise ; and 
as much of the old Adam as is still in me, I will not 
be foolish enough to eat of the bitter fruit that 
you offer me. No, you shall not succeed in mak- 
ing me jealous and distrustful ; you shall not 'de- 


stroy my faith : and see you, those that believe 
are still in paradise, notwithstanding your ances- 
tor, the serpent.” 

“ My prince,” said Pbllnitz, shrugging his 
shoulders, “ your highness looks upon me as a 
kind of Messiah — at least it pleases you to give 
me a mother and no father. But oh, ray prince ! 
if you are right about my descent, philosophers 
are certainly wrong, for they maintain that the 
serpent of paradise left gold as a fearful inheri- 
tance to mankind. I shall accuse my great-grand- 
mother the serpent of disinheriting me and con- 
demning me to live upon the generosity of my 
friends and patrons.” 

He looked at the prince, with a sly, covetous 
glance, but he had not understood him ; engaged 
in deep thought, he had stepped to the window, 
and was gazing up at the heavens, where the 
clouds were chasing each other. 

“ She will be the entire day with my mother, 
and I shall not see her,” he murmured. Then, 
turning hastily to Pollnitz, he asked, “How is 
the queen-mother ? Did I not hear that she was 
suffering ? ” 

“ Certainly, your highness, a severe attack of 
gout confines her to her chair, and holds her pris- 
oner.” 

“ Poor mother ! it is long since I saw you.” • 

“It is true, the queen complained of it the 
last time I spoke with her,” said Pollnitz, with a 
perfectly serious face, but with inward rejoicing. 

Another pause ensued. The prince appeared 
to reflect, and to struggle with his own thoughts 
and wishes. Pollnitz stood behind him, and no- 
ted every motion, every sigh that he uttered, 
with his malicious smiles. 

“ 1 believe,” said the prince, with still averted 
face, perhaps to prevent Pollnitz from seeing his 
blushes — “ I believe it would be proper for me to 
inquire to-day personally after my mother’s 
health ; it is not only my duty to do so, but the 
desire of my heart.” 

“Her majesty will be pleased to see her be- 
loved son again, and this pleasure will hasten her 
recovery.” 

The prince turned hastily and glanced sharply 
at Pollnitz, as if he wished to read his inmost 
thoughts. But the countenance of the courtier 
was earnest and respectful. 

“If that is your opinion,” said the prince, with 
a happy smile, “ my duty as a son demands that I 
should hasten to the queen, and I will go imme- 
diately to Berlin. But as I am going to my 
mother, and solely on her account, I will do it in 
the proper form. Have, therefore, the kindness 
to obtain my leave of the king— bring me my 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


brother’s answer immediately, I only await it to 
depart.” 

“And I hasten to bring it to your highness,” 
said Pollnitz, withdrawing. 

Prince Henry looked thoughtfully after him. 

“ I shall see her,” he murmured ; “ I shall 
speak with her, and shall learn why she withdrew 
herself so long from me. Oh, I know she will be 
able to justify herself, and these slanders and e\ll 
reports will flee before her glance as clouds before 
the rays of the sun.” 

In the mean while, Pollnitz hastened to Sans 
Souei, where he was immediately received by the 
king. 

“ Your majesty,” he said, joyfully, “ the young 
lion has fallen into the net that we set for him.” 

“ He goes then to Berlin, to the queen-mother ? ” 
asked the king, quickly. 

“He begs your majesty’s permission to take 
this little trip.” 

“ He really charged you with this commission ? ” 

“ Yes, sire : it appears that his obstinacy is be- 
ginning to relent, and that he thinks of submitting.” 

The king was silent, and walked thoughtfully to 
and fro, with clouded brow, then remained stand- 
ing before Pollnitz, and looked sharply and pier- 
cingly at him. 

‘.‘You rejoice,” he said, coldly, “but you only 
think of your own advantage. You are indiffer- 
ent to the sorrow we are preparing for my brother. 
You only think that your debts will be paid. 
Yes, I will pay them, but I shall never forget that 
you have betrayed my brother’s confidence.” 

“ I only acted according to your majesty’s com- 
mands,” said Pollnitz, confounded. 

“ Certainly, but if you had resisted my com- 
mands, I would have esteemed and prized you the 
more. Now, I shall pay your debts, but I shall 
despise you. No one has reasons for thanking you.” 

“ Sire, I desire no other thanks. Had I been 
paid with money for my services, instead of fine 
speeches, I would have been as rich as Croesus.” 

“ And a beggar in virtue,” said the king, smil- 
ing. “ But go, I was wrong to reproach you. I 
shall now go to Berlin, and when my brother ar- 
rives he shall find me there. Go now, my grand 
chamberlain, and take the prince my permission 
for a three days’ absence.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 

A FEW hours later the equipage of Prince Hen- 
n arrived in the court-yard of Monbijou, and the 


prince demanded of his mother, the widowed 
queen, permission to pay her his respects. 

Sophia Dorothea was suffering greatly. The 
gout, that slow but fatal disease, which does not 
kill at once, but limb by limb, had already panv- 
lyzed the feet of the poor queen, and confined her 
to her chair. To-day her sufferings were greater/i 
than usual, and she was not able to leave her bed. 
Therefore, she could not receive the prince as a 
queen, but only as a mother, without ceremony or 
etiquette. That the meeting might be entirely 
without constraint, the maids of honor left the 
queen’s room, anu as the prince entered, he saw 
the ladies disappearing by another door ; the last 
one had just made her farewell bow, and was kiss 
ing respectfully the queen’s hand. ' 

This was Louise von Kleist, for whose sake the 
prince had come, and for whom his heart throbbed 
painfully. He could have cried aloud for joy as 
he saw her in her bewildering loveliness, her lux- 
uriant beauty. He longed to seize her hands and 
cover them with kisses — to tell her how much he 
had suffered, how much he was still suffering for 
her sake. 

But Louise appeared not to have seen him, not 
to have noticed his entrance. She had only eyes 
and ears for the queen, who was just dismissing 
her with winning words, telling her to remain in the 
castle and return when she desired to see her. 

“ I shall remain and await your majesty’s com- 
mands,” said Louise, withdrawing hastily. 

The queen now greeted the prince as if she had 
just observed him, and invited him to be seated 
on the fauteuil near her couch. 

The prince obeyed, but he was absent-minded 
and restless, and the more the queen endeavored 
to engage him in harmless and unconstrained con- 
versation, the more monosyllabic and preoccupied 
he became. The poor prince remembered only 
that his beloved was so near, that only a door 
separated them, and prevented him from gazing on 
her beauty. 

Yes, Louise was really in the next room, in the 
cabinet of the queen, sorrowful and exhausted ; 
she had fallen upon the little sofa near the door, 
the smile had left her lips, and her brilliant, be- 
witching eyes were filled with tears. Louise wept ; 
she wept for her last youthful dream, her last 
hope of happiness and virtue, for her sad, shadowed 
future and wounded pride ; for to-day she had to 
resign forever the proud hopes, the brilliant 
future for which she had striven with so much 
energy. 

But it was vain to struggle against this hart 
necessity. The king had given her his orders 
and "was there to see them carried out. He su 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


behind that portiere, that led into the grand sa- 
loon ; he had just left Louise, and, before going, 
had said to her, in a stern, commanding tone : 

“ You will fulfil my commands accurately. You 
know that Fritz Wendel still lives, and that I 
shall be inexorable if you do not act as you have 
promised.” 

Louise submitted respectfully to the king’s 
commands ; she accepted her fate, but she wept 
bitterly, and when she felt that the king’s eyes 
were no longer upon her, her tears flowed unceas- 
ingly. 

- Perhaps Frederick still saw her, or suspected 
her weakness, for the portiere opened slightly, 
and his noble, but stern countenance appeared. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ if the prince sees you 
with tearful eyes, he will not believe in your hap- 
piness.” 

tp Louise smiled painfully. “ Ah ! sire, he will be- 
lieve I am weeping for joy. I have often heard 
of joyful tears.” 

The king did not reply ; he felt for her agony, 
and closed the portiere. 

“ I will cry no more,” she said ; “ I have ac- 
cepted my destiny, and will fulfil it bravely for the 
sake of my daughter. It concerns Camilla’s hap- 
piness more than my own. I will deserve the re- 
spect of my unfortunate child.” 

\ In saying this, a smile like a sunbeam illumi- 
I Dated her countenance. But now she started up, 

‘ and laid her hand in terror upon her heart. She 
^ heard steps approachmg. The door moved, and 
I in a moment the king appeared and motioned to 
her. 

“ Courage, courage ! ” murmured Louise, and 
with instinctive fear she flew away from the door 

I ' and placed herself in the niche of the last window. 
To reach her, the prince must cross the saloon ; 
that would give her a few moments to recover. 

1 1 The door opened and Prince Henry entered ; his 
I i glance flew quickly over the saloon, and found the 
‘ ■ one he sought. 

Louise could have shrieked with agony when 
^ she saw the tender smile with which he greeted 
her. Never had he appeared so handsome, so no- 
* ble as at this moment, when she must resign him 
forever. 

But there was no time to think of this, no time 
I ; for complaints or regrets. He was there, he stood 
: j before her, offered both his hands, and greeted her 
I [ with the fenderest words of love, 
i. Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared 
! not listen to her heart’s pleadings. 

; ! “ Ah, my prince,” she said, wi ^h a laugh that 

; founded to herself like the wail of a lost soul — 
** ah, my prince, take care 1 we women are very 


21 

I credulous, and I might take your jesting woids foi 
truth.” ^ 

“ I advise you to do so,” said the prince, happy 
and unconcerned. “ Yes, Louise, I advise you to 
do so, for you know well that my jesting words 
have an earnest meaning. And now that we are 
alone, we will dispense with ceremony. You must 
justify yourself before a lover — a lover who is un- 
fortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that 
is my weakness ; I do not deny it, I am jealous — 
jealous of all those who keep you from me, who 
prevent my receiving your letters.” 

“ My letters ! ” said Louise, astonished ; “ why 
should I have written letters to your highness ? I 
do not believe it is the custom for ladies to write 
to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two 
weeks since I received a letter from your high- 
ness.” 

“ Because it was impossible for my messenger 
to deliver them, Louise ; you were so unapproach- 
able, at least for me. But you must have known 
that my thoughts were always with you, that my 
heart pined for news and comfort from you.” 

vraiment^ I did not know it,” said 
Louise, laughingly. 

“ You did not know it ? ” asked Henry, wonder- 
ingly. “ Well, what did you suppose?” 

“ I thought,” she said, carelessly — “ I thought 
that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his 
little folly of the carnival.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“Then I determined to follow his example. 
Then I preached a long sermon to my foolish 
eyes — they were misty with tears. Listen, I said 
to them : ‘You foolish things you have no reason 
to weep ; you should always look bright and daz- 
zling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. 
Really, the absence of the prince has been most 
fortunate for you. You might have whispered all 
kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The 
prince is young, handsome, and amiable, and it 
amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had 
you seen him more frequently, it is possible he 
might have succeeded with poor Louise, and the 
little flirtation we carried on together would have 
resulted in earnest love on my part. That would 
have been a great misfortune. Laugh and look 
joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me from 
an unrequited love. You should not weep, but 
rejoice. Look around and find another suitor, 
who would, perhaps, love me so fondly that he 
could not forget me in a few days ; whose love I 
might return wdth ardor.’ This, my prince, is the 
sermon I preached to my eyes when they grew 
dim with tears.” 

“And WJ1S your sermon effective?” said the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IIIS rAMIIji. 


prince, with pale, trembling lips. “ Did your eyes, 
those obedient slaves, look around and find an- 
other lover ? ’’ 

“ Ah ! your highness, how can you doubt it ? 
My eyes are indeed my slaves, and must obey. 
Yes, they looked and found the happiness they 
sought.” 

“What happiness,” asked Henry, apparently 
quite tranquil, but he pressed his hand nervously 
on the chair that stood by him — “ what happiness 
did your eyes find ? ” 

Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. “ The 
happiness,” she said, and against her will her 
voice trembled and faltered — “ the happiness that 
a true, earnest love alone can give — ^which I 
have received joyously into my heart as a gift from 
God.” 

The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a 
wild, despairing expression, and his hands clasped 
the chair more firmly. 

“ I do not understand your holy, pious words. 
What do they mean? What do you wish to 
say ? ” 

“ They mean that I now love so truly and so ear- 
nestly that I have promised to become the wife 
of the man I love,” said Louise, with forced 
gayety. 

The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his 
hands as if to curse the one who had wounded him 
80 painfully. 

“ If this is true,” he said, in a deep, hollow 
voice — “ if this is true, I despise, I hate you, 
and they are right who call you a heartless co- 
quette.” 

“ Ah, my prince, you insult me,” cried Louise. 

“I insult you!” he said, with a wild laugh; 

“ verily, I believe this woman has the effrontery 
to reproach me — ^I who believed in and defended 
her against every accusation — ^I that had the 
courage to love and trust, when all others dis- 
trusted and despised her. Yes, madame, I loved 
you ; I saw in you a goddess, where others saw 
only a coquette. I adored you as an innocent 
sacrifice to envy and malice; I saw a martyr’s 
crown upon your brow, and wished to change it 
for the myrtle-crown of marriage. And my love 
and hopes are dust and ashes ; it is enough to 
drive me mad — enough to stifle me with rage and 
shame.” 

Carried away by passion, the prince ran wildly 
through the saloon, gasping for air, struggling for 
composure, and now and then uttering words of 
imprecation and despair. 

Louise awaited, in silence and resignation, the 
end of this stormy crisis. She questioned her 
heart if this bitter hour was not sufiloient atone- 


ment for all her faults and follies ; if the agony 
she now suffered did not wipe out and extirpate 
the past. 

The prince still paced the room violently. Sud- 
denly, as if a new thought had seized him, he re- 
mained standing in the middle of the saloon, and 
looked at Louise with a strangely altered counte- 
nance. She had forgotten for a moment the part , 
she was condemned to play, and leaned, pale and” 
sad, against the window. 

Perhaps he heard her sorrowful sighs — perhaps^ 
he saw her tears as they rolled one by one from 
her eyes, and fell like pearls upon her small white 
hands. 

Anger disappeared from his face, his brow 
cleared, and as he approached Louise his eyes 
sparkled with another and milder fire. 

“ Louise,” he said, softly, and his voice, which 
had before raged like a stormy wind, was now 
mild and tender — “ Louise, I have divined your 
purpose — I know all now. At first, I did not un- 
derstand your words ; in my folly and jealousy I 
misconceived your meaning ; you only wished to 
try me, to see if my love was armed and strong, 
if it was as bold and faithful as I have sworn it to 
be. Well, I stood the test badly, was weak and 
faint-hearted; but forgive me — forgive me, Louise, 
and strengthen my heart by confidence and faith 
in me.” 

He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it. 

“ Must I repeat to your highness what I have 
said before? I do not understand you. What do 
you mean ? ” 

“Ah,” said the prince, “you are again my 
naughty, sportive Louise. Well, then, I will ex- 
plain. Did you not say that you now love so 
truly, that you have promised to become the wife 
of the man you love ? ” 

“ Yes, I said that, your highness.” 

“And I,” said the prince, seizing both her 
hands and gazing at her ardently — “I was so 
short-sighted, so ungrateful, as not to understand 
you. The many sorrows and vexations I suffer 
away from you have dimmed my eyes and pre- 
vented me from seeing what is written with golden 
letters upon your smiling lips and beaming eves. 
Ah, Louise, I thank you for your precious words ; 
at last you are captured, at last you have resolved 
to become the wife of him who adores you. I 
thank you, Louise, I thank you, and 1 swear that 
no earthly pomp or power could make me as 
proud and happy as this assurance of your love.” 

Louise gazed into his beautiful, smiKng face 
with terror. 

“ Ah, my prince, my words have not the mean- 
ing you imagine. I spoke the simple truth. Mv 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


23 


heart has made its choice — since yesterday, I am 
the betrothed wife of Captain du Trouflde.” 

“ That is not true,” cried the prince, casting 
her hands violently from him. “You are very 
cruel to-day, Louise; you torture me with your 
fearful jests.” 

“ No, your highness, I speak the truth. I am 
the betrothed of Captain du Trouffle.” 

“ Since yesterday you are the betrothed of 
Captain du Trouffle ! ” repeated the prince, staring 
at her wildly. “ And you say you love hhn, 
Louise ? ” 

“ Yes, your highness, I love him,” said Louise, 
with a faint smile. 

“ It is impossible,” cried the prince ; “ it is not 
true.” 

“ And why should I deceive your highness ? ” 

“Why? — ah, I understand all. Oh, Louise, 
my poor darling, how short-sighted I have been ! 
Why did I not immediately suspect my brother ? 
— ^he has spies to watch all my movements ; they 
have at last discovered my love for you. Poll- 
nitz, who would do any thing for gold, has be- 
trayed us to the king, who condemns me to marry 
according to my rank, and, to carry out his pur- 
pose surely, he now forces you to marry. Oh, 
Louise, say that this is so ; acknowledge that the 
power of the king, and not your own heart, forced 
you to this engagement. It is impossible, it can- 
not be that you have forgotten the vows that we 
exchanged scarcely two weeks ago. It cannot be 
that you look upon the heart that loved you so 
deeply, so purely, as an idle plaything, to be 
thrown away so lightly ! No, no, Louise, I have 
seen often in your beaming eyes, your eloquent 
smiles, I have felt in your soft and tender tones, 
that you loved me fondly ; and now in your pale, 
sad face I see that you love me still, and that it is 
the king who wishes to separate us. My poor, 
lovely child, you have been intimidated ; you 
think that my brother, who reigns supreme over 
millions, will yield to no obstacle, that it is vain to 
resist him. But you are mistaken, Louise ; you 
have forgotten that I am Frederick’s brother, that 
the proud, unconquerable blood of the Hohenzol- 
lerns flows also in my veins. Let my brother try to 
force me to his purpose ; I shall be no weak tool 
in his hands. You had not Ann confidence in 
your lover, Louise ; you did not know that I would 
resign cheerfully rank and all family ties for your 
saice; you did not know that I had sworn to 
marry only the woman I love. This I must do to 
satisfy my heart and my honor, and also to show 
the king that Prince Henry is a free man. Now 
tell me, Louise, if I have not divined all. Is not 
this the king’s cruel work ? Ah, you do not an- 


swer, you are silent. I understand — the king has 
made you swear not to betray him. Now look at 
me, Louise ; make me a sign with your hand, tell 
me with your eyes, and I will comprehend you — I 
will take you in my arms and carry you to the al- 
tar. My God ! Louise, do you not see that I am 
waiting for this si^? — that you are torturing 
me?” 

Louise raised her head, her heart was melting 
within her ; she forgot her terror, and was ready 
to resist God, the king, and the whole world, to 
grasp the noble and unselfish love that the prince 
offered her. But her glance fell involuntarily upon 
the curtain, behind which the king stood, and it 
seemed to her as if she saw the angry, burning 
eyes of Frederick threatening to destroy her. She 
remembered her daughter, Fritz Wendel, and the 
world’s mocking laughter, and was overcome. 

“ You are still silent,” said the prince ; “ you 
give me neither sign nor glance.” 

Louise felt as if an iron h^nd was tearing her 
heart asunder. 

“ I really am at a loss what more to say or do,” 
she said, in a careless tone, that made her own 
heart shudder. “It pleases your highness to 
make a jest of what I say. I am innocent, my 
prince, of any double meaning. Five weeks have 
passed since I saw you — I believed you had for- 
gotten me ; I did not reproach you, neither was I 
in despair. I soon found that it was stupid and 
dreary to have my heart unoccupied, and I sought 
for and soon found a lover, to whom my heart be- 
came a willing captive. Therefore, when Captain 
Trouffle pleaded earnestly for my hand, I had not 
the courage to say no. This is my only crime, 
your highness. I was not cruel to myself ; I re- 
ceived the happiness that was offered. I have 
been called a coquette, my prince ; it is time to 
bind myself in marriage bonds, and show the 
world that love can make an honest woman of 
me. Can your highness blame me for this ? ” 

The prince listened with breathless attention ; 
gradually his countenance changed, the color 
faded from his cheeks, the light from his eyes ; a 
smile was still on his lips, but it was cold and 
mocking; his eyes burned with anger and con- 
tempt. 

“No, madame,” he said, with calm, proud in- 
difference, “ I do not blame you — I praise, I con- 
gratulate you. Captain du Trouffle is a most for- 
tunate man — ^he will possess a most beautiful 
wife. When will this happy ceremony be per- 
formed ?” 

Madame von Kleist was unable to reply. She 
gazed with wild terror into his cold, iron face — 
she listened with horror to that voice, whose 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILT. 


24 

mild, soft tone had become suddenly so harsh, so 
fitem. 

The prince repeated his question, and his tone 
was harder and more imperious. 

“ The day is not fixed,” said Louise ; “ must 
first obtain the king’s consent to our marriage.”^ 

“ I shall take care it does not fail you,” said 
the prince, quietly. “ I will strengthen your peti- 
tion to the king. Now, madame, you must for- 
give me for leaving you. Many greetings to 
your betrothed— I shall be introduced to him to- 
morrow at the parade. Farewell, madame ! ” 

The prince made a slight bow, and, without 
glancing at her again, left the room slowly and 
proudly. 

Louise gazed after him with mournful eyes, but 
he did not see it ; he did not see how she fell, as 
if broken, to the floor, as if struck by lightning ; 
and when the door closed on him she held her 
hands to Heaven pleadingly for mercy and forgive- 
ness. 

The portiere now opened, and the king entered ; 
his countenance was pale, his eyes tearful, but 
they sparkled with anger when he saw Louise 
upon the floor. For him she was but a heartless 
coquette, and he was angry with her because of 
the suffering she had caused his brother, for whom 
he felt the deepest pity and compassion. 

But that was now past; the brother could weep 
a tear of pity, the king must be firm and relent- 
less. 

As he approached her, she raised herself from 
the ground and made a profound and ceremonious 
bow. 

“ You have repaired much of the evil you have 
done, madame,” said the king, sternly. “You 
have played a dishonorable game with my brother. 
You enticed him to love you.” 

“ I think I have atoned, sire,” said Louise, faint- 
iy ; “ the prince no longer loves but despises me. 
Your commands are fulfilled to the letter, and I 
now beg your majesty’s permission to withdraw.” 

“ Go, madame ; you have done your duty to- 
day, and I will also do mine. I shall not forget 
what I promised you when you are Madame du 
Trouffle. We will forget all the faults of Madame 
von Kleist.” 

He dismissed her with a slight bow, and gazed 
after her until she had disappeared. 

At this moment, a heavy fall was heard in the 
antechamber. The door opened immediately, and 
the pale, disturbed face of Pdllnitz appeared. 

“What is the matter, Pollnitz?” asked the 
king, hastily. 

“ Oh, sire, poor Prince Henry has fainted.” 

The king was startled, and stepped quickly to 


the door, but he remained standing there until hia 
features resumed their calm expression. 

“ He will recover,” he said — “ he will recover, 
for he is a man; in my youthful days I often 
fainted, but I recovered.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE CONQUERED. 

Painful and bitter were the days for Henry 
that followed his first disappointment. He passed 
them in rigid seclusion, in his lonely chambers ; he 
would see no one, no cheerful word or gay laugh- 
ter was allowed in his presence. The servants 
looked at him sorrowfully ; and when the prince 
appeared at the parade the day after his painful 
interview with Louise, even the king found him so 
pale and suffering, he begged him to take a week’s 
leave and strengthen and improve his health. 

The prince smiled painfully at the king’s propo- 
sition, but he accepted his leave of absence, and 
withdrew to the solitude of his rooms. His heart 
was wounded unto death, his soul was agonized. 

Youth soon laid its healing balm upon his 
wounds and closed them; anger and contempt 
dried his tears, and soothed the anguish of his 
heart. 

The king was right when he said of his brother, 
“ He is a man, and will recover.” He did recover, 
and these days of suffering made a man of him ; 
his brow, once so clear and youthful, had received 
its first mark of sorrow ; the lines of his face 
were harsh and stern, his features sharper and 
more decided. He had experienced his first dis- 
appointment — ^it had nerved and strengthened 
him. 

Before his eight days’ leave of absence had ex- 
pired, his door was again open to his circle of 
friends and confidants. 

His first invited guest was the grand chambei'* 
lain, Baron Pollnitz. The prince welcomed him 
with a bright and cheerful face. 

“ Do you know why I wished to see you ? ” he 
asked. “ You must tell me the chroniqne scanda- 
leuse of our most honorable and virtuous city. 
Commence immediately. What is the on dit of 
the day ? ” 

“ Ah,” sighed Pollnitz, “ life is now stupid, 
dull, and monotonous. As you say, every one 
has become most honorable and virtuous. No 
scandals or piquant adventures occur ; baptisms, 
marriages, and burials are the only events. This 
is really a miserable existence ; for as I do not 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


wish to be baptized or to marry, and as I am not 
yet ready for burial, I really do not know why I 
exist.” 

“But those that are married and baptized, 
doubtless know why they exist,” said the prince, 
smiling. “ Tell me something of this happy class. 
Whose, for example, is the latest marriage ? ” 

“ The latest marriage ? ” said Pblinitz, hesita- 
ting — “ before answering, I must allow myself to 
ask after the condition of your heart. Does it 
still suder?” 

“ No,” cried the prince, “ it does not suffer ; it 
received a heavy shower of cold water, and was 
cured instantly.” 

“I rejoice to hear it, your highness, and con- 
gratulate you on your recovery, for truly there is 
Ido more painful disease than a suffering heart.” 

I “ I told you that I had recovered fully ; tell 
iQ>e, therefore, your news without hesitation. You 
ipoke of a marriage. Who were the happy 
Hovers?” 

I “Your highness, Madame von Kleist has mar- 
ried,” murmured Pollnitz. 

The prince received this blow without betraying 
fOie slightest emotion. 

■ “ When did the marriage take place ? ” he asked, 
iwith perfect composure. 

■| “Yesterday ; and I assure your highness that I 
never saw a happier or more brilliant bnde. 
Love has transformed her into a blushing, timid 
maiden.” 

Prince Henry pressed his hand upon his heart 
with a quick, unconscious movement. 

“Icanw’ell imagine that she was beartiful,” 
said he, controlling his voice with a great effort. 
“Madame von Kleist is happy, and happiness al- 
ways beautifies. And the bridegroom, M. du 
Trouffle, was he also handsome and happy ? ” 

“Your highness knows the name of the bride- 
groom,” said Pblinitz, appearing astonished. 

“ Yes, Madame von Kleist told me herself when 
she announced her approaching marriage. But I 
am not acquainted with Du Trouffle — is he hand- 
some ? ” 

“Handsoiie and amiable, your highness, and 
besides, a v( ry good officer. The king gave him, 
as a wedding present, a major’s commission.” 

“ Then the beautiful Louise is now Mrs. Major 
du Trouffle,” said the prince, with a troubled 
smile. “ Were you present at the wedding ? ” 

“ Yes, in the name of the king.” 

“ Did she speak the decisive Yes, the vow of 
faith and obedience, with earnestness and confi- 
dence ? Did she not blush, or droop her eyelids 
in doing so ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; she smiled as if entranced, and raised 


25 

her eyes to heaven, as if praying for God’s bless- 
ing upon her vows.” 

“ One thing more,” said the prince, fixing his 
large, grave eyes with a searching expression 
upon Pollnitz — “ what is said of me ? Am I re- 
garded as a rejected lover, or as a faithless one ; for 
doubtless all Berlin knows of my love for thi? 
lady, you having been our confidant.” 

“ Oh, my prince, that is a hard insinuation,’' 
said Pollnitz, sadly. “Your highness cannot 
really believe that — ” 

“No protestations, I pray you,” interruptea tho 
prince, “ I believe I know you thoroughly, but i 
am not angry with you nor do I reproach you : 
you are a courtier, and one of the best and rarest 
type ; you have intellect and knowledge, much ex- 
perience and savoirvivre ; I could desue no bet- 
ter company than yourself ; but tor one moment 
cast aside your character as a courtiei, and tell 
me the truth : what does the world suy of this mar- 
riage in regard to me ? ” 

“ Your highness desires tut to tell you the 
truth?” 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“ Now the important niomont has come,” 
thought Pblinitz. “ Now, li 1 nra adroit, I believe 
I can obtain the payment ol my debts.” 

“Well, then, your fiigimess,” said Pblinitz, in 
answer to the prince, I will tell you the truth, 
even should I incur j'our displeasure. I fear, my 
prince, you are regarded as a rejected lover, and 
Madame du Trouffle has succeeded in throwing a 
holy lustre around ner beautiful brow. It is said 
that she refused your dishonorable proposals, and 
preferred being the virtuous wife of a major, to be- 
coming the mistress of a prince.” 

“ Go on,” said the prince, hastily, as Pblinitz 
ceased, and looked searchingly at him. “ What 
do they say of me ? ” 

“That you are in despair, and that you have 
retired to your chambers to weep and mourn over 
your lost love.” 

“ Ah, they say that, do they ? ” cried the prince, 
with flashing eyes ahd darkened brow ; “ well, I 
will show this credulous, world that they are mis- 
taken. Is the king in Sans-Souci ? ” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“Well, go to him, and announce my visit; I 
will follow you on foot.” 

“ We have won the day,” cried Pblinitz, as he 
approached the king; “the prince desires to 
make you a visit. He will be here iramediate- 
ly.” 

“Do you know what my brother wishes of 
me ? ” asked the king. 

“ I do not know, but I suspect, sire. I thinli 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


he wishes to marry, in order to pique his faithless 
sweetheart.” 

“ Go and receive the prince, and conduct him 
to me ; then remain in the antechamber, and 
await until I call.” 

When Pollnitz left, the king seized his flute 
hastily and began to play a soft, melting adagio. 
He was still playing, when the door opened, and 
the prince was announced. Henry stood in the 
doorway, and made the king a ceremonious bow. 

The king continued to play. The low, pleading 
notes of the flute floated softly through the room ; 
they touched the heart of the prince, and quieted 
its wild, stormy beating. 

Was that the king’s intention, or did he intend 
to harmonize his own spirit before speaking to his 
brother? Perhaps both, for Frederick’s glance 
softened, and his face assumed a kind and mild 
expression. 

When the adagio was finished, the king laid his 
flute aside and approached the prince. 

“Forgive me, brother,” he said, offering his 
hand — “ forgive me for keeping you waiting, I al- 
ways like to conclude what I commence. Now, I 
am entirely at your service, and as I am unfortu- 
nately not accustomed to receive such friendly 
visits from you, I must ask you what brings you 
to me, and how I can serve you ? ” 

The fierce, violent nature of the prince slum- 
bered but lightly. The king’s words aroused it, 
and made his pulse and heart beat stormily. 

“ How’ you can serve me, my brother ? ” he 
said, hastily. “I will tell you, and tnithfully, 
sire ? ” 

The king raised his head, and glanced angrily at 
the burning face of the prince. 

“ I am not accustomed to have my words re- 
peated, and all find that out here to their cost,” 
he said, sternly. 

“ Have the goodness, then, to tell me why you 
have pursued me so long and unrelentingly? 
Wliat have I done to deserve your displeasure and 
such bitter humiliations ? ” 

“Rather ask me what you have done to de- 
serve my love and confidence?” said the king, 
sternly. “ I refer you to your own heart for an 
answer.” 

“Ah, your majesty promised to answer my 
quir:stions, and now you evade them ; but I will re- 
ply frankly. I have done nothing to deserve your 
love, but also nothing to make me unworthy of it 
Why are you, who are so good and kind to all 
others, so stern and harsh with me ? ” 

“I will tell you the truth,” said the king, ear 
nestly. “ You have deserved my displeasure ; you 
have desired to be a free man, to cast aside the 


yoke that Providence placed upon you; you hac 
the grand presumption to dare to be the mastei 
of your own actions.” 

“ And does your majesty desire and expect mf 
to resign this most natural of human rights?’' 
said the prince, angrily. 

“ Yes, I desire and expect it. I can truthfully 
say that I have given my brothers a good exampU 
in this particular.” 

“ But you did not do this willingly. You were 
cruelly forced to submission, and you now wish to 
drive us to an extremity you have, doubtlessly, 
iOng since forgotten. Now, you suffered and 
struggled before declaring yourself conquered.” 

“ No,” said the king, softly, “ I have not for- 
gotten. I still feel the wound in my soul, and at 
times it bums.” 

“And yet, my brother ?” 

“ And yet I will have no pity with you. I say 
to you, as my father said to me: ‘ You must sub- 
mit ; you are a prince, and I am your king I ’ I 
have long since acknowledged that my father was 
right in his conduct to me. I was not only a 
disobedient son^ but a rebellious subject. I richly 
deserved to mount the scaffold with Katte.” 

“ Ah, my brother, there was a time when you 
wept for this faithful and unfortunate friend,” 
cried the prince, reproachfully. 

“ The sons of kings have not the right to choose 
their own path, destiny has marked it out for 
them; they must follow it without wavering. I 
neither placed the crown upon my head, nor the 
yoke upon your neck. We must bear them pa- 
tiently, as God and Providence have ordained, and 
wear them with grace and dignity. You, my 
brother, have acted like a wild horse of the 
desert — ^I have drawn the reins tight, that is all ! ” 

“ You have caught bound, and tamed me,” said 
the prince, with a faint smile ; “ only I feel that 
the bit still pains, and that my limbs still trem- 
ble. But I am ready to submit, and I came to 
tell you so. You desire me to marry, I consent; 
but I hold you responsible for the happiness of 
this marriage. At God’s throne, I will call you 
to justify yourself, and there we will speak as 
equals, as man to man. What right had you to 
rob me of my most holy and beautiful possession ? 
What right have you to lay a heavy chain on 
heart and hand, that love will not help me to 
bear ? I hold you responsible for my miserable 
life, my shattered hopes. Will you accept these 
conditions ? Do you still wish me to marry ? ” 

“ I accept the conditions,” said the king, sol- 
emnly. “ I desire you to marry.” 

“I presume your majesty has chosen a biid« 
for me ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


** You are right, mon cher frere. I have selected 
the Princess Wilhelmina, daughter of Prince Max, 
ot Hesse-Cassel. She not only brings you a for- 
tune, but youth, beauty, and amiability.” 

“ I thank you, sire,” said the prince, coldly and 
formally. “ I would marry her if she were ugly, 
old, and unamiable. But is it allowed me to add 
one condition ? ” 

“ Speak, my brother, I am listening.” 

The prince did not answer immediately ; he 
breathed quickly and heavily, and a glowing red 
suffused his pale, trembling face. 

“ Speak, my brother. Name your conditions,” 
said the king. 

“Well, then, so be it. My first condition is 
that I may be allowed to have a brilliant wedding. 
I wish to invite not only the entire court, but a 
goodly number of Berliners ; I desire all Berlin 
to take part in my happiness, and to convince 
every one, by my gay demeanor and my enter- 
tainment, that I joyfully accept my bride, the 
princess.” 

The king’s eyes rested sorrowfully upon 
his brother’s countenance. He fully understood 
the emotions of his heart, and knew that his 
brother wished to wound and humiliate his faith- 
less sweetheart by his marriage ; that Henry only 
submitted to his wishes because his proud heart 
rebelled at the thought of being pitied as a re- 
jected lover. But he was considerate, and would 
not let it appear that he xmderstood him. 

“I agree to this first proposition,” said the 
king, after a pause, “ and I hope you will allow 
me to be present at this beautiful fete^ and con- 
vince Berlin that we are in hearty unison. Have 
you no other conditions ? ” 

“ Yes, one more.” 

“What is it?” 

“That my marriage shall take place, at the 
latest, in a month.” 

“ You will thus fulfil my particular and personal 
wish,” said the king, smiling. “ I am anxious to 
have this marriage over, for, after the gayeties, I 
wish to leave Berlin. All the arrangements and 
contracts are completed, and I think now there is 
no obstacle ia the way of the marriage. Have 
you another wusb, my brother ? ” 

“ No, sire.” 

“ Then allow me to beg you to grant me a fa- 
vor. I wish to leave a kind remembrance of this 
eventful hour in your heart, and I therefore give 
you a small memento of the same. Will you ac- 
cept my castle of Rheinsberg, with all its sur- 
roundings, as a present from me? Will you 
grant me this pleasure, my brother ? ” 

The king offered his hand, with a loving smile, 


27 

to Henry, and received with apparent pleasure liis 
ardent thanks. 

“ I chose Rheinsberg,” he said, kindly, “ not be- 
cause it is my favorite palace, and I have passed 
many pleasant and happy days there, but because 
none of my other palaces are so appropriate for a 
prince who is discontented with his king. I have 
made that experience myself, and I ^ve you 
Rheinsberg, as my father gave it to me. Go to 
Rheinsberg when you are angry with me and the 
world ; there you can pass the first months of 
your marriage, and God grant it may be a happy 
one ! ” 

The prince answered him with a cold smile, 
and begged leave to withdraw, that he might make 
the necessary preparations for his wedding. 

“We will both make our preparations,” said 
the king, as he bade the prince farewell — “ you 
with your major-domo, and I with Baron Pollnitjs, 
whom I shall send as ambassador to Cassel.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TRAVELLING MUSICIANS. 

The feasts, illuminations, and balls given in 
honor of the newly-married couple, Henry and his 
wife, the Princess Wilhelmina, were at an end. 
The prince and his followers had withdrawn to 
Rheinsberg, and many were the rumor^fe B<“.rliii 
of the brilliant feasts with which he welcomed his 
beautiful bride. She was truly lovely, and the 
good Berliners, who had received her with such 
hearty greetings when she appeared with the 
prince on the balcony, or showed herself to the 
people in an open carriage, declared there could 
be no happier couple than the prince and his 
wife ; they declared that the large, dark eyes of 
the princess rested upon the prince with inex- 
pressible tenderness, and that the prince always 
returned her glance with a joyous smile. It was 
therefore decided that the prince was a happy 
husband, and the blessings of the Berliners fol- 
lowed the charming princess to Rheinsberg, 
where the young couple were to pass their honey- 
moon. 

While the prince was gt^ng splendid and 
seeking distraction, and hoping to forget his pri- 
vate griefs, or perhaps wishing to deceive the 
world as to his real feelings, the king left Sans- 
Souci, to commence one of his customary military 
inspection trips. But he did not go to Konigs- 
berg, as was supposed ; and if Trenck really had 
the intention of murdering him during his sojourn 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


there, it was rendered impossible by the change in 
the king’s plans. Frederick made a tour in his 
Rhine provinces. At Cleves he dismissed his fol- 
lowers, and they returned to Berlin. 

The king declared he needed rest, and wished 
to pass a few days in undisturbed quiet at the 
castle of Moyland. 

No one accompanied him but Colonel Balby, 
his intimate friend, and his cabinet-hussar, Decsen. 
The king was in an uncommonly good humor, and 
his eyes sparkled with delight. After a short 
rest in his chamber, he desired to see Colonel 
Balby. 

To his great astonishment, the colonel found 
him searching through a trunk, which contained a 
few articles of clothing little calculated to arrest 
the attention of a king. 

“ Balby,” said the king, solemnly, but with a 
roguish sparkle of the eye, “I wish to present 
you this plain brown suit. I owe you a re- 
ward for your hearty friendship and your faithful 
services. This is a princely gift. Take it as 
a mark of my grateful regard. That you may 
be convinced, Balby, that I have long been 
occupied in preparing this surprise for you, I 
mform you that these rich articles were made 
secretly for you in Berlin, by your tailor ; I packed 
them myself, and brought them here for you. Ac- 
cept them, then, my friend, and wea” them in 
memory of Frederick.” 

With a solemn bow, the king offered Balby the 
clothes. ^ 

The colonel received this strange present with 
an astonished and somewhat confused countenance. 

The king laughed merrily. “ What,” he said, 
pathetically, “ are you not contented with the fa- 
vor I have shown you ? ” 

Balby knew by the comic manner of the king 
that the sombre suit hid a secret, and he 
thought it wise to allow the king to take his own 
time for explanation. 

“ Sire,” he said, emphatically, “ content is not 
the word to express my rapture. I am enthusias- 
tic, speechless at this unheard-of favor. I am filled 
with profound gratitude to your majesty for hav- 
ing invented a new costume for me, whose lovely 
color will make me appear like a large coffee-bean, 
and make all the coffee sisters adore me.” 

The king was highly amused. “ This dress cer- 
tainly has the power o^ enchantment. When 
Colonel Balby puts on these clothes he will be in- 
visible, but he shall not undergo this transforma- 
tion alone. See, here is another suit, exactly 
like yours, and this is mine. When I array my- 
self in it, I am no longer the king of Prussia, but 
a free, happy man.” 


“ Ah, you are speaking of a disguise,” cried the. 
colonel. 

“ Yes, we will amuse ourselves by playing the 
role of common men for a while, and wander about 
unnoticed and undisturbed. Are you agreed, 
Balby, or do you love your colonel’s uniform bet- 
ter than your freedom ? ” 

“Am I agreed, sire?” cried the colonel; “I 
am delighted with this genial thought.” 

“ Then take your dress, friend, and put it on. 
But stay. Did you bring your violin with you, as 
I told you?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Well, then, when you are dressed, put your 
violin in a case, and with the case under your 
arm, and a little money in your pocket, go to the 
pavilion at the farthest end of the garden ; there 
I w'ill meet you. ' Now hasten, friend, we have no 
time to lose.” 

According to the king’s orders. Colonel Balby 
dressed and went to the pavilion. He did not 
find the king, but two strange men there. One of 
them had on a brown coat, the color of his own, 
ornamented with large buttons of mother-of-pearl ; 
black pantaloons, and shoes with large buckles, 
set with dull white stones ; the lace on his sleeves 
and vest was very coarse. He wore a three-coi> 
nered hat, without ornament ; from under the hat 
fell long, brown, unpowdered hair. 

Behind this stranger there stood another, in 
plain, simple clothes ; under one arm he carried a 
small bag, and under the other a case that con- 
tained either a yard-stick or a flute. He returned 
the colonel’s salutation with a grimace and a pro- 
found bow. A short pause ensued, then the sup 
posed strangers laughed heartily and exclaimed : 

“ Do you not know us, Balby ? ” 

Their voices started the colonel, and he stepped 
back. 

“ Sire, it is yourself.” 

“Yes, it is I, Frederick — not the king. Yes, I 
am Frederick, and this capital servant is my good 
Deesen, who has sworn solemnly not to betray our 
incognito, and to give no one reason to suspect his 
high dignity as royal cabinet -hussar For love ot 
us he will, for a few days, be the servant of two 
simple, untitled musicians, who are travelling 
around the world, seeking their fortunes, but who, 
unfortunately, have no letters of recommenda- 
tion.” 

“But who will recommend themselves by their 
talents and accomplishments.” 

The king laughed aloud. “Balby you forget 
that you are a poor musician, chatting with your 
comrade. Truly your courtly bow suits your 
dress as little as a lace veil would a beggar’s at 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


29 


tire ; yon must lay your fine manners aside for a 
short time, for, with them, you would appear to 
the village beauties we may meet like a monkey, 
and they would laug^ at instead of kissing you.” 

“ So we are to meet country beanties,” said 
Colonel Balby, no longer able to suppress his 
curiosity. “ Tell me, sire, where are we going, 
and what are we going to do ? I shall die of cu- 
liosity.” 

“ Make an effort to die,” said the king, gayly ; 
“you will find it is not so easy to do as you im- 
agine. But I will torture you no longer. You 
ask what we are going to do. Well, we are go- 
ing to amuse ourselves and seek adventures. You 
ask where we are going. Ask that question of 
the sparrow that sits on the house-top — ask where 
it is going, and what is the aim of its journey. 
It will reply, the next bush, the nearest tree, the 
topmost bough of a weeping willow, which stands 
on a lonely grave ; the mast of a ship, sailing on 
the wide sea; or the branch of a noble beech, 
waving before the window of a beautiful maiden. 
I am as incapable of telling you the exact aim 
and end of our journey, friend, as that little bird 
would be. We are as free as the birds of the air. 
Come ! come ! let us fiy, for see, the little spar- 
row has flown — let us follow it.” 

And with a beaming smile illuminating his 
countenance, like a ray of the morning sun, the 
king took the arm of his friend, and followed by 
his servant and cabinct-hussar, Deesen, left the pa- 
vilion. 

As they stood at the 'Htle gate of the garden, 
the king said to Deesen : 

“You must be for us the angel with the flam- 
ing sword, and open the gates of paradise, but 
not to cast us out.” 

Deesen opened the gate, and our adventurers en- 
tered “ the wide, wide world.” 

“ Let us stand here a few moments,” said t^e 
king, as his glance rested upon the green fields 
spread far and wide around him. “ How great 
and beautiful the world appears to-day ! Observe 
Nature’s grand silence, yet the air is full of a 
thousand voices ; and the white clouds wandering 
dreamily in the blue heavens above, are they not 
the misty veils with which the gods of Olympus 
conceal their charms?” 

“ Ah ! sire,” said Balby, with a loving glance at 
the king’s handsome face — “ ah, sire, my eyes 
have no time to gaze at Nature’s charms, they are 
occupied with yourself. When I look upon you, I 
feel that man is indeed made in the image of 
God.” 

“ Were I a god, I should not be content to re- 
semble this worn, faded face. Come, now, let us 
3 


be off I Give me your instrument, Deesen, I will 
carry it. Now I look like a travelling apprentice 
seeking his fortune. The world is all before him 
where to choose his place of rest, and Providence 
his guide. I envy him. He is a free man ! ” 

“Trnly, these poor apprentices would not be- 
lieve that a king was envying them their fate,” 
said Balby, laughing. 

“ Still they are to be envied,” said the king, 
“ for they are free. No, no, at present I envy no 
one ; the world and its sunshine belong to me. 
We will go to Amsterdam, and enjoy the galleries 
and museums.” 

“ I thank your majesty,” said Balby, laughing, 
“ you have saved my life. I should have died of 
curiosity if you had not spoken. Now, I feel 
powerful and strong, and can keep pace with your 
majesty’s wandering steps.” 

Silently they walked on until they reached a 
sign-post. 

“We are now on the border — ^let us bid fare- 
well to the Prussian colors, we see them for the 
last time. Sire, we will greet them with rev- 
erence.” 

He took off his hat and bowed lowly before the 
black and white colors of Prussia, a greeting that 
Deesen imitated with the fervor of a patriot. 

The king did not unite in their enthusiasm ; he 
was writing with his stick upon the ground. 

“ Come here, Balby, and read this,” he saiil, 
pointing to the lines he had traced. “ Can you 
read them ? ” ^ 

“ Certainly,” said Balby, “ the words are, ‘ ma- 
jesty’ and ‘sire.’ ” 

“ So they are, friend. I leave these two words 
on the borders of Prussia ; perhaps on our return 
we may find and resume them. But as long as 
we are on the soil of Holland there must be no 

I 

majesty, no sire.” 

“ What, then, must I call my king ? ” 

“ You must call him friend, voild touV^ 

“ And I ? ” asked Deesen, respectfully ; “ will 
your majesty be so gracious as to tell me your, 
name ? ” 

“ I am Mr. Zoller, travelling musician ; and 
should any one ask you what I want in Amster- 
dam, tell them I intend giving a concert. En 
avant^ mes amis. There lies the first small villagt 
of Holland; in an hour we shall be there, and 
then we will take the stage and go a little into 
the interior. En avan% en avant!''"' 


50 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


CHAPTER XII. 

TRAVELLING ADVENTURES. 

The stage stood before the tavern at Grave, 
and awaited its passengers. The departure of 
the stage was an important occurrence to the in- 
habitants of the little town— an occurrence that 
disturbed the monotony of their lives for a few 
moments, and showed them at least now and then 
a new face, that gave them something to think of, 
and made them dream of the far-off city where the 
envied travellers were going. 

To-day all Grave was in commotion and excite- 
ment. The strangers had arrived at the post- 
house, and after partaking of an excellent dinner, 
engaged three seats in the stage. The good peo- 
ple of Grave hoped to see three strange faces 
looking out of the stage window ; many were the 
surmises of their destiny and their possible motives 
for travelling. They commenced these investiga- 
tions while the strangers were still with them. 

A man had seen them enter the city, dusty and 
exhausted, and he declared that the glance which 
the two men in brown coats had cast at his 
young wife, who had come to the window at his 
call, was very bold — ^yes, even suspicious ; and it 
seemed very remarkable to him that such plain, 
ordinary-looking wanderers should have a ser- 
vant — for, doubtless, the man walking behind 
them, carrying the very small carpet-bag, was 
their slrvant; but, truly, he appeared to be a 
proud person, and had the haughty bearing of a 
general or a field-marshal; he would not even 
return the friendly greetings of the people he 
passed. His masters could not be distinguished 
or rich, for both of them carried a case under 
their arms. What could be in those long cases ? 
what secret was hidden there ? Perhaps they held 
pistols, and the good people of Grave would have 
to deal with robbers or murderers. The appear- 
ance of the strangers was wild and bold enough to 
allow of the worst suspicions. 

The whole towm, as before mentioned, was in 
commotion, and all were anxious to see the three 
strangers, about whom there was certainly some- 
thing mysterious. They had the manners and 
bearing of noblemen, but were dressed like com- 
mon men. 

A crowd of idlers had assembled before the 
post-house, whispering and staring at the windows 
of the guests’ rooms. At last their curiosity was 
about to be gratified — at last the servant appeared 
with the little carpet-bag, and placed it in the 
stage, and returned for the two cases, whose con- 
tents they would so greedily have known. The 


postilion blew his horn, the moment of departar€ 
had arrived. 

A murmur was heard through the crowd — the 
strangers appeared; they approached the stage, 
and with such haughty and commanding glances 
that the men nearest them stepped timidly back. 

The postilion sounded his horn again; the 
strangers were entering the stage. At the door 
stood the postmaster, and behind him his wife, 
the commanding postmistress. 

“ Niclas,” she whispered, “ I must and will 
know who these strangers are. Go and demand 
their passports.” 

The obedient Niclas stepped out and cried in a 
thundering voice to the postilion, who was just 
about to start, to wait. Stepping to the stage, he 
opened the door. 

“ Your passports, gentlemen,” he said, roughly. 
“ You forgot to show me your passports.” 

The curious observers breathed more freely, 
and nodded encouragingly to the daring post- 
master. 

“You rejoice,” murmured his wife, who was 
still standing in the door, from whence she saw 
all that passed, and seemed to divine the thoughts 
of her gaping friends — “you rejoice, but you 
shall know nothing. I shall not satisfy your cu- 
riosity.” 

Mr. Niclas still stood at the door of the stage. 
His demand had not been attended to ; he repeated 
it for the third time. 

“ Is it customary here to demand passports of 
travellers ? ” asked a commanding voice from the 
stage. 

“We can demand them if we wish to do so.” 

“And why do you wish it now ? ” said the same 
voice. 

“ I wish it simply because I wish it,” was the 
reply. 

A stern face now appeared at the door, looking 
angrily at the postmaster. 

“ Think what you say, sir, and be respectful.” 

“ Silence !” interrupted the one who bad first 
spoken. “ Do not let us make an unnecessary 
disturbance, mon ami. Why do you wish to see 
our passports, sir ? ” 

“ Why ? ” asked Niclas, who was proud to play 
so distinguished a part before his comrades— 
“ you wish to know why I desire to see your pass- 
ports ? W ell, then, because you appear to me to 
be suspicious characters.” 

A gay laugh was heard from the Stage. “ Why 
do you suspect us ? ” 

“ Because I never trust people travelling with 
out baggage,” was the laconic reply. 

“ Bravo 1 well answered,” cried the crowd, and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


31 


even Madame Niclas was surprised to see her hus- 
band show such daring courage. 

“ We need no baggage. We are travelling mu- 
sicians, going to Amsterdam.” 

“ Travelling musicians ! All the more reason 
for mistrusting you ; no good was ever heard of 
wandering musicians.” 

“ You are becoming impertinent, sir,” and 
Balby, the tallest and youngest of the two friends, 
sprang from the stage, while the servant swung 
himself from the box, where he was sitting with 
the postilion, and with an enraged countenance 
placed himself beside his master. 

“ If you dare to speak another insulting word, 
you are lost,” cried Balby. 

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice, 
murmured in his ear ; 

“ Do not compromise us.” 

The king now also left the stage, and tried to 
subdue the anger of his companion. 

“ Pardon, sir, the violence of my friend,” said 
the king, with an ironical smile, as he bowed to 
the postmaster. “We are not accustomed to be- 
ing questioned and suspected in this manner, and 
I can assure you that, although we are travelling 
musicians, as it pleased you to say, we are honest 
people, and have played before kings and queens.” 

“ K you are honest, show me your passports ; 
no honest man travels without one 1 ” 

“ It appears to me that no rascal should travel 
without one,” said the king. 

“ I cannot tell who is a rascal ; you may be one 
for aught I know.” 

Balby uttered an angry exclamation and stepped 
nearer to the daring postmaster, wliile his servant 
shook his fist threateningly at Niclas. 

The king dispelled their anger with a single 
glance. 

“ Sir,” he said to Niclas, “ God made my face, 
and it is not my fault if it does not please you ; 
but concerning our passports, they are lying well 
preserved in my carpet-bag. I should think that 
would suffice you.” 

“ No, that does not suffice me,” screamed Niclas ; 

“ show me your passports if I am to believe that 
you are not vagabonds.” 

“ You dare to call us vagabonds ?” cried the king, 
whose patience now also appeared exhausted, and 
whose clear brow was slightly clouded. 

“ The police consider every one criminal until 
ae has proved he is not so,” said Niclas, emphati- 
cally. 

The king’s anger was already subdued. 

“ In the eyes of the police, criminality is then 
the normal condition of manided,” he said, smil- 

tngly. 


“ Sir, you have no right to question the police 
so pointedly,” said Niclas, sternly, “You are 
here to be questioned, and not to question.” 

The king laughingly arrested the uplifted arm 
of his companion, 

“ Mon Dieu,'' he murmured, “ do you not see 
.hat this is amusing me highly ? Ask, sir, I am 
ready to answer.” 

“ Have you a pass ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Then give it to me to vise^ 

“ To do so, I should have to open my bag, and 
that would be very inconvenient ; but, if the law 
absolutely demands it, I will do it.” 

“ The law demands it.” 

The king motioned to his servant, and ordered 
him to carry the bag into the house. 

“Why this delay — why this unnecessary loss 
of time ? ” asked Niclas. “ The postilion can 
wait no longer. If he arrives too late at the next 
station, he will be fined.” 

“ I will not wait another minute,” cried the 
postilion, determinately ; “ get in, or I shall start 
without you.” 

“ Show me your passports, and then get in,” 
cried Niclas. 

The strangers appeared confused and undecided. 
Niclas looked triumphantly at his immense crowd 
of listeners, who were gazing at him with amaze- 
ment, awaiting in breathless stillness the unravel- 
ling of this scene. 

“ Get in, or I shall start,” repeated the pos- 
tilion. 

“ Give me your passports, or I will not let yon 
go ! ” screamed Niclas ; and taking the two myste- 
rious cases from the stage, he placed them* before 
the strangers. 

“ Let us go into the house,” whispered the king 
to his friends ; “ we must make bonne mine d 
mauvais jeu ; ” and he approached the door of 
the house — there stood the wife of the postmaster, 
with sparkling eyes and a malicious grin. 

“ The postilion is going, and you will lose your 
money,” she said ; “ they never return money 
when once they have it.” 

“ Ah ! I thought that was only a habit of the 
church,” said the king, laughing ; “ nevertheless, 
the postmaster can keep what he has. Will you 
have the kindness to show me a room, where I 
can open my bag at leisure, and send some coflee 
and good wine to us ? ” 

There was something so commanding in the 
king’s voice, so imposing in his whole appearance, 
that even the all-conquering Madame Niclas felt 
awed, and she silently stepped forward and showed 
him her best room. The servant followed with 


32 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


the two cases and the bag, and laid them upon the 
table, then placed himself at the door. 

“ Now, madamo, leave us,” ordered the king, 
“ and do as I told you.” 

Madame Niclas left, and the gentlemen were 
once more alone. 

“ Now, what shall we do ? ” said the king, smil- 
ingly. “ I believe there is danger of our wonder- 
ful trip faUing through.” 

“It is only necessary for your majesty to make 
yourself known to the postmaster,” said Colonel 
Balby. 

“ And if he will not believe me, this fHpon 
who declares that no one could tell by my appear- 
ance whether I was a rascal or not, this dull-eyed 
simpleton, who will not see the royal mark upon 
my brow, which my courtiers see so plainly writ- 
ten there ? No, no, my friend, that is not the way. 
We have undertaken to travel as ordinary men — 
we must now see how common men get through 
the world. It is necessary to show the police 
that we are at least honest men. Happily, I be- 
lieve I have the means to do so at hand. Open 
our ominous bag, friend Balby ; I think you will 
discover my portfolio, and in it a few blank passes, 
and my state seal.” 

Colonel Balby did as the king ordered, and drew 
from the bag the portfolio, with its precious 
contents. 

The king bade Balby sit down and fill up the 
blanks at his dictation. 

The pass was drawn up for the two brothers, 
Frederick and Henry Zoller, accompanied by their 
servant, with the intention of travelling through 
Holland. 

The king placed his signature under this impor- 
tant document. 

“ Now, it is only necessary to put the great state 
seal under it, and we shall be free ; but how will 
we get a light ? ” 

“I will obtain one immediately,” said Balby, 
hasitening to the door. 

The king held him back. “ My brother, you 
are very innocent and thoughtless. You forget 
entirely that we are suspected criminals. Should 
we demand a light, and immediately appear with 
our passes, do you not believe that this dragon of 
a postmaster would immediately think that we 
had written them ourselves, and put a forged seal 
under them ? ” 

“ How, then, are we to get a light ? ” said Bal- 
by, confused. 

The king thought a moment, then laughed gayly. 

“ I have found a way,” he said ; “ go down into 
the dining-room, where I noticed an eternal lamp 
Durning, not to do honor to the Mother of God, 


but to smokers; light your cigar and bring it 
here. I will light the sealing-wax by it, and we 
will have the advantage of drowning the smell of 
the wax with the smoke.” 

Balby flew away, and soon returned with the 
burning cigar ; the king lit the sealing-wax, and 
put the seal under the passport. 

“ This will proclaim us free from all crime. 
Now, brother Henry, call the worthy postmas- 
ter.” 

When Niclas received the passpoi^ from the 
king’s hand his countenance cleared, and he made 
the two gentlemen a graceful bow, and begged 
them to excuse the severity that his duty made 
necessary. 

. “We have now entirely convinced you that we 
are honest people,” said the king, smiling, “ and 
you will forgive us that we have so little bag- 
gage.” 

“ Well, I understand,” said Mr. Niclas, con- 
fusedly, “ musicians are seldom rich, but live from 
hand to mouth, and must thank God if their 
clothes are good and clean. Yours are entirely 
new, and you need no baggage.” 

The king laughed merrily. “ Can we now go ? ” 
he asked. 

“Yes; but how, sir? You doubtlessly heard 
that the postilion left as soon as you entered the 
house.” 

“ Consequently we are without a conveyance ; 
we have paid for our places for nothing, and must 
remain in this miserable place,” said the king, im- j 
patiently. 

Niclas reddened with anger. “ Sir, what right^ ;j 
have you to call the town of Grave a miserable ' 
place? Believe me, it would be very difficult for 
you to become a citizen of this miserable place, 
for you must prove that you have means enough 
to live in a decent manner, and it appears to 
me — ” 

“ That we do not possess them,” said the king ; 

“ vraiment^ you are right, our means are very in- 
sufficient, and as the inhabitants of Grave will not 
grant us the rights of citizens, it is better for us 
to leave immediately. Have, therefore, the good- 
ness to furnish us with the means of doing so.” 

“ There are two ways, an expensive and a cheap 
one,” said Niclas, proudly : “ extra post, or the 
drag-boat. The first is for respectable people, the 
second for those who have nothing, and are 
nothing.” 

“ Then the last is for us,” said the king, laugh- 
ing. “ Is it not so, brother Henry ? — ^it is best 
for us to go in the drag-boat.” 

“ That would be best, brother Frederick.” 

“ Have the kindness to call our servant to take 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMIL?. 


33 


ilie bag, and you, Mr. Niclas, please give us a 
guide to show us to the canal.” 

The king took his box and approached the 
door. 

“ And my coffee, and the wine,” asked Mrs. 
Niclas, just entering with the drinks. 

“ We have no time to make use of them, ma- 
dame,” said the king, as he passed her, to leave 
the room. 

But Madame Niclas held him back. 

“No time to make use of them,” she cried; 
“ but I had to take time to make the coffee, and 
bring the wine from the cellar.” 

“ J/ais, mon Dieu^ madame,” said the impatient 
king. 

“ Mais^ mov^ Dieu, monsieur^ vous croyez que je 
travaillerai pour le roi de Prusse, dest-d-dire sans 
paiementP 

The king broke out into a hearty laugh, and 
Balby had to join him, but much against his will. 

“ Brother Henry,” said the king, laughing, 
“ that is a curious way of speaking ; ‘ travailler 
pour le roi de Prusse' means here to work for 
nothing. I beg you to convince this good woman 
:hut slie has not worked for the King of Prussia, 
and pay her well. Madame, I have the honor to 
bid you farewell, and be assured it will always 
cheer me to think of you, and to recall your charm- 
ing speech.” 

The king laughingly took his friend’s arm, and 
nodded kindly to Madame Niclas as he went down 
the steps. 

“ I tell you what,” said Madame Niclas, as she 
stood at the door with her husband, watching the 
departing strangers, who, in company with the 
guide and their servant, were walking down the 
street that led to the canal — “ I tell you I do not 
trust those strangers, the little one in particular ; 
he had a very suspicious look.” 

“ But his passport was all right.” 

“ But, nevertheless, all is not right with them. 
These strangers are disguised princes or robbers, 
I am fully convinced.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE DRAG-BOAT. 

What a crowd, what noise, what laughing and 
chatting! How bright and happy these people 
are who have nothing and are notldng ! How 
j gayly they laugh and talk together — with what 
i stoical equanimity they regard the slow motion of 


the boat I they accept it as an unalterable nece& 
sity. How kindly they assist each other ; with 
what natural politeness the men leave the best 
seats for the women ! 

The boat is very much crowded. There are a 
great number of those amiable people who are 
nothing, and have nothing, moving from place to 
place cheerily. 

The men on the shore who, with the aid of 
ropes, are pulling the boat, those two-legged 
horses, groan from exertion. The bagpipe player 
is making his g.«yest music, but in vain — he can- 
not allure the young people to dance ; there is no 
place for dancing, the large deck of the boat is 
covered with human beings. Old men, and even 
women, are obliged to stand ; the two long benches 
running down both sides of the boat are filled. 

The king enjoyed the scene immensely. The 
free fife about him, the entire indifference to his 
own person, charmed and delighted him. He 
leaned against the cabin, by which he was sitting, 
and regarded the crowd before him. Suddenly he 
was touched on the shoulder, and not in the gen- 
tlest manner. Looking up, he met the discon- 
tented face of a peasant, who was speaking vio- 
lently, but in Dutch, and the king did not under- 
stand him ; he, therefore slightly shrugged his 
shoulders and remained quiet. 

The angry peasant continued to gesticulate, and 
pointed excitedly at the king, and then at a pale 
young woman who was standing before him, and 
“iheld two children in her arms. 

The king still shrugged his shoulders silently, 
but when the peasant grasped him for the second 
time he waved him off, and his eye was so stern 
that the terrified and astonished peasant stepped 
back involuntarily. 

At this moment a displeased murmur was heard 
among the crowd, and a number arranged them- 
selves by the side of the peasant, who approached 
the king with a determined countenance. 

The king remained sitting, and looked sur- 
prised at the threatening countenances of the 
people, whose angry words he tried in vain to 
comprehend. 

The still increasing crowd was suddenly sepa- 
rated by two strong arms, and Balby, who had 
been sitting at the other end of the boat, now ap- 
proached the king, accompanied by a friend, and 
placed himself at the king’s side. 

“ Tell me what these men want, mon ami^' said 
Frederick, hastily; “ I do not understand Dutch.” 

“ I understand it, sir,” said the friend who ac- 
companied Balby ; “ these people are reproaching 
you.” 

“ Reproaching me I And why ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Tlie stranger turned to the peasant who had 
first spoken, and who now began to make himself 
heard again in loud and angry tones. 

“ Monsieur,” said the stranger, “ these good 
people are angry with you, and, it appears to me, 
not entirely without cause. There is a language 
that is understood without words, its vocabulary 
is in the heart. Here stands a poor, sick woman, 
with her twins in her arms. You, monsieur, are 
the only man seated. These good people think it 
would be but proper for you to resign your seat.” 

“ This is unheard-of insolence,” exclaimed Bal- 
by, placing himself determinedly before the 
king ; “ let any one dare advance a step farther, 
and I—” 

“ Quiet, clier frhre^ the people are right, and I 
am ashamed of myself that I did not understand 
them at once.” 

He rose and passed through the crowd with a 
calm, kindly face, and, not appearing to notice 

them, approached the young woman, who was 
kneeling, exhausted on the floor. With a kind, 
sympathetic smile, he raised her and led her to 
his seat. There was something so noble and win- 
ning in his manner, that those who were so 
shortly before indignant, were unconsciously 
touched. A murmur of approval was heard ; the 
rough faces beamed with friendly smiles. 

The king did not observe this, he was still occu- 
pied with the poor woman, and, while appearing 
to play with the children, gave each of them a 
gold piece. But their little hands were not accus- 
tomed to carry such treasures, and could not hold 
them securely. The two gold pieces rolled to the 
ground, and the ringing noise announced the rich 
gift of Frederick. Loud cries of delight were 
heard, and the men waved their hats in the air. 
The king reddened, and looked down in con- 
fusion. 

The peasant, who had first been so violent tow- 
ard the king, and at whose feet the money had 
fallen, picked it up and gave it to the children ; 

then, with a loud laugh, he offered his big, rough 
hand to the king, and said something in a kindly 
tone. 

“ The good man is thanking you, sir,” said the 
stranger. “ He thinks you a clever, good-hearted 
fellotv, and begs you to excuse his uncalled-for 
violence.” 

The king answered with a silent bow. He who 
was accustomed to receive the world’s approval as 
his just tribute, was confused and ashamed at the 
applause of these poor people. 

The king was right in saying he left his royalty 
on Prussian soil; he really was embarrassed at 
this publicity, and was glad when Deesen an- 


nounced that lunch was prepared for him. He 
gave Balby a nod to follow, and withdrew into the 
cabin. 

“ Truly, if every-day life has so many adven- 
tures, I do not understand how any one can com- 
plain of ennui. Through what varied scenes I have 
passed to-day ! ” 

“ But our adventures arise from the peculiarity 
of our situation,” said Balby. “ All these littl 
contretemps are annoying and disagreeable, but 
seem only amusing to a king in disguise.” 

“ But a disguised king learns many things,” 
said Frederick, smiling ; “ from to-day, I shall be 
no longer surprised to hear the police called a 
hateful institution. Vraiment^ its authority and 
power is vexatious, but necessary. Never speak 
again of my god-like countenance, or the seal of 
greatness which the Creator has put upon the 
brow of princes to distinguish them from the rest 
of mankind. Mons. Niclas saw nothing great 
stamped upon my brow ; to him I had the face of 
a criminal — ^my passport only made an honest 
man of me. Come, friends, let us refresh our- 
selves.” 

While eating, the king chatted pleasantly with 
Balby of the charming adventures of the day. 

“ Truly,” he said, laughing, as the details of 
the scene on deck were discussed, “ without the 
interference of that learned Dutchman, the King 
of Prussia would have been in dangerous and 
close contact with the respectable peasant. Ah, I 
did not even thank my protecting angel. Did you 
speak to him, brother Henry ? Where is he from, 
and what is his name ? ” 

“ I do not know, sir ; but from his speech and 
manner he appeared to me to be an amiable and 
cultivated gentleman.” 

“ Go and invite him to take a piece of pie with 
us. Tell him Mr. ZoUer wishes to thank him for 
his assistance, and begs the honor of his acquaint- 
ance. You see, my friend, I am learning how to 
be polite, to flatter, and conciliate, as becomes a 
poor travelling musician. I beg you, choose your 
words well. Be civil, or he might refuse to come, 
and I thirst for company.” 

Balb-y returned in a few moments, with the 
stranger. 

Here, my friend,” said Balby, “I bring you 
our deliverer in time of need. He will gladly take 
his share of the pie.” 

“ And he richly deserves it,” said the king, as 
he greeted the stranger politely. “ Truly, mon- 
sieur, I am very much indebted to you, and this 
piece of pie that I have the honor to offer you 
is but a poor reward for your services. I believa 
I never saw larger fists than that terrible pea» 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


35 


Hit’s ; a closer acquaintance with them would 
have been very disagreeable. I thank you for 
preventing it.” 

“ Travellers make a variety of acquaintances,” 
said the stranger, laughing, and seating himself 
on the bench by the king’s side, with a familiarity 
that terrified Balby. “ I count you, sir, among 
the agreeable ones, and I thank you for this priv- 
ilege.” 

“ I hope you will make the acquaintance of 
this pie, and find it agreeable,” said the king. 
“Eat, monsieur, and let us chat in the mean 
while — Henry, why are you standing there so 
grave and respectful, not daring to be seated ? I 
do not believe this gentleman to be a prince trav- 
elling incognito.” 

“ No, sir, take your place,” exclaimed the 
stranger, laughing, “ you will not offend etiquette. 
I give you my word that I am no concealed prince, 
and no worshipper of princes. I am proud to de- 
clare this.” 

“ Ah ! you are proud not to be a prince ? ” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“ It appears to me,” said Balby, looking at the 
king, “ tha?^ a prince has a great and enviable po- 
sition.” 

“But a position, unfortunately, that but few 
princes know how to fill worthily,” said the king, 
smiling. “ Every man who is sufiicient for him- 
relf is to be envied.” 

“You speak my thoughts .exactly, sir,” said 
If he stranger, who had commenced eating his 
piece of pie with great zeal “ Only the free are 
» happy.” 

“ Are you happy ? ” asked the king. 

“Yes, sir; at least for the moment I am.” 

“ ^Yhat countryman are you ? ” 

“ I am a Swiss, sir.” 

“ A worthy and respectable people. From what 
part of Switzerland do you come ? ” 

“ From the little town of Morges.” 

“ Not far, then, from Lausanne, and the lovely 
lake of Geneva ; not far from Ferney, where the 
great Voltaire resides, and from whence he darts 
his scorching, lightning-flashes to-day upon those 
whom he blessed yesterday. Are you satisfied 
with your government ? Are not your patrician 
fan)ilies a little too proud ? Are not even the cit- 
izens of Berne arrogant and imperious ? ” 

“ We have to complain of them, sir, but very 
jurely.” 

“ Are you now residing in Holland ? ” 

“ No, I am travelling,” answered the stranger, 
shortly. He had held for a long time a piece of 
pie on his fork, trying in vain to put it in his 
mouth. 


The king had not observed this ; he had for- 
gotten that kings and princes only have the right 
to carry on a conversation wholly with questions, 
and that it did not become Mr. Zoller to be so in- 
quisitive. 

“ What brought you here ? ” he asked, hastily. 

“ To complete my studies, sir,” and, with a 
clouded brow, the stranger laid his fork and pie 
upon his plate. 

But the king’s questions flowed on in a con- 
tinued stream. 

“ Do you propose to remain here ? ” 

“ I believe not, or rather I do not yet know,” 
answered the stranger, with a sarcastic smile, that 
brought Balby to desperation. 

“ Are not the various forms of government 
of Switzerland somewhat confusing in a political 
point of view ?” 

“No, for all know that the cantons are free, as 
they should be.” 

“ Does that not lead to skepticism and indiffer- 
ence ? ” 

The stranger’s patience was exhausted ; with- 
out answering the king, he pushed back bis plate 
and arose from the table. 

“ Sir, allow me to say that, in consideration of 
a piece of pie, which you will not even give me 
time to eat, you ask too many questions.” 

“ You are right, and I beg your pardon,” said 
the king, as he smilingly nodded at Balby to re- 
main quiet. “We travel to improve ourselves, 
but you have just cause of complaint. I will first 
give you time to eat your piece of pie. Eat, 
therefore, monsieur, and when you have finished, 
if it is agreeable, w^ will chat awhile longer.” 

When the stranger arose to depart, after an 
animated and interesting conversation, the king 
offered him his hand. 

“Give me your address,” he said, “that is, I 
beg of you to do so. You say you have not yet 
chosen a profession ; perhaps I may have the op- 
portunity of being useful to you.” 

The Swiss gave him his card, with many thanks, 
and returned to the deck. 

The king gazed thoughtfully after him. 

“ That man pleases me, and when I am no 
longer a poor musician, I shall call him to my 
side. — Well, brother Henry, what do you think 
of this man, who, as I see, is named Mr. Le- 
Catt ? ” 

“ I find him rather curt,” said Balby, “ and he 
appears to be a great republican.” 

“ You mean because he hates princes, and waa 
somewhat rude to me. Concerning the first, you 
must excuse it in a republican, and I confess tluif 
were I in his place I would probably do the same 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


as to the last, ho was right to give Mr. Zoller a les- 
son in manners. Poor Zoller is not yet acquainted 

with the customs of the common world, and makes 
all manner of mistakes against hon ton. I be- 
lieve to-day is not the first time he has been re- 
proved for want of manners.” 

“ Mr. Zoller is every inch a king,” said Balby, 
laughing. 

[Note. — ^The king’s conversation with Mr. Le Catt is 
historical (see l’hi6bault, vol. i , p. 218). The king did not 
forget his travelling adventure, hut on his return to 
Prussia, called Le Catt to court and gave him the position 
of lecturer, and for twenty years he enjoyed the favor and 
confidence of the king.] 


CHAPTER XIV. 

IN AMSTERDAM. 

Wearied, indeed utterly exhausted, the king and 
Balby returned to the hotel of the Black Raven, 
at that time the most celebrated in Amsterdam. 
They had been wandering about the entire day, 
examining with never-ceasing interest and delight 
the treasures of art which the rich patricians of 
Amsterdam had collected in their princely homes 
and the public museums. No one supposed that 
this small man in the brown coat, with dusty shoes 
and coarse, unadorned hat, could be a king — a 
king whose fame resounded throughout the whole 
of Europe. Frederick had enjoyed the great hap- 
piness of pursuing his journey and his studies un- 
noticed and unknown. He had many amusing and 
romantic adventures ; and the joy of being an in- 
dependent man, of which he had heretofore only 
dreamed, he was now realizing fully. 

The king was compelled now to confess that his 
freedom and manhood were completely overcome. 
Hunger had conquered him — hunger! the earth- 
ly enemy of all great ideas and exalted feelings. 
The king was hungry 1 He was obliged to yield 
to that physical power which even the rulers of 
this world must obey, and Balby and himself had 
returned to the hotel to eat and refresh them, 
selves. 

“ Now, friend, see that you order something to 
rejoice and strengthen our humanity,” said Fred- 
erick, stretching himself comfortably upon the 
divan. “ It is a real pleasure to me to be hungry 
and partake of a good meal — a pleasure which the 
King of Prussia will often envy the Messieurs Zol- 
ler. To be hungry and to eat is one of life’s rare 
enjoyments generally denied to kings, and yet,” 
whispered he, thoughtfully, “our whole life is 
nothing but a never-ceasing hungering and thirst- 


ing after happiness, content, and rest. The world, 
alas 1 gives no repose, no satisfying portion. Broth- 
er Henry, let us eat and be joyful ; let us even 
meditate on a good meal as an ardent maiden con- 
secrates her thoughts to a love-poem which she 
will write in her album in honor of her beloved. 
Truly there are fools who in the sublimity of their 
folly wish to appear indifferent to such earthly 
pleasures, declaring that they are necessary evils, 
most uncomfortable bodily craving, and nothing 
more. They are fools who do not understand tltat 
eating and drinking is an art, a science, the soul 
of the soul, the compass of thought and feeling. 
Dear Balby, order us a costly meal. I wish to be 
gay and free, light-minded and merry-hearted to- 
day. In order to promote this we must, before all 
other things, take care of these earthly bodies and 
not oppress them with common food.” 

“We will give them, I hope, the sublimest 
nourishment which the soil of Holland produces,” 
said Balby, laughing. “You are not aware, M. 
Frederick Zoller, that we are now in a hotel whose 
hostess is worshipped, almost glorified, by the 
good Hollanders.” 

“ And is it this sublime piece of flesh which you 
propose to place before me ?” said the king, with 
assumed horror. “ Will you satisfy the soul of iny, 
soul with this Holland beauty ? I do not share 
the enthusiasm of the Hollanders. I shall not 
worship this woman. I shall find her coarse, old,^ 
and ugly.” 

“But listen, Zoller. These good Dutchmen 
worship her not because of her perishable beauty, 
but because of a famous pie w'hich she alone in 
Amsterdam knows how to make.” 

“ Ah, that is better. I begin now to appreciate 
the Dutchmen, and if the pie is good, I will wor- 
ship at the same sh’rine. Did you not remark, 
brother Henry, that while you stood carried away 
by your enthusiasm before Rembrandt’s picture of 
the ‘ Night Watch ’ — a picture which it grieves mo 
to say I cannot obtain,” sighed the king — “ these 
proud Hollanders call it one of their national 
treasures, and will not sell it — well, did you not 
see that I was conversing zealously with three or 
four of those thick, rubicund, comfortable- 
looking mynheers ? No doubt you thought we 
were rapturously discussing the glorious paintings 
before which we stood, and for this the good Hol- 
landers were rolling their eyes in ecstasy. No, sir ; 
no, sir. We spoke of a pie! They recognized 
me as a stranger, asked me from whence I came, 
where we lodged, etc., etc. And when I mentioned 
the Black Raven, they went off into ecstatic 
raptures over the venison pasty of Madame von 
Blaken. They then went on to relate that Madame 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


37 


Blaken was renowned throughout all Holland be- 
cause of this venison pasty of which she alone had 
the recipe, and which she prepared always alone and 
with closed doors. Her portrait is to be seen in all 
the shop windows, and all the stadtholders dine 
once a month in the Black Raven to enjoy this 
pie. Neither through prayers nor entreaties, com* 
mands, or threatenings, has Madame Blaken been 
induced to give up her recipe or even to go to the 
castle and prepare the pasty. She declares that 
this is the richest possession of the Black Raven, 
and all who would be so happy as to enjoy it 
must partake of it at her table. Balby ! Balby ! 
hasten my good fellow, and command the venison 
pasty,” said Frederick, eagerly. “Ah! what bliss 
to lodge in the Black Raven 1 Waiter, I say I fly 
to this exalted woman ! ” 

Balby rushed out to seek'the hostess and have 
himself announced. 

Madame Blaken received him in her boudoir, to 
which she had withdrawn to rest a little after the 
labors of*the day. These labors were ever a victory 
and added to her fame. There was no better table 
prepared in Holland than that of the Black Ra- 
ven. She was in full toilet, having just left 
the dinner table where she had presided at the ta- 
ble d'hote as lady of the house, and received with 
dignity the praise of her guests. These encomi- 
ums still resounded in her ears, and she reclined 
upon the divan and listened to their pleasing echo. 
The door was opened and the head waiter an- 
nounced Mr. Zoller. The countenance of Madame 
Blaken was dark,*’ and she was upon the point of 
declining to receive him, but it was too late ; the 
daring Zoller had had the boldness to enter just 
behind the waiter, and he was now making his 
most reverential bow to the lady. Madame Blaken 
returned this greeting with a slight nod of the 
head, and she regarded the stranger in his cheap 
and simple toilet with a rather contemptuous 
smile. She thought to herself that this ordinary 
man had surely made a mistake in entering her 
hotel. Neither his rank, fortune, nor celebrity could 
justify his lodging at the Black Raven. She was 
resolved to reprove her head waiter for allowing 
such plain and poor people to enter the best hotel 
in Amsterdam. 

“Sir,” said she, in a cold and cutting tone, 
“you come without doubt to excuse your brother 
and yourself for not having appeared to-day at my 
table dhote. You certainly know that politeness 
requires that you should dine in the hotel where 
you lodge. Do not distress yourself, however, sir. 
I do not feel offended now that I have seen you. 
I understand fully why you did not dine with me, 
but sought your modest meal elsewhere. The ta- 


ble dhote in the Black Raven is the most expen- 
sive in Amsterdam, and only wealthy people put 
their feet under my table and enjoy my dishes.” 

While she thus spoke, her glance wandered 
searchingly over Balby, who did not seem to re- 
mark it, or to comprehend her significant words. 

“ Madame,” said he, “allow me to remark that 
we have not dined. My brother, whose will is 
always mine, prefers taking his dinner in his own 
apartment, where he has more quiet comfort and 
can better enjoy your rare viands. He never 
dines at a table dhote. In every direction he has 
heard of your wonderful pie, and I come in his 
name to ask that you will be so good as to pre- 
pare one for his dinner to-day.” 

Madame Blaken laughed aloud. “ Truly said ; 
that is not a bad idea of your brother’s. My 
pasty is celebrated throughout all Holland, and I 
have ’generally one ready in case a rich or re- 
nowned guest should desire it. But this pie is 
not for every man ! ” 

“ My brother wants it for himself — himself 
alone,” said Balby, decisively. Even the proud 
hostess felt his tone imposing. 

“ Sir,” said she, after a short pause, “ forgive 
me if I speak plainly to you. You wish to eat 
one of my renowned pies, and to have it served in 
a private room, as the General Stadtholder and 
other high potentates are accustomed to do. Well, 
I have this morning a pasty made with truffles 
and Chinese birds’-nests, but you cannot have it I 
To be frank, it is enormously dear, and I think 
neither your brother nor yourself could pay for 
it!” 

And now it was Balby’s turn to laugh aloud, 
and he did so with the free, unembarrassed gayety 
of a man who is sure of his position, and is neither 
confused nor offended. 

Madame Blaken was somewhat provoked by this 
unrestrained merriment. “You laugh, sir, but I 
have good reason for supposing you to be poor 
and unknown. You came covered with dust and 
on foot to my hotel, accompanied by one servant 
carrying a small carpet-bag. You have neither 
equipage, retinue, nor baggage. You receive no 
visits ; and, as it appears, make none. You are 
always dressed in your simple, modest, rather for- 
lorn-looking brown coats. “You have never taken 
a dinner here, but pass the day abroad, and when 
you return in the evehing you ask for a cup of 
tea and a few slices of bread and butter. Rich 
people do not travel in this style, and I therefore 
have the right to ask if you can afford to pay for 
my pasty ? I do not know who or what you are^ 
nor your brother’s position in the world.” 

“ Oh,” cried Bdby, who was highly amused by 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


the candor of the hostess, “ my brother has a 
most distinguished position I assure you — his 
fame resounds throughout Germany.” 

“Rah! ’’said Madame Blaken, shrugging her 
shoulders; “the name is entirely unknown to us. 
Pray, what is your brother, and for what is he 
celebrated ? ” 

“ For his flute,” answered Balby, with solemn 
gi'avity. 

Madame Blaken rose and glanced scornfully at 
Balby. “ Are you making sport of me, sir ? ” 
said she, threateningly. 

“ Not in the least, madame ; I am telling you an 
important truth. My brother is a renowned vir- 
tuoso?'* 

“ A virtuoso ? ” repeated the hostess ; “I do 
not understand the word. Pray, what is a vir- 
tuoso ? ” 

“ A virtuoso^ madame, is a musician who makes 
such music as no other man can make. He gives 
concerts, and sells the tickets for an enormous 
price, and the world rushes to hear his music. I 
assure you, madame, my brother can play so en- 
chantingly that those who hear his flute are forced 
to dance in spite of themselves. He receives 
large sums of gold, and if he gives a concert here 
you will see that all your distinguished people will 
flock to hear him. You can set your pasty before 
him without fear — he is able to pay richly for it.” 

Madame Blaken rose without a word and ad- 
vanced toward the door. “ Come, sir, come. I am 
going to your brother.” Without waiting for an 
answer, she stepped through the corridor and 
tapped lightly at the stranger’s door. She was on 
the point of opening it, but Balby caught her hand 
hastily. 

“ Madame,” said he, “allow me to enter and in- 
quire if you can be received.” He wished to draw 
her back from the door, but the hostess of the 
Black Raven was not the woman to be with- 
dravm. 

“You wish to ask if I can enter?” repeated 
she. “ I may well claim that privilege in my own 
house.” 

With a determined hand she knocked once 
more upon the door, opened it immediately and 
entered, followed by Balby, who by signs endeav- 
ored to explain and beg pardon for the intru- 
sion. 

Frederick did not regard him, his blue eyes 
were fixed upon the woman who, with laughing 
good-humor, stepped up to him and held out both 
of her large, coarse hands in greeting. 

“ Sir, I come to convince myself if what your 
brother said was true.” 

“ Well, madame, what has my brother said ? ” 


“He declares that you can whistle splendidly, 
and all the world is forced to dance after your 
music.” 

“ I said play the flute, madame 1 I said play the 
flute !” cried Balby, horrified. 

“ Well, flute or whistle,” said Madame Blaken, 
proudly, “ it’s the same thing. Be so good, sir, 
as to whistle me something ; I will then decide as 
to the pasty.” 

The king looked at Balby curiously. | 

“ Will you have the goodness, brother, t(^ex’ 
plain madame’s meaning, and what she requires 
of me?” 

“ Allow me to explain myself,” said the hostess. 
“ This gentleman came and ordered a rich pie 
for you ; this pasty has given celebrity to my 
house. It is true I have one prepared, but I would 
not send it to you. Would you know why ? This 
is an enormously expensive dish, arid I have no 
reason to believe that you are in a condition to 
pay for it. I said this to your brother, and I 
might with truth have told him that I regretted 
to see him in ray hotel — ^not that you are in 
yourselves objectionable, on the contrary, you 
appear to me to be harmless and amiable men, 
but because of your purses. I fear that you do 
not know the charges of first-class hotels, and 
will be amazed at your bill. Your brother, how- 
ever, assures me that you can afford to pay for 
aU you order; that you make a great deal of 
money ; that you are a virtuoso^ give concerts, 
and sell tickets at the highest price. Now, I will 
convince myself if you are a great musician and 
can support yourself. Whistle me something, and 
I will decide as to the pie.” 

The king listened to all this with suppressed 
merriment, and gave Balby a significant look. 

“Bring my flute, brother; I will convince 
madame that I am indeed a virtuoso?'* 

“Let us hear,” said Madame Blaken, seating 
herself upon the sofa from which the king had 
just arisen. 

Frederick made, with indescribable solemnity, a 
profound bow to the hostess. He placed the 
flute to his lips and began to play, but not in his 
accustomed masterly style — not in those mild, 
floating melodies, those solemn, sacred, and ex- 
alted strains which it was his custom to draw 
from his beloved flute. He played a gay and bril- 
liant solo, full of double trills and rhapsodies ; it 
was an astounding medley, which seemed to 
make a triumphal march over the instrument, 
overcoming all difficulties. But those soft tones 
which touched the soul and roused to noblo 
thoughts were wanting ; in truth, the melod? 
failed, the music was wanting. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


39 


Madame Blaken listened with erer-increasing 
rapture to this wondrous exercise; these trills, 
Bpriiiging from octave to octave, drew forth her 
loudest applause ; she trembled with ecstasy, and 
as the king closed with a brilliant cadence, she 
clapped her hands and shouted enthusiastically^ 
She stood up respectfully before the artiste in the 
simple brown coat, and bowing low, said ear- 
nestly : 

“ Your brother was right, you can surely earn 
much money by your whistle. You whistle as 
clearly as my mocking-bird. You shall have the 
pie — I go to order it at once,” and she hastened 
from the room. 

“ Well,” said the king, laughing, “ this was a 
charming scene, and I thank you for it, brother 
H^nry. It is a proud and happy feeling to know 
V'at you can stand upon your feet, or walk alone ; 
m other words, that you can earn a support. 
Now, if the sun of Prussia sets, I shall not hun- 
ger, for I can earn my bread ; Madame Blaken 
assures me of it. But, Henry, did I not play emi- 
nently ? ” . . 

“ That was the most glittering, dazzling piece 
for a concert which I ever heard,” said Balby, 
“ and Mr. Zoller may well be proud of it, but I 
counsel him not to play it before the King of Prus- 
sia; he would, in his jealousy, declare it was 
uot music, nothing but sound, and signifying 
nothing.” 

“ Bravo, my friend,” said Frederick, taking his 
friend’s hand ; “ yes, he would say that. Mr. Zol- 
ler played like a true virtuoso^ that is to say, with- 
out hitellect and without soul ; he did not make 
music, only artistic tones. But here comes the 
pasty, and I shall relish it wondrous well. It is 
the first toeat I have ever earned with my flute. 
Let us eat, brother Henry.” 

CHAPTER XY. 

THE KING WITHOUT SHOES. 

The pie was really worthy of its reputation, and 
the king enjoyed it highly. He was gay and talk- 
ative, and amused himself in recalling the varied 
adventures of the past five days. 

“ They will soon be temjpi passati, these giorni 
felicey' he said, sighing. “To-day is the last day 
of our freedom and happiness ; to-morfow we 
must take up our yoke, and exchange our simple 
brown coats for dashing uniforms.” 

“I know one, at least, who is rejoicing,” said 


Balby, laughing, “ the unhappy Deesen, who has 
just sworn most solemnly that he would throw 
himself in the river if he had to play much longer 
the part of a servant without livery-;-a servant of 
two unknown musicians ; and he told me, with 
tears in his eyes, that not a respectable man in 
the house would speak to him ; that the pretty 
maids would not even listen to his soft sighs and 
tender words.” 

“ Dress makes the man,” said the king, laugh- 
ing ; “ if Deesen wore his cabinet-hussar livery 
these proud beauties who now despise, would 
smile insidiously. How strangely the world is 
constituted ! But let us enjoy our freedom while 
we may. We still have some collections of paint- 
ings to examine — ^liere are some splendid pictures 
of Rembrandt and Rubens to be sold. Then, last 
of all, I have an important piece of business to 
transact with the great banker, Witte, on whom I 
have a draft. You know that Madame Blaken is 
expensive, and the picture-dealers will not trust 
our honest faces ; we must show them hard 
cash.” 

“ Does your Shall I not go to the bank- 

ers and draw the money ? ” said Balby. 

“ Oh no, I find it pleasant to serve myself, to 
be my own master and servant at the same time. 
Allow me this rare' pleasure for a few hours 
longer, Balby.” 

The king took his friend’s arm, and recom- 
menced his search for paintings and treasures to 
adorn his gallery at Sans-Souci. Everywhere he 
was received kindly and respectfully, for all rec- 
ognized them as purchasers, and not idle sight- 
seers. The dealers appreciated the difference be- 
tween idle enthusiasm and well-filled purses. 

The king understood this well, and on leaving 
the house of the last rich merchant he breathed 
more freely, and said ; 

“ I am glad that is over. The rudeness ot the 
postmaster at Grave pleased me better than the 
civilities of these people. Come, Balby, we have 
bought pictures enough ; now we will only admire 
them, enjoy without appropriating them. The 
rich banker, Abramson, is said to have a beautiful 
collection ; we will examine them, and then have 
our draft cashed.” 

The banker’s splendid house was soon found, 
and the brothers entered the house boldly, and de- 
manded of the richly-dressed, liveried servant to 
be conducted to the gallery. 

“ This is not the regular day,” said the servant, 
with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, as ha 
measured the two strangers. 

“ Not the day ! What day ? ” asked the king, 
sharply. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Not the day of general exhibition. You must 
wait until next Tuesday.” 

“ Impossible, we leave to-morrow. Go to your 
master and tell him two strangers wish to see his 
gallery, and beg it may be opened for them.” 

There was something so haughty and k-resist- 
ible in the stranger’s manner, that the servant, 
not daring to refuse, and still astonished at his 
own compliance, went to inform his master of the 
request. He returned in a few moments, and an- 
nounced that his master would come himself to 
receive them. 

The door opened immediately, and Mr. Abram- 
son stepped into the hall; his face, bright and 
friendly, darkened when his black eyes fell upon 
the two strangers standing in the hall. 

“ You desired to speak to me,” he said, in the 
arrogant tone that the rich Jews are accustomed 
to use when speaking to unknown and poor peo- 
ple. “ What is your wish, sirs ? ” 

The king’s brow darkened, and he looked an- 
grily at the supercilious man of fortune, who was 
standing opposite him, with his head proudly 
thrown back, and his hands in his pockets. But 
Frederick’s countenance soon cleared, and he said, 
with perfect composure : 

“ We wish you to show us your picture-gal- 
lery, sir.” 

The tone in which he spoke was less pleading 
than commanding, and roused the anger of the 
easily-enraged parvenu. 

“ Sir, I have a picture-gallery, arranged for my 
own pleasure, and paid for with my own money. 
I am very willing to show it to all who have not 
the money to purchase pictures for themselves ; 
and to satisfy the curiosity of strangers, I have 
set aside a day in each week on which to exhibit 
my gallery.” 

“You mean, then, sir, that you will not allow 
us to enter your museum ? ” said the king, smiling- 
ly, and laying his hand at the same time softly on 
Balby’s arm, to prevent him from speaking. 

“ I mean that my museum is closed, and — ” 

A carriage rolled thunderingly to the door ; the 
outer doors of the hall were hastily opened, a liv- 
eried servant entered, and stepping immediately to 
Mr. Abramson, he said : 

“ Lord Middlestone, of London, asks the honor 
of seeing your gallery.” 

The countenance of the Jewish banker beamed 
with delight. 

“ Will his excellency have the graciousness to 
enter ? I consider it an honor to show him my 
poor treasures. My gallery is closed to-day, but 
for Lord Middlestone, I will open it gladly.” 

His contemptuous glance met the two poor mu- 


sicians, who had stepped aside, and were silenl 
witnesses of this scene. 

The outer doors of the court were opened noi- 
sily, and a small, shrivelled human form, assisted 
by two servants, staggered into the hall. It was 
an old man, wrapped in furs ; this was his excel- 
lency Lord Middlestone. Mr. Abramson met him 
with a profound bow, and sprang forward to the 
door that led to the gallery. 

Every eye was fixed upon this sad picture of 
earthly pomp and greatness ; all felt the honor to 
the house of Mr. Abramson. Lord Middlestone, 
the ambassador of the King of England, desired 
to see his collection. This was an acknowledg- 
ment of merit that delighted the heart of the 
banker, and added a new splendor to his house. 

While the door was being opened to admit his 
lordship, Balby and the king left the house unno- 
ticed. 

The king was angry, and walked silently along 
for a time ; suddenly remaining standing, he gazed 
steadily at Balby, and broke out into a loud, mer- 
ry laugh, that startled the passers-by, and made 
them look wonderingly after him. 

“ Balby, my friend,” he said, still laughing, “ I 
will tell you something amusing. Never in my 
life did I feel so humble and ashamed as when 
his excellency entered the gallery so triumphantly, 
and we slipped away so quietly from the house. 
Truly, I was fool enough to be angry at first, 
but I now feel that the scene was irresistibly 
comic. Oh ! oh, Balby ! do laugh with me. 
Think of us, who imagine ourselves to be such 
splendidly handsome men, being shown the door, 
and that horrid, shrunken, diseased old man being 
received with such consideration ! He smelt like 
a salve-box, we are odorous with ambrosia ; but 
all in vain, Abramson preferred the salve-box.” 

“ Abramson’s olfactories are not those of a 
courtier,”, said Balby, “ or he would have fainted 
at the odor of royalty. But truly, this Mr. 
Abramson is a disgraceful person, and I beg your 
majesty to avenge Mr. Zoller.” 

“ I shall do so. He deserves punishment ; he 
has insulted me as a man ; the king will punish 
him.” * 

“ And now we will have our check cashed by 
Mr. Witte. I bet he will not dismiss us so curtly, 
for my draft is for ten thousand crowns, and he 
will be respectful — if not to us, to our money.” 

* The king kept his word. The Jew heard afterward 
that it was the king whom he had treated so disrespect- 
fully, and he could never obtain his forgiveness. He wa* 
not allowed to negotiate with the Prussian govern- 
ment or banks, and was thus bitterly punished for hii 
misconduct. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The worthy and prosperous Madame Witte had 
just finished dusting and cleaning her state apart- 
ment, and was giving it a last artistic survey. She 
smiled contentedly, and acknowledged that there 
was nothing more to be done. The mirrors and 
windows were of transparent brightness — no dust 
was seen on the silk furniture or the costly orna- 
ments — it was perfect. With a sad sigh Madame 
Witte left the room and locked the door with al- 
most a feeling of regret. She must deny herself 
for the next few days her favorite occupation — 
there was nothing more to dust or clean in the 
apartment, and only in this room was her field of 
operation — only here did her husband allow her 
to play the servant. With this exception, he 
required of her to be the lady of the house 
— the noble wife of the rich banker — and this 
was a role that pleased the good woman but 
little. She locked the door with a sigh, and drew 
on her shoes, which she was accustomed always 
to leave in the hall before entering her state 
apartment, then stepped carefully on the border 
of the carpet that covered the hall to another 
door. At this moment a violent ringing was heard 
at the front door. Madame Witte moved quickly 
forward to follow the bent of her womanly curi- 
osity, and see who desired admittance at this un- 
usual hour. Two strangers had already entered 
the hall and desired to see the banker. 

“ Mr. Witte is not at home, and if your busi- 
ness is not too pressing, call again early to-mor- 
row morning.” 

“ But my business is pressing,” said Frederick 
Zoller, hastily ; “ I must speak with Mr. Witte to- 
day.” 

“ Can they wish to borrow money from him ? ” 
thought Madame Witte, who saw the two stran- 
gers through the half-open door. “ To borrow, 
or to ask credit, I am sure that is their busi- 
ness.” 

“ May I ask the nature of your business ? ” said 
the servant. “ In order to bring Mr. Witte from 
the Casino, I must know what you wish of him.” 

“ I desire to have a draft of ten thousand crowns 
cashed,” said Frederick Zoller, sharply. 

The door was opened hastily, and Madame 
Witte stepped forward to greet the stranger and 
his companion. “ Have the kindness, gentlemen, 
to step in and await my husband ; he will be here 
in a quarter of an hour. Go, Andres, for Mr. 
Witte.” Andres ran off, and Madame Witte ac- 
companied the strangers through the hall. Ar- 
rived at the door of the state apartment, she quick- 
ly drew off her shoes, and then remained stand- 
ing, looking expectantly, at the strangers. 

“Well, madame,” said the king, “shall wc 


41 

await Mr. Witte before this door, or will you show 
us into the next room ? ” 

“ Certainly I will ; but I am waiting on you.” 

“ On us ? And what do you expect of us ? ” 

“ What I have done, sirs — to take your shoes 
off.” 

The king laughed aloud. “ Can no one, then, 
enter that room with shoes on ? ” 

“Never, sir. It was a custom of my great- 
grandfather. He had this house built, and nevA 
since then has any one entered it with shoes. 
Please, therefore, take them off.” 

Balby hastened to comply with her peremptory 
command. “ Madame, it will suffice you for me 
to follow this custom of your ancestors — you will 
spare my brother this ceremony.” 

“ And why ? ” asked Madame Witte, astonished. 
“ His shoes are no cleaner or finer than yours, 
or those of other men. Have the kindness to 
take off your shoes also.” 

“ You are right, madame,” said the king, seri- 
ously. “We must leave off the old man alto- 
gether ; therefore, you ask but little in requiring 
us to take off our shoes before entering your 
state apartment.” He stooped to undo the buckles 
of his shoes, and when Balby wished to assist 
him, he resisted. “ No, no ; you shall not loosen 
my shoes — you are too worthy for that. Madame 
Witte might think that I am a very assuming 
person — that I tyrannize over my brother. There, 
madame, the buckles are undone, and there lie my 
shoes, and now we are ready to enter your state 
apartment.” 

Madame Witte opened the door with cold grav- 
ity, and allowed them to pass. “ To-morrow I can 
dust again,” she said, gleefully, “ for the stran- 
gers’ clothes are very dirty.” 

In the mean time, the two strangers awaited the 
arrival of Mr. Witte. The king enjoyed his com- 
ic situation immensely. Balby looked anxiously 
at the bare feet of the king, and said he should 
never have submitted to Madame Witte’s caprice. 
The floor was cold, and the king might be taken 
ill. 

“ Oh, no,” said Frederick, “ I do not get sick 
so easily — my system can stand severer hard- 
ships. We should be thankful that we have come 
off so cheaply, for a rich banker like Witte in 
Amsterdam, is equal to the Pope in Rome ; and I do 
not think taking off our shoes is paying too dearly 
to see the pope of Holland. Just think what 
King Henry IV. had to lay aside before he could 
see the Pope of Rome — not only his shoes and 
stockings and a few other articles, but his royalty 
and majesty. Madame Witte is really forbearing 
not to require the same costume of us.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The door behind them was opened hastily, and 
the banker Witte stepped in. He advanced to 
meet them with a quiet smile, but suddenly 
checked himself, and gazed with terror at the 
king. 

“My God ! his majesty the King of Prussia ! ” 
he stammered. “Oh! your majesty! what an 
undeserved favor you are doing my poor house in 
honoring it with your presence ! ” 

“ You know me, then ? ” said the king, smiling. 
“ Well, I beg you may not betray my incognito, and 
cash for Frederick Zoller this draft of ten thou- 
sand crowns.” 

He stepped forward to hand the banker the 
draft. Mr. Witte uttered a cry of horror, and, 
wringing his hands, fell upon his knees. He had 
just seen that the king was barefooted. 

“ Oh ! your majesty ! Mercy ! mercy ! ” he 
pleaded. “ Pardon my unhappy wife, who could 
not dream of the crime she was committing. Why 
did your majesty consent to her insane demand? 
Why did you not peremptorily refuse to take off 
your shoes ? ” 

“Why? Well, ma foi, because I wished to 
spare the King of Prussia a humiliation. I believe 
Madame Witte would rather have thrown me out 
of the house than allowed me to enter this sacred 
room with my shoes on.” 

“No, your majesty, no. She would — ” 

At this moment the door opened, and Madame 
Witte, drawn by the loud voice of her husband, 
entered the room. 

“ Wife ! ” he cried, rising, “ come forward ; 
fall on your knees and plead for forgiveness” 

“ What have I done ? ” she asked, wonderingly. 

“ You compelled this gentleman to take off his 
shoes at the door.” 

Well, and what of that ? ” 

“Well,” said Mr. Witte, solemnly, as he laid 
his arm npon his wife’s shoulder and tried to 
force her to her knees, “ this is his majesty the 
King of Prussia ! ” 

But the all-important words had not the ex- 
pected effect. Madame Witte remained quietly 
standing, and fooked first upon her own bare feet 
and then curiously at the king. 

“ Beg the king’s pardon for your most unseemly 
conduct,” said Witte. 

“Why was it imseemly?” asked his better- 
half. “ Do I not take off my shoes every time I 
enter this room ? The room is mine, and does not 
belong to the King of Prussia.” 

Witte raised his hands above his head in de- 
spair. The king laughed loudly and heartily. 

“ You see I was right, sir,” he said. “ Only 
obedience could spare the King of Prussia a hu- 


miliation.* But let us go to your business-room 
and arrange our moneyed affairs. There, madame, ‘ 
I suppose you will allow me to put on my shoes.” 

Without a u'ord, Mr. Witte rushed from the 
room for the king’s shoes, and hastened to put 
them, not before the king, but before the door 
that led into his counting-room. 

With a gay smile, the king stepped along the 
border of the carpet to his shoes, and let Balby 
put them on for him. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ I see that you are really 
mistress in your own house, and that you are 
obeyed, not from force, but from instinct. God 
preserve you your strong will and your good hus- 
band!” 

“ Now,” said the king, after they had received 
the money and returned to the hotel, “ we must 
make all our arrangements to return to-morrow 
morning early — our incognito is over ! Mr. Witte 
promised not to betray us, but his wife is not to 
be trusted ; therefore, by to-morrow morning, the 
world will know that the King of Prussia is in 
Amsterdam. Happily, Mr. Witte does not know 
where I am stopping, I hope to be undisturbed 
to-day, but by to-morrow this will be impossible.” 

The king prophesied aright: Madame Witte was 
zealously engaged in telling her friends the impor- 
tant news that the King of Prussia had visited her 
husband, and was now in Amsterdam. 

The news rolled like an avalanche from house 
to house, from street to street, and even reached 
the mayor’s door, who, in spite of the lateness of 
the hour, called a meeting of the magistrates, and 
sent policemen to all the hotels to demand a list 
of the strangers who had arrived duriug the last 
few days. In order to greet the king, they must 
first find him. 

Early the next morning, a simple caliche^ with 
two horses, stood at the hotel of the “ Black Ra- 
ven.” The brothers Zoller were about to leave 
Amsterdam, and, to Madame Blaken’s astonish- 
ment, they not only paid their bill without mur- 
muring, but left a rich douceur for the servants. 
The hostess stepped to the door to bid them fare- 
well, and nodded kindly as they came down the 
steps. Their servant followed with the little ca^ 
pet-bag and the two music-cases. 

When Deesen became aware of the presence of 
the hostess, and the two head-servants, he ad- 
vanced near to the king. 

“ Your majesty, may I now speak ? ” he mur 
mured. 

“ Not yet,” said the king, smiling, “ wait until 
we are in the carriage.” 

* The king’s own words. See Nicolai’s “ Anecdote* 
of Frederick the Great,” collection v., p. 31. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


43 


He descended the steps, with a friendly nod to 
*he hostess. Balby and himself left the house. 

“ See, ray friend, how truly I prophesied,” he 
said, as he pointed down the street ; “let us get in 
quickly, it is high time to be off ; see the crowd 
advancing.” 

Frederick was right ; from the end of the street 
there came a long procession of men, headed by 
the two mayors, dressed in black robes, trimmed 
with broad red bands. They were followed by 
the senators, clothed in the same manner. A 
great number of the rich aristocrats of the city 
accompanied them. 

Madame Blaken had stepped from the house, 
and was looking curiously at the approaching 
crowd, and while she and her maids were wonder- 
ing what this could mean, the two Mr. Zollers en- 
tered the carriage, and their servant had mounted 
the box. 

“ May I speak now ? ” said Deesen, turning to 
the king. 

“Yes, speak,” said the king, “but quickly, or 
the crowd will take your secret from you.” 

“ Hostess ! ” cried Deesen, from the box, “ do 
you know what that crowd means ? ” 

“ No,” she said, superciliously. 

“ I will explain ; listen, madame. The magis- 
trates are coming to greet the King of Prussia ! ” 

“ The King of Prussia !” shrieked the hostess. 
“ Where is the King of Prussia ? ” 

“ Here ! ” cried Deesen, with a malicious grin, 
as he pointed to the king, “ and I am his majes- 
ty’s cabinet-hussar ! Forward, postilion ! — quick, 
forward ! ” 

The postilion whipped his horses, and the car- 
riage dashed by the mayors and senators, who 
were marching to greet the King of Prussia. 
They never dreamed that he had just passed mis- 
chievously by them. 

Two days later, the king and his companions 


stood on the Prussian border, on the Sf ot where, 
in the beginning of their journey, the king had 
written the words “ majesty ” and “ sire.” 

“ Look ! ” he said, pointing to the ground, “ the 
two fatal words have not vanished away ; the sun 
has hardened the ground, and they are still legi- 
ble. I must lift them from the sand, and wear 
them henceforth and forever. Give me your hand, 
Balby ; the poor musician, Frederick Zoller, will 
bid farewell to his friend, and not only to you, 
Balby, but farewell also to my youth. This is my 
last youthful adventure. Now, I shall grow old 
and cold gracefully. One thing I wish to say be- 
fore I resume my royalty ; confidentially, I am not 
entirely displeased with the change. It seems to 
me difficult to fill the role of a common man. 
Men do not seem to love and trust each other 
fully ; a man avenges himself on an innocent party 
for the wrongs another has committed. Besides, 
I do not rightly understand the politenesses of com- 
mon life, and, therefore, received many reproaches. 
I believe, on the whole,' it is easier to bestow than 
to receive them. Therefore, I take up my crown 
willingly.” 

“ Will your majesty allow me a word ? ” said 
Deesen, stepping forward. 

“ Speak, Deesen.” 

“ I thank Mr. Zoller for saving my life. As true 
as God lives, I should have stifled with rage If I 
had not told that haughty Hollander who Mr. Zol- 
ler was and who I was.” 

“ Now, forward ! Farewell, Frederick Zoller ! 
Now I am on Prussian soil, the hour of thought- 
less happiness is passed. I fear, Balby, that the 
solemn duties of life will soon take possession of 
us. So be it ! I accept my destiny — I am again 
Frederick of Hohenzollem ! ” 

“ And I have the honor to be the first to greet 
your majesty on your own domain,” said Balby, 
as he bowed profoundly before the king. 


BOOK II 




CHAPTEJR I. 

THE UNHAPPY NEWS. 

The Princess Amelia was alone in her room. 
She was stretched upon a sofa, lost in deep 
thought ; her eyes were raised to heaven, and her 
lips trembled ; from time to time they murmured a 
word of complaint or of entreaty. 

Amelia was ill. She had been ill since that un- 
happy day in which she intentionally destroyed her 
beauty to save herself from a hated marriage.* 
Her eyes had never recovered their glance or early 
fire; they were always inflamed and veiled by 
tears. Her voice had lost its metallic ring and 
youthful freshness; it sounded from her aching 
and hollow chest like sighs from a lonely grave. 
Severe pain from time to time tortured her whole 
body, and contracted her limbs with agonizing 
cramps. She had the appearance of a woman of 
sixty years of age, who was tottering to the grave. 

In this crushed and trembling body dwelt a 
strong, powerful, healthy soul; this shrunken, 
contracted bosom was animated by a youthful, 
ardent, passionate heart. This heart had conse- 
crated itself to the love of its early years with an 
obstinate and feverish power. 

In wild defiance against her fate, Amelia had 
sworn never to yield, never to break faith ; to bear 
all, to suffer all for her love, and to press on- 
ward with unshaken resignation but never-failing 
courage through the storms and agonies of a deso- 
late, misunderstood, and wretched existence. She 
was a martyr to her birth and her love ; she ac- 
cepted this martyrdom with defiant self-reliance 
and joyful resignation. 

Years had passed since she had seen Trenck, but 
she loved him still ! She knew he had not guarded 

♦ See “ Berlin and Sa^-Souci,” 


the faith they had mutaally sworn with the con 
stancy that she had religiously maintained ; but she 
loved him still ! She had solemnly sworn to her 
brother to give up the foolish and fantastic wish 
of becoming the wife of Trenck ; but she loved 
him still ! She might not live for him, but she 
would suffer for him ; she could not give him her 
hand, but she could consecrate thought and soul 
to him. In imagination she was his, only his ; he 
had a holy, an imperishable right to her. Had 
she not sworn, in the presence of God, to be hig 
through life down to the borders of the grave ? 
Truly, no priest had blessed them ; God had been 
their priest, and had united them. There had 
been no mortal witness to their solemn oaths, but 
the pure stars were present — with their sparkling) 
loving eyes they had looked down and listened to 
the vows she had exchanged with Trenck. She 
was therefore his — his eternally ! He had a sa- 
cred claim upon her constancy, her love, her for- 
bearance, and her forgiveness. If Trenck had 
wandered from his faith, she dared not follow his 
example ; she must be ever ready to listen to his 
call, and give him the aid he required. 

Amelia’s love was her religion, her life’s strength, 
her life’s object ; it was a talisman to protect and 
give strength in time of need. She would have 
died without it ; she lived and struggled with her 
grief only for his sake. 

This was a wretched, joyless existence — a never- 
ending martyrdom, a never-ceasing contest. Ame- 
lia stood alone and unloved in her family, feared 
and avoided by all the merry, thoughtless, pleasure 
seeking circle. In her sad presence they shud- 
dered involuntarily and felt chilled, as by a blast 
from the grave. She was an object of distrust 
and w'eariuess to her companions and servants, an 
object of love and frank affection to no one. 

Mademoiselle Ernestine von Haak had alone re- 
mained true to her; but she had married, and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


4 <^ 


gone far away with her husband. Princess Ame- 
lia was now alone ; there was no one to whom she 
could express her sorrow and her fears ; no one who 
understood her suppressed agony, or who spoke 
one word of consolation or sympathy to her broken 
heart. 

She was alone in the world, and the conscious- 
ness of this steeled her strength, and made an im- 
penetrable shield for her wearied soul. She gave 
herself up entirely to her thoughts and dreams. 
She lived a strange, enchanted, double life and 
twofold existence. Outwardly, she was old, 
crushed, ill; her interior life was young, fresh, 
glowing, and energetic, endowed with unshaken 
power, and tempered in the fire of her great grief. 

Amelia lay upon the divan and looked dreamily 
toward heaven. A strange and unaccountable 
presentiment was upon her; she trembled with 
mysterious forebodings. She had always felt thus 
when any new misfortunes were about to befall 
Trenck. It seemed as if her soul was bound to 
his, and by means of an electric current she felt 
the blow in the same moment that it fell upon him. 

The princess believed in these presentiments. 
She had faith in dreams and prophecies, as do all 
those unhappy beings to whom fate has denied 
real happiness, and who seek wildly in fantastic 
visions for compensation. She loved, therefore^ 
to look into the future through fortune-tellers and 
dark oracles, and thus prepare herself for the sad 
events which lay before her. The day before, the 
renowned astrologer Pfannenstein had warned her 
of approaching peril ; he declared that a cloud of 
tears was in the act of bursting upon her ! Prin- 
cess Amelia believed in his words, and waited with 
a bold, resolved spirit for the breaking of the 
cloud, whose gray veil she already felt to be round 
about her. 

These sad thoughts were interrupted by a light 
knock upon the door, and her maid entered and 
announced that the master of ceremonies, Baron 
Pollnitz, craved an audience. 

Amelia shuddered, but roused herself quickly. 
“ Let him enter ! ” she said, hastily. The short 
moment of expectation seemed an eternity of an- 
guish. She pressed her hands upon her heart, to 
still its stormy beatings ; she looked with staring, 
wide-opened eyes toward the door through which 
Pollnitz must enter, and she shuddered as she 
looked upon the ever-smiling, immovable face of 
the courtier, who now entered her boudoir, with 
Mademoiselle von Marwitz at his side. 

“ Do you know, Pollnitz,” said she, in a rough, 
imperious tone-— “do you know I believe your 
face is not flesh and blood, but hewn from stone ; 
or, at least, one day it was petrified? Perhaps 
4 


the fatal hour struck one day, just as you 
were laughing over some of your villanies, and 
your smile was turned to stone as a judgment. I 
shall know this look as long as I live; it is ever 
most clearly marked upon your visage, when you 
have some misfortune to announce.” 

“ Then this stony smile must have but little ex- 
pression to-day, for I do not come as a messenger 
of evil tidings; but if your royal highness will 
allow me to say so, as a sort of postilion amour y 

Amelia shrank back for a moment, gave one 
glance toward Mademoiselle von Marwitz, whom 
she knew full well to be the watchful spy of her 
mother, and whose daily duty it was to relate to 
the queen-mother every thing which took place in 
the apartment of the princess. She knew that 
every word and look of Pollnitz was examined 
with the strictest attention. 

Pollnitz, however, spoke on with cool self-pos- 
session : 

“You look astonished, princess ; it perhaps ap- 
pears to you that this impassive face is little 
suited to the role of postilion d*amour^ and yet 
that is my position, and I ask your highness’s per- 
mission to make known my errand.” 

“ I refuse your request,” said Amelia, roughly ; 
“ I have nothing to do with Love, and find his god- 
ship as old and dull as the messenger he has sent 
me. Go back, then, to your blind god, and tell him 
that my ears are deaf to his love-greeting, and the 
screeching of the raven is more melodious than 
the tenderest words a Pollnitz can utter.” 

The princess said this in her most repulsive 
tone. She was accustomed to shield herself in 
this rude manner from all approach or contact, 
and, indeed, she attained her object. She was 
feared and avoided. Her witty hon mots and 
stinging jests were repeated and merrily laughed 
over, but the world knew that she scattered her 
sarcasms far and wide, in order to secure her 
isolation ; to banish every one from her presence, 
so that none might hear her sighs, or read her 
sad history in her countenance. 

“ And yet, princess, I must still implore a hear- 
ing,” said he, with imperturbable good-humor; “it 
my voice is rough as the raven’s, your royal high- 
ness must feed me with sugar, and it will become 
soft and tender as an innocent maiden’s.” 

“ I think a few ducats would be better for your 
case,” said Amelia ; “ a Pollnitz is not to be wmn 
with sweets, but for gold he wmuld follow the 
devil to the lower regions/” 

“ You are right, princess ; I do not wish to go 
to heaven, but below ; there I am certain to find 
the best and most,j^teresting society. The genial,, 
people are all born devils, and your highnres has'^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


»ver confessed that I am genial. Then let it be 
so ! I will accept the ducats which your royal 
highness think good for me, and now allow me to 
discharge my duty. I come as the messenger of 
Prince Henry. He sends his heart-felt greetings 
to his royal sister, and begs that she will do him 
the honor to attend a fete at Rheinsberg, which 
will take place in eight days.” 

“ Has the master of ceremonies of the king be- 
come thefourrier of Prince Henry ? ” said Amelia. 

“No, princess; I occasionally and accidentally 
perform the function of a fourrier. This invita- 
tion was not my principal object to-day.” 

“I knew it,” said Amelia, ironically. “My 
brother Henry does not love me well enough to 
invite me to this fHe^ if he had not some other 
object to attain. Well, what does Prince Henry 
wish ? ” 

“ A small favor, your royal highness ; he wishes, 
on the birth-day of his wife, to have Voltaire’s 
‘ Rome Sauvee ’ given by the French tragedians. 
Flome years since your highness had a gi’eat tri- 
umph in this piece. . The prince remembers that 
Voltaire prepared the role of Aurelia especially for 
70U, with changes and additions, and he entreats 
fou, through me, the temporary Directeur des 
tpectacles de Rheinsberg^ to lend him this rdle for 
the use of his performer.” 

“ Why does not my brother rather entreat me 
to take this part myself? ” said Amelia, in cruel 
mockery over herself. “ It appears to me I could 
look the part of Aurelia, and my soft, flute-like 
voice would make a powerful impression upon the 
public. It is cruel of Prince Henry to demand 
this role of me; it might be inferred that he 
thought I had become old and ugly.” 

“Not so, your highness ; the tragedy is to be 
performed on this occasion by pubhe actors, and 
not by amateurs.” 

“ You are right,” said Amelia, suddenly becom- 
ing grave ; “ at that time we were amateurs, lov- 
ers of the drama ; our dreams are over — we live 
in realities now.” 

“ Mademoiselle von Marwitz, have the goodness 
to bring the manuscript my brother wishes ; it is 
partly written by Voltaire’s own hand. You will 
find it in the bureau in my dressing-room.” 

Mademoiselle Marwitz withdrew to get the manu- 
script ; as she left the room, she looked back sus- 
piciously at Pollnitz and, as if by accident, left 
the door open which led to the dressing-room. 

Mademoiselle Alarwitz had scarcely disappeared, 
before Pollnitz sprang forward, wdth youthful 
agility, and closed the door. 

“ Princess, this commission of Prince Henry’s 
was only a pretext. I took this order from the 


princess’s maitre d’hote! in order to approach 
your highness unnoticed, and to get rid of the 
watchful eyes of your Mai’witz. Now listen well ; 
Weingarten, the Austrian secretary of legation, 
was with me to-day.” 

“Ah, Weingarten,” murmured the princess, 
tremblingly ; “ he gave you a letter for me ; qu:ck, 
quick, give it to me.” 

“ No, he gave me no letter ; it appears that he, 
who formerly sent letters, is no longer in the con- 
dition to do so.” 

“He is dead!” cried Amelia with horror, and 
sank back as if struck by lightning. 

“ No, princess, he is not dead, but in great dan- 
*ger. It appears that Weingarten is in great need 
of money ; for a hundred louis d’or, which I prom- 
ised him, he confided to me that Trenck’s enemies 
had excited the suspicions of the king against 
him, and declared that Trenck had designs against 
the life of Frederick.” 

“ The miserable liars and slanderers 1 ” cried 
Amelia, contemptuously. 

“ The king, as it appears, believes in these 
charges ; he has written to his resident minister 
to demand of the senate of Dantzic the deliverj 
of Trenck.” 

“ Trenck is not in Dantzic, but in Vienna.” 

“ He is in Dantzic — or, rather, he was there.” 

“ And now ? ” 

“ Now,” said Pollnitz, solemnly, “ he is on tbe 
way to Konigsberg ; from that point he will be 
transported to some other fortress ; first, how- 
ever, he will be brought to Berlin.” 

The unhappy princess uttered a shriek, which 
sounded like a wild death-cry. “ He is, then, a 
prisoner ? ” 

“ Yes ; but, on his way to prison, so long as he 
does not cross the threshold of the fortress, it is 
possible to deliver him. Weingarten, who, it ap- 
pears to me, is much devoted to your highness, 
has drawn for me the plan of the route Trenck is 
to take. Here it is.” He handed the priheess a 
small piece of paper, which she seized with trem- 
bling hands, and read hastily. 

“ He comes through Cbslin,” said she, joyfully; 
“ that gives a chance of safety in Coslin ! The 
Duke of Wurtemberg, the friend of my youthful 
days, is in Cbslin ; he will assist me. Pollnitz, 
quick, quick, find me a courier who will carry a 
letter to the duke for me without delay.” 

“ That will be difficult, if not impossible,” said 
Pollnitz, thoughtfully. 

Amelia sprang from her seat; her eyes had 
their old fire, her features their youthful expres- 
sion and elasticity. 

The power and ardor of her soul overcame thf 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


47 


tr^akness of her body; it found energy and 
strength. 

“ Well, then,” said she, decisively, and even 
her voice Avas firm and soft, “ I will go myself; 
and woe to him who dares withhold me ! I have 
been ordered to take sea-baths. I will go this 
hour to Coslin for that purpose ! but no, no, I 
cannot travel so rashly. PoUnitz, you must find 
me a courier.” 

“ I will try,” said Pollnitz. “ One can buy all 
the glories of this world for gold ; and, I think, 
your highness will not regard a few louis d’or, 
more or less.” 

“ Find me a messenger, and I will pay every 
aour of his journey with a gold piece.” 

“ I will send my own servant ; in half an hour 
he shall be ready.” 

“ God be thanked ! it will, then, be possible to 
save him. Let me write this letter at onee, and 
hasten your messenger. Let him fly as if he had 
wings — as if the wild Avinds of heaven bore him 
onward. The sooner he brings me the answer of 
the duke, the greater shall be his reward. Oh, 1 
will reward him as if I Avere a rich queen, and not 
a poor, forsaken, sorrowful princess.” 

“ Write, princess, write,” cried Pollnitz, eager- 
ly ; “ but no, have the goodness to give me the 
hundred louis d’or before Mademoiselle Marwitz 
returns. I promised them to Weingarten for his 
news ; you can add to them the ducats you were 
graciously pleased to bestow upon me.” 

Amelia did not reply ; she stepped to the table 
and wrote a few lines, which she handed to P611- 
nitz. 

“ Take this,” said she, almost contemptuously ; 
“ it is a draft upon my banker, Orguelin. I thank 
you for allowing your services to be paid for ; it 
relieves me from all call to gratitude. Serve me 
faithfully in future, and you shall ever find my 
hand open and my purse full. And now give me 
time to write to the duke, and — ” 

“ Prineess, I hear Mademoiselle Marwitz return- 
ing ! ” 

Amelia left the writing-table hastily, and ad- 
vanced to the door through which Mademoiselle 
Marwitz must enter. 

“ Ah, you are come at last,” said she, as the 
door opened. “I was about to seek you. I 
feared you could not find the paoer.” 

“ It was very difficult to find amongst such a 
mass of letters and papers,” said Mademoiselle 
MarAvitz, whose suspicious glance was now wan- 
dering round the room. “ I succeeded, however, 
»t last ; here is the manuscript, your highness.” 

The princess took it and examined it carefully. 

Ah, I thought so,” she said. “ A monologim 


which Voltaire Avrote for me, is missing. I gave 
it to the king, and I see he has not returned it. 
I think my memory is the only faculty which re- 
tains its power. It is my misfortune that I can- 
not forget ! I will test it to-day and try to write 
this monologue from memory. I must be alone, 
however. I pray you, mademoiselle, to go into the 
saloon with Pollnitz ; he can entertain you with 
the Ohronique JScandalettse of our most virtu 
ous court, while I am writing. — And now,” said 
she, when she found herself alone, “ may God 
give me power to reach the heart of the duke, and 
win him to my purpose ! ” 

With a firm hand she wrote : 

“ Because you are happy, duke, you will have 
pity for the wretched. For a few days past, you 
have had your young and lovely Avife at your side, 
and experienced the pure bliss of a happy union ; 
you will therefore comprehend the despair of those 
who love as fondly, and can never be united. And 
now, I would remind you of that day on Avhieh it 
was in my power to obtain for you a great favor 
from my brother the king. At that time you 
promised me to return this service tenfold, should 
it ever be in your power, and you made me prom- 
ise, if I should ever need assistance, to turn to you 
alone ! My hour has come ! I need your help ; 
not for myself! God and death alone can help 
me. I demand your aid for a man who is chained 
with me to the galleys. You know him — have 
mercy upon him 1 Perhaps he will arrive at your 
court in the same hour with my letter. Duke, 
will you be the jailer of the wretched and the 
powerless, Avho is imprisoned only because I am 
the daughter of a king ? Are your officers consta- 
bles ? will you allow them to cast into an eternal 
prison him for whom I have wept night and day 
for many long years ? 

“ Oh, my God 1 my God ! you have given wings 
to the birds of the air; you have given to the 
horse his fiery speed ; you have declared that man 
is the king of creation ; you have marked upon 
his brow the seal of freedom, and this is his 
holiest possession. Oh, friend, will you consent 
that a noble gentleman, who has nothing left but 
his freedom, shall be unjustly deprived of it 1 
Duke, I call upon you ! Be a providence for my 
unhappy friend, and set him at liberty. And 
through my whole life long I will bless and honor 
you ! Amelia.” 

“If he does not listen to this outcry of my 
soul,” she whispered, as she folded and sealed the 
letter — “ if he has the cruelty to let me plead in 
vain, then in my death-hour I will curse him, and 
charge him with being the murderer of my last 
hope ! ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


is 

Tlie princess called Pdllnitz, and, with an ex- 
pressive glance, she handed him the letter. 

“ Truly, my memory has not failed me,” she 
said to Mademoiselle Marwitz, who entered behind 
Pollnitz, and whose sharp eyes were fixed upon 
the letter in the baron’s hands. “ I have been 
able to write the whole monologue. Give this 
paper to my brother, Pollnitz ; I have added a 
few friendly lines, and excused myself for declin- 
ing the invitation. I cannot see this drama.” 

“Well, it seems to me I have made a lucrative 
affair of this,” said Pollnitz to himself, as he left 
the princess. “I promised Weingarten only fifty 
louis d’or, so fifty remain over for myself, without 
counting the ducats which the princess intends 
for me. Besides, I shall be no such fool as to 
give my servant, who steals from me every day, 
the reward the princess has set apart for him ; 
and if I give him outside work to do, it is my op- 
portunity ; he is my slave, and the reward is prop- 
erly mine.” 

“ Listen, John ! ” said Pollnitz to his servant, 
as he entered his apartment. Poor John was, at 
the same time, body-servant, jockey, and coach- 
man. “ Listen ; do you know exactly how much 
you have loaned me ? ” 

“To a copper, your excellency,” said John, 
joyfully. Poor John thought that the hour of 
settlement had come. “Your excellency owes 
me fifty-three thalers, four groschen, and five 
pennies.” 

“ Common soul,” cried Pollnitz, shrugging his 
shoulders contemptuously, “ to be able to keep in 
remembrance such pitiful things as groschen and 
coppers. Well, I have a most pressing and im- 
portant commission for you. You must saddle 
your horse immediately, and hasten to deliver this 
letter to the Duke of Wurtemberg. You must 
ride night and day and not rest till you arrive and 
deliver this packet into the duke’s own hands. 
I will then allow you a day’s rest for yourself and 
horse ; your return must be equally rapid. If you 
are here again in eight days, I will reward you 
royally.” 

“ That is to say, your excellency—” said John, 
In breathless expectation. 

“ That is to say, I will pay you half the sum I 
owe you, if you are here in eight days ; if you 
are absent longer, you will get only a third.” 

“ And if I return a day earlier ? ” said John, 
sighing. 

“ I w'ill give you a few extra thalers as a re- 
ward,” said Pollnitz. 

‘ But your excellency will, besides this, give me 
money for the journey,” said John, timidly. 

“ Miserable, shameless beggar ! ” cried Pollnitz ; 


“ always demanding more than one is willing tc 
accord you. Learn from your noble master that 
there is nothing more pitiful, more sordid than 
gold, and that those only are truly noble who 
serve others for honor’s sake, and give no thought 
to reward.” 

“ But, your grace, I have already the honor to 
have lent you all my money. I have not even a 
groschen to buy food for myself and horse on my 
journey.” 

“As for your money, sir, it is, under all circum- 
stances, much safer with me than with you. You 
w'ould surely spend it foolishly, while I will keep 
it together. Besides this, there is no other way 
to make servants faithful and submissive but to 
bind them to you by the miserable bond of self- 
ishness. You would have left me a hundred 
times, if you had not been tied down by your own 
pitiful interests. You know well that if you leave 
me without my permission, the law allows me to 
punish you, by giving the money I owe you to the 
poor. But enough of foolish talking! Make 
ready for the journey ; in half an hour you must 
leave Berlin behind you. I will give you a few 
thalers to buy food. Now, hasten! Remember, 
if you remain away longer than eight days, I wdll 
give you only a third of the money I am keeping 
for you.” 

This terrible threat had its effect upon poor 
John. 

In eight days Pollnitz sought the princess, and 
with a triumphant glance, slipped a letter into her 
hand, which read thus : 

“ I thank you, princess, that you have remem- 
bered me, and given me an opportunity to aid the 
unhappy. You are right. God made man to be 
free. I am no jailer, and my officers are not con- 
stables. They have, indeed, the duty to conduct 
the unhappy man who has been for three days the 
guest of my house, further on toward the fortress, 
but his feet and his hands shall be free, and if he 
takes a lesson from the bird in velocity, and from 
the wild horse in speed, his present escape will 
cost him less than his flight from Glatz. My offi- 
cers cannot be always on the watch, and God’s 
world is large; it is impossible to guard every 
point. My soldiers accompany him to the brook 
Coslin. I commend the officer who will be dis- 
charged for neglect of duty to your highness. 

“Ferdinand.” 

“He will have my help and my eternal grati 
tude,” whispered Amelia ; she then pressed the let- 
ter of the duke passionately to her lips. “ Oh, my 
God! I feel to-day what I have never before 
thought possible, that one can be happy without 
happiness. If fate will be merciful, and not 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


thwart the noble purpose of Duke Ferdinand, from 
this time onward I will never murmur — never 
complain. I will demand nothing of the future ; 
never more to see him, never more to hear from 
him, only that he may be free and happy,” 

In the joy of her heart she not only fulfilled her 
promise to give the messenger a gold piece for 
every hour of his journey, but she added a costly 
diamond pin for Pbllnitz, which the experienced 
baron, even while receiving it from the trembling 
nand of the princess, valued at fifty louis d’or. 

The baron returned with a well-filled purse and 
a diamond pin to his dwelling, and with imposing 
solemnity he called John into his boudoir. 

“John,” said he, “I am content with you. 
You have promptly fulfilled my commands. You 
returned the seventh day, and have earned tbe 
extra thalers. As for your money, how much do 
I owe you ? ” 

“Fifty-three thalers, four groschen, and five 
pennies.” 

“And the half of this is — ” 

“ Twenty-seven thalers, fourteen groschen, two 
and a half pennies,” said John, with a loudly beat- 
ing heart and an expectant smile. He saw that 
the purse was well filled, and that his master was 
taking out the gold pieces.” 

“ I will give you, including your extra guldens, 
twenty-eight thalers, fourteen groschen, two and 
a half pennies,” said Pbllnitz, laying some gold 
pieces on the table. “ Here are six louis d’or, or 
thirty-six thalers in gold to reckon up ; the frac- 
tions you claim are beneath my dignity. Take 
them, John, they are yours.” 

John uttered a cry of rapture, and sprang for- 
ward with outstretched hands to seize his gold. 
He had succeeded in gathering up three louis d’or, 
when the powerful hand of the baron seized him 
and held him back. 

“ John,” said he, “ I read in your wild, disor- 
dered countenance that you are a spendthrift, and 
this gold, which you have earned honestly, will 
soon be wasted in boundless follies. It is my 
duty, as your conscientious master and friend, to 
prevent this. I cannot allow you to take all of 
this money — only one-half ; only three louis d’oi 
I will put the other three with the sum which I 
still hold, and take care of it for yon.” 

With an appearance of firm principle and piety, 
ne grasped the three louis d’or upon w'hich the 
sighing John fixed his tearful eyes. 

“And now, what is the amount” said Pbllnitz, 
gravely, “ which you have placed in my hands for 
safe-keeping ? ” 

“ Thirty-two thalers, fourteen groschen, and five 
pennies,” said John ; “ and then the fractions from 


49 

the three louis d’ors makes a thaler and eight 
groschen.” 

“ Pitiful miser ! You dare to reckon fractions 
against your master, who, in his maguaniinity, has 
just presented you with gold I This is a mean- 
ness which merits exemplary punishment.” 


CHAPTER II. 

TRENCK ON HIS WAY TO PRISON. 

Before the palace of the Duke of Wurtemberg, 
in Cbslin, stood the light, open carriage in which 
the duke was accustomed to make excursions, 
when inclined to carry the reins himself, and enjoy 
freedom and the pure, fresh air, without etiquette 
and ceremony. 

To-day, however, the carriage was not intended 
for an ordinary excursion, but to transport a pris- 
oner. This prisoner was no other than the un- 
happy Frederick Trenck, whom the cowardly re- 
public of Dantzic, terrified at the menaces of the 
king, had delivered up to the Prussian police. 

The intelligence of his unhappy fate flew like a 
herald before him. He was guarded by twelve 
hussars, and the sad procession was received every- 
where throughout the journey with kindly sympa- 
thy. All exerted themselves to give undoubted 
proofs of pity and consideration. Even the offi- 
cers in command, who sat by him in the carriage, 
and who were changed at every station, treated 
him as a loved comrade in arms, and not as a 
state prisoner. 

But while all sighed and trembled for him, 
Trenck alone was gay ; his countenance alone was 
calm and courageous. Not one moment, during 
the three days he passed in the palace of the duke, 
was his youthful and handsome face clouded by a 
single shadow. Not one moment did that happy, 
cheerful manner, by which he won all hearts, de- 
sert him. At the table, he was the brightest and 
wittiest; his amusing narratives, anecdotes, and 
droll ideas made not only the duke, but the 
duchess and her maids, laugh merrily. In the 
afternoons, in the saloon of the duchess, he astou- 
i-shed and enraptured the whole court circle by 
improvising upon any given theme, and by the 
tasteful and artistic manner in which he sang the 
national ballads he had learned on his journeys 
through Italy, Germany, and Russia. At other 
times, he conversed with the duke upon philoso- 
phy and state policy ; and he was amazed at the 
varied information and wisdom of this young man, 
who seemed an experienced soldier and an adroit 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


diplomat, a profound statesman, and a learned 
historian. By his dazzling talents, he not only 
interested but enchained his listeners. 

The duke felt sadly that it was not possible to 
retain the prisoner longer in Coslin. Three days 
of rest was the utmost that could be granted 
Trenck, without exciting suspicion. He sighed, 
as he told Trenck that his duty required of him to 
send him further on his dark journey. 

Trenck received this announcement with perfect 
composure, with calm self-possession. He took 
leave of the duke and duchess, and thanked them 
gayly for their gracious reception. 

“ I hope that my imprisonment will be of short 
duration, and then your highness will, I trust, al- 
low me to return to you, and offer the thanks of a 
free man.” 

“ May we soon meet again !” said the duke, and 
he looked searchingly upon Trenck, as if he wished 
to read his innermost thoughts. “ As soon as you 
are free, come to me. I will not forsake you, no 
matter under what circumstances you obtain your 
freedom.” , 

Had Trenck observed the last emphatic words 
of the duke, and did he understand their meaning ? 
The duke did not know. No wink of the eyelid, 
not the slightest sign, gave evidence that Trenck 
had noticed their significance. He bowed smil- 
ingly, left the room with a firm step, and entered 
the carriage. 

The duke called back the ordnance officer who 
was to conduct him to the next station. 

“ Y ou have not forgotten my command ?” said he. 

“No, your highness, I have not forgotten; and 
obedience is a joyful duty, which I will perform 
punctually.” 

“ You will repeat this command, in my name, 
to the officer at the next station, and commission 
him to have it repeated at every station where my 
regiments are quartered. Every one shall give 
Trenck an opportunity to escape, but silently ; no 
word must be spoken to him on the subject. It 
must depend upon him to make use of the most 
favorable moment. My intentions toward him 
must be understood by him without explanations. 
He who is so unfortunate as to allow the prisoner 
to escape, can only be blamed for carelessness in 
duty. Upon me alone will rest the responsibility to 
the King of Prussia. You shall proceed but five or 
six miles each day ; at this rate of travel it will 
take four days to reach the last barracks of my sol- 
diers, and almost the entire journey lies through 
dark, thick woods, and solitary highways. Now 
go, and may God be with you ! ” 

The duke stepped to the window to see Trenck 
depart, and to give him a last greeting. 


“ Well, if he is not at hbcrtv m fcbo next few 
days, it will surely not be my fouh,” muimured 
Duke Ferdinand, “ and Princess Ameha cannot re- 
proach me.” 

As Trenck drove from tne gate, Duke Ferdi- 
nand turned thoughtfully away. He was, against 
his will, oppressed by sad presentiments. For 
Trenck, this journey over the highways in the 
light, open carriage, was actual enjoyment. He 
inhaled joyfully the pure, warm, summer air — ^his 
eyes rested with rapture upon the waving corn- 
fields, and the blooming, fragrant meadows 
through which they passed. With gay shouts and 
songs he seemed to rival the lark as she winged 
her way into the clouds above him. He was in- 
nocent, careless, and happy as a child. The world 
of Nature had been shut out from him in the dark, 
close, carriage which had brought him to Coslin ; 
she greeted him now with glad smiles and gay 
adorning. It seemed as if she were decorated for 
him with her most odorous blossoms and most 
glorious sunshine — as if she sent her softest 
breeze to kiss his cheek and whisper love-greetings 
in his ear. With upturned, dreamy glance, he fol- 
lowed the graceful movements of the pure, white 
clouds, and the rapid flight of the birds. Trenck 
was so happy in even this appearance of freedom; 
that he mistook it for liberty. 

The carriage rolled slowly over the sandy high- 
ways, and now entered a wood. The sweet odor of 
the fir-trees drew from Trenck a cry of rapture. He 
had felt the heat of the sun to be oppressive, and 
he now laid his head back under the shadow of 
the thick trees with a feeling of gladness. 

“ It will take us some hours to get through this 
forest,” said the ordnance officer. “ It is one of 
the thickest woods in this region, and the terror 
of the police. The escaped prisoner who succeeds 
in concealing himself here, may defy discovery. It 
is impossible to pursue him in these dark, tangled 
woods, and a few hours conduct him to the sea- 
shore, where there are ever small fishing-boats 
ready to receive the fugitive and place him safely 
upon some passing ship. But excuse me, sir ! the 
sun has been blazing down so hotly upon my head 
that I feel thoroughly wearied, and will follow the 
example of my coachman. Look! he is fast 
asleep, and the horses are moving on of their own 
good-will. Good-night, Baron Trenck.” 

He closed his eyes, and in a short time his loud 
snores and the nodding of his head from side to 
side gave assurance that he, also, was locked in 
slumber. 

Profound stillness reigned around. Trenck gaT C 
himself wholly to the enjoyment of the moment 
The peaceful stillness of the forest, interrup tfti 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


51 


tnly at iutervals by the snorting of the horses, 
ihe sleepy chatter of the birds among the dark 
gi-een branches, and the soft rustling and whisper- 
ing of the trees, filled him with delight. 

“ It is clear,” he said to himself, “ that this ar- 
rest in Dantzic was only a manoeuvre to terrify me. 
I rejected the proposal of the Prussian ambassa- 
dor in Vienna, to return to Berlin and enter again 
the Prussian service, so the king wishes to punish 
and frighten me. This is a jest — a comedy ! — 
which the king is carrying on at my expense. If 
I were really regarded as a deserter, as a prisoner 
for the crime of high treason, no officer would 
dare to guard me so carelessly. In the beginning, 
I was harshly treated, in order to alarm and de- 
ceive me, and truly those twelve silent hussars, 
continually surrounding the closed carriage, had 
rather a melancholy aspect, and I confess I was 
imposed upon. But the mask has fallen, and I 
see behind the smiling, good-humored face of the 
king. He loved me truly once, and was as kind 
a.s a father. The old love has awakened and spo- 
ken m my favor. Frederick wishes to have me 
again in Berlin — that is all ; and he knows well 
that I can be of service to him. He who has his 
spies everywhere, knows that no one else can give 
him such definite information as to the intentions 
and plans of Russia as I can — that no one knows 
so certainly what the preparations for war, now 
going on throughout the w'hole of Russia, signify. 
Yes, yes ; so it is ! Frederick will have me again 
in his service ; he knows of my intimacy with the 
all-powerful wife of Bestuchef — that I am in 
constant correspondence wdth her, and in this way 
infox’med of all the plans of the Russian govern- 
ment.* Possibly, the king intends to send me as a 
secret ambassador to St. Petersburg ! That would, 
indeed, open a career to me, and bring me exalted 
honor,* and perhaps make that event possible 
which has heretofore only floated before my daz- 
zled sight like a dream-picture. Oh, Amelia ! no- 
blest, most constant of wmmen ! could the dreams 
of our youth be realized 5 If fate, softened by 
your tears and your heroic courage, would at last 
unite you with him you have so fondly and so truly 
loved ! Misled by youth, presumption, and levity, I 
have sometimes trifled with my most holy remem- 
brances, sometimes seemed unfaithful ; but; my 
love to you has never failed ; I have wmrn it as a 
talisman about my heart. I have ever worshipped 
you, I have ever hoped in you, and I will believe 
in you always, if I doubt and despair of all others. 
Oh, Amelia ! protecting angel of my life ! perhaps 
I may now return to you. I shall see you again, 
,ook once more into your beauteous eyes, kneel 

* Frederick Trenck’s “ Memoirs.” 


humbly before you, and receive absolution for my 
sins. They were but sins of the flesh, m 3 ' soul had 
no part in them. I will return to you, and live 
free, honored, and happy by your side. I know 
this by the gracious reception of the duke ; I know 
it by the careless manner in which I am guarded. 
Before the officer went to sleep he told me how 
securely a fugitive could hide himself in these 
woods. I, however, have no necessity to hide 
myself; no misfortune hovers over me, honor and 
gladness beckon me on. I will not be so foolish 
as to fly ; life opens to me new and flowery paths, 
greets me with laughing hopes.” * 

Wholly occupied with these thoughts, Trenck 
leaned back in the carriage and gave himself up 
to bright dreams of the future. Slowly the horses 
moved through the deep, white sand, which made 
the roll of the wheels noiseless, and effaced in- 
stantaneously the footprints of men. The officer 
still slept, the coachman had dropped the reins, 
and nodded here and there as if intoxicated. The 
wood was drear and empty ; no human dwelling, 
no human face was seen. Had Trenck wished to 
escape, one spring from the low, open carriage ; a 
hundred hasty steps would have brought him to a 
thicket where discovery was impossible; the car- 
riage would have rolled on quietly, and when the 
sleepers aroused themselves, they would have had 
no idea of the direction Trenck had taken. The 
loose and rolling sand would not have retained his 
footprints, and the whispering trees would not 
have betrayed him. 

Trenck would not fly ; he was full of romance, 
faith, and hope ; his sanguine temper painted his 
future in enchanting colors. No, he would not 
flee, he had faith in his star. Life’s earnest tra- 
gedy had yet for him a smiling face, and life’s bit- 
ter truths seemed alluring visions. No, the king 
only wished to try him ; he wished to see if he 
could frighten him into an effort to escape ; he 
gave him the opportunity for flight, but if he 
made use of it, he would be lost forever in the 
eyes of Frederick, and his prospects utterly de- 
stroyed. If he bravely suffered the chance of es- 
cape to pass by, and arrived in Berlin, to all ap- 
pearance a prisoner, the king would have the 
agreeable task of undeceiving him, and Trenck 
would have shown conclusively that he had faith 
in the king’s magnanimity, and gave himself up to 
him without fear. He would have proved also 
that his conscience was clear, and that, without 
flattering, he could yield himself to the judgment 
of the king. No, Trenck would not fly. In Ber- 
lin, liberty, love, and Amelia awaited him ; he 
would lose all this by flight; it would all remain 

* “ Frederick Trenck’s Memoirs.” 


52 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY 


his if lie did not allow himself to be enticed by the 
flattering goddess, opportunity, who now beck- 
oned and nodded smilingly from behind every tree 
and every thicket. Trenck withstood these entice- 
ments during three long days ; with careless indif- 
ference he passed slowly on through this lonely 
region; in his arrogant blindness and self-confi- 
dence he did not observe the care-worn and anx- 
ious looks of the officers who conducted him ; he 
did not hear or understand the low, hesitating in- 
sinuations they dared to speak. 

“This is your last resting-point,” said the offi- 
cer who had conducted him from the last station. 
“ You will remain here this afternoon, and early 
to-morrow morning the cavalry officer Von Halber 
will conduct you to Berlin, where the last barracks 
of our regiment are to be found ; from that point 
the infiintry garrison will take charge of your fur- 
ther transportation.” 

“ I shall not make their duties difficult,” said 
Trenck, gayly. “ You see I am a good-natured 
prisoner ; no Argus eyes are necessary, as I have 
no intention to flee.” 

The officer gazed into his calm, smiling face 
with amazement, and then stepped out with the 
officer Yon Halber, into whose house they had 
now entered, to make known his doubts and ap- 
prehensions. 

“ Perhaps the opportunities which have been of- 
fered him have not been sufficiently manifest,” 
said Yon Halber. “ Perhaps he has not regarded 
them as safe, and he fears a failure. In that he is 
right; a vain attempt at flight would be much 
more prejudicial to him than to yield himself 
without opposition. Well, I will see that he has 
now a sure chance to escape, and you may believe 
he will be cunning enough to take advantage of 
it. You may say this much to his highness the 
duke.” 

“But do not forget that the duke commanded 
us not to betray his intention to prepare these 
opportunities by a single word. This course 
would compromise the duke and all of us.” 

“I understand perfectly,” said Yon Halber; 

“ I will speak eloquently by deeds, and not with 
words.” 

True to this intention, Yon Halber, after having 
partaken of a gay dinner with Trenck and several 
officers, left his house, accompanied by all his ser- 
vants. 

“ The horses must be exercised,” said he ; and, 
as he was unmarried, no one remained in the 
house but Trenck. 

‘ You will be my house-guard for several hours,” 
said the officer to Trenck, who was standing at the 
door as he drove off. “ I h.ope no one will come 


to disturb your solitude. My officers all accom' 
pany me, and I have no acquaintance in this little 
village. You muII be entirely alone, and if, on my 
return, I find that you have disappeared in mist 
and fog, I shall believe that ennui has extin- 
guished you — ^reduced you to a bodiless nothing.” 

“ Well, I think he must have understood that,” 
said Von Halber, as he dashed down the street, 
followed by his staff. “He must be blind and 
deaf if he does not flee from the fate before him.” 

Trenck, alas ! had not understood. He believed 
in no danger, and did not, therefore, see the ne- 
cessity for flight. He found this quiet, lonely 
house inexpressibly wearisome. He wandered 
through the rooms, seeking some object of inter- 
est, or some book which would enable him to 
pass the tedious hours. The cavalry officer was a 
gallant and experienced soldier, but he was no 
scholar, and had nothing to do with books. 
Trenck’s search was in vain. Discontented and 
restless, he wandered about, and at last entered 
the little court which led to the stable. A wel- 
come sound fell on his ears, and made his heart 
beat jojffully ; with rapid steps he entered the sta- 
ble. Two splendid horses stood in the stalls, 
snorting and stamping impatiently ; they were evi- 
dently riding-horses, for near them hung saddles 
and bridles. Their nostrils dilated proudly as 
they threw their heads back to breathe the fresh 
air which rushed in at the open door. It appeared 
to Trenck that their flashing eyes were pleading to 
him for liberty and action. 

“ Poor beasts,” said he, stepping forward, and 
patting and caressing them — “ poor beasts, you 
also pine for liberty, and hope for my assistance ; 
but I cannot, I dare not aid you. Like you, I also 
am a prisoner, and like you also, a prisoner to my 
will. If you wmuld use your strength, one move- 
ment of your powerful muscles would tear 'your 
bonds asunder, and your feet would bear you 
sv/iftly like wdngs through the air. If I would use 
the present opportunity, which beckons and 
smiles upon me, it would be only necessary to 
spring upon your back and dash off' into God’s fair 
and lovely world. We would reach our goal, we 
would be free, but we would both be lost ; we 
would be recaptured, and would bitterly repent 
our short dream of self-acquired freedom. It is 
better for us both that we remain as we are ; 
bound, not with chains laid upon our bodies, but 
by wisdom and discretion.” 

So saying, he smoothed tenderly the glossy 
throat of the gallant steed, whose joyful neigh 
filled his heart with an inexplicable melancholy. 

“I must leave you,” murmured he, shuddering 
ly ; ‘ your lusty neighing intoxicates mv senses. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


53 


and reminds me of green fields and fragrant mead- 
ows ; of the broad highways, and the glad feeling 
of liberty which one enjoys when flying through 
the world on the back of a gallant steed. No ! 
no ! I dare no longer look upon you ; all my wis- 
dom and discretion might melt away, and I might 
be allured to seek for myself that freedom which 
I must receive alone at the hands of the king, in 
Berlin.” 

With hasty steps Trenck left the stable and re- 
turned to the bouse, where he stretched himself 
upon the sofa, and gave himself up to dreamland. 

It was twilight when Halber returned from his 
long ride. 

“ All is quiet and peaceful,” said he, as he en- 
tered the house. “ The bird has flown, this time ; 
he found the opportunity favorable.” 

With a contented smile, he entered his room, 
but his expression changed suddenly, and his 
trembling lips muttered a soldier’s curse. There 
lay Trenck in peaceful slumber ; his handsome, 
youthful face was bright and free from care, and 
those must be sweet dreams which floated around 
him, for he smiled in his sleep. 

“Poor fellow!” said Von Halber, shaking his 
head ; “ he must be mad, or struck with blindness, 
and cannot see the yawning abyss at his feet.” 

He awakened Trenck, and asked him how he 
had amused himself, during the long hours of 
solitude. 

“ I looked through all your house, and then en- 
tered the stables and gladdened my heart by the 
sight of your beautiful horses.” 

“Thunder and lightning! You have then seen 
my horses,” cried Halber, thoroughly provoked. 
“Did no wish arise in your heart to mount one 
and seek your liberty ? ” 

Frederick Trenck smiled. “ The wish, indeed, 
arose in my heart, but I suppressed it manfully. 
Do you not see, dear Halber, that it would be un- 
thankful and unknightly to reward in this cow- 
ardly and contemptible w^ay the magnanimous 
confidence you have shown me.” 

“ Truly, you are an honorable gentleman,” cried 
Halber, greatly touched ; “ I had not thought of 
that. It would not have been well to flee from 
my house.” 

“ To-morrow he will fly,” thought the good-na- 
tured soldier, “ when once more alone — to-mor- 
row, and the opportunity shall not be wanting.” 

Von Halber left his house early in the morning 
to conduct his prisoner to Berlin. No one accom- 
panied them ; no one but the coachman, who sat 
upon the box and never looked behind him. 

Their path led through a thick wood. V on Hal- 
ber entertained the prisoner as the lieutenant had 


done who conducted Trenck the day he left Coslin. 
He called his attention to the denseness of the 
forest, and spoke of the many fugitives wdio had 
concealed themsel'^es there till pursuit was aban- 
doned. He then invited Trenck to get down and 
walk with him, near the carriage. 

As Trenck accepted the invitation, and strolled 
along by his side in careless indifference. Von 
Halber suddenly observed that the ground was 
covered wdth mushrooms. 

“ Let us gather a few,” said he ; “ the young 
wife of one of my friends understands how tc 
make a glorious dish of them, and if I take her a 
large collection, she will consider it a kind atten- 
tion. Let us take our hats and handkerchiefs, and 
fill them. You will take the right path into the 
wood, and I the left. In one hour we will meet 
here again.” 

Without waiting for an answer, the good Halber 
turned to the left in the wood, and was lost in the 
thicket. In an hour he returned to the carriage, 
and found Trenck smilingly awaiting him. 

He turned pale, and with an expression of ex- 
asperation, he exclaimed: 

“ You have not then lost yourself in the woods ?” 

“ I have not lost myself,” said Trenck, quietly ; 
“and I have gathered a quantity of beautiful 
mushrooms.” 

Trenck handed him his handkerchief, filled with 
small, round mushrooms. Halber threvv them 
with a sort of despair into the carriage, and then, 
without saying one word, he mounted and nodded 
to Trenck to follow him. 

“And now let us be off,” said he, shortly. 
“ Coachman, drive on ! ” 

He leaned back in the carriage, and with frown- 
ing brow he gazed up into the heavens. 

Slowly the carriage rolled through the sand, and 
it seemed as if the panting, creeping horses shrank 
back from reaching their goal, the boundary-line 
of the Wurtcmbergian dragoons. Trenck had fol- 
lowed his companion’s example, and leaned back 
in the carriage. Halber was gloomy and filled 
with dark forebodings. Trenck was gay and un- 
embarrassed ; not the slightest trace of care or 
mistrust could be read in his features. 

They, moved onward silently. The air was 
fresh and pure, the heavens clear; but a dark 
cloud was round about the path of this dazzled, 
blinded young officer. The birds sang of it on 
the green boughs, but Trenck would not under- 
stand them. They sang of liberty and gladness ; 
they called to him to follow their example, and 
fly far from the haunts of men ! The dark wood 
echoed Fly ! fly ! in powerful organ-tones, bul 
Trenck took them for the holy hymns of God’p 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


peaceful, sleeping world. He heard not the trees, 
as with warning voices they bowed down and mur- 
mured, Flee ! flee ! Come under our shadow, we 
will conceal you till the danger be overpast ! Flee ! 
flee! Misfortune, like a cruel vulture, is floating 
over you — already her fangs are extended to grasp 
you. The desert winds, in wild haste rushed by 
HTid covering this poor child of sorrow with clouds 
of dust, whispered in his ear. Fly ! fly ! — follow my 
example and rush madly backward ! Misfortune 
advances to meet you, and a river of tears flows 
down the path you are blindly following. Turn 
your head and flee, before this broad, deep stream 
overtakes you. The crealdng wheels seemed to 
sob out. Fly I fly! we are rolling you onward to a 
dark and eternal prison ! Do you not hear the 
clashing of chains ? Do you not see the open 
grave at your feet ? These are your chains ! — that 
is your grave, already prepared for the living, 
glowing heart ! Fly ! then, fly 1 You are yet free 
to choose. The clouds which swayed on over the 
heavens, traced in purple and gold the warning 
words. Fly ! fly ! or you look upon us for the last 
time 1 Upon the anxious face of V on Halber was 
also to be seen. Fly now, it is high time 1 I see 
the end of the wood ! — I see the first houses of 
Boslin, Fly ! then, fly ! — it is high time 1 Alas, 
Trenck’s eyes were blinded, and his ears were 
filled with dust. 

“ Those whom demons will destroy, they first 
strike with blindness.” Trenck’s evil genius had 
blinded his eyes — his destruction was sure. There 
remained no hope of escape. The carriage had 
reached the end of the wood and rolled now over 
the chaussh to Boslin. 

But what means this great crowd before the 
stately house which is decorated with the Prus- 
sian arms ? What means this troop of soldiers 
who with stem, frowning brows, surround the dark 
coach with the closed windows? 

“We are in Boslin,” said Von Halber, point- 
ing toward the group of soldiers. “ That is the 
post-house, and, as you see, we are expected.” 

For the first time Trenck was pale, and horror 
was written in his face. “ I am lost I ” stammered 
he, completely overcome, and sinking back into the 
carriage he cast a wild, despairing glance around 
him, and seized the ai’m of Halber with a power- 
ful hand. 

“ Be merciful, sir 1 oh, be merciful 1 Let us 
move more slowly. Turn back, oh, turn back ! — 
just to the entrance of the wood — only to the en- 
trance of the street ! ” 

“ You see that is impossible,” said Von Halber, 
Badly. “We are recognized; if we turn back 
now, they will welcome us with bullets.” 


“It were far better for me to die,” murmured 
Trenck, “ than to enter that dark prison — tha 
open grave 1 ” 

“ Alas I you would not fly — you would not un- 
derstand me. I gave you many opportunities, 
but you would not avail yourself of them.” 

“ I was mad, mad ! ” cried Trenck. “ I had 
confidence in myself— I had faith in my good 
star — but the curse of my evil genius has overta- 
ken me. Oh, my God I I am lost, lost ! All ray 
hopes were deceptive — the king is my irreconcila • 
ble enemy, and he will revenge my past life on my 
future ! I have this knowledge too late. Oh, Hal- 
ber ! go slowly, slowly ; I must give you my last 
testament. Mark well what I say — these are the 
last words of a man who is more to be pitied than 
the dying. It is a small service which I ask of 
you, but my existence depends upon it : Go 
quickly to the Duke of Wurtemberg and say this 
to him : ‘ Frederick von Trenck sends Duke Fer- 
dinand his last greeting ! He is a prisoner, and 
in death’s extremity. Will the duke take pity on 
him, and convey this news to her whom he knows 
to be Trenck’s friend ? Tell her Trenck is a pris- 
oner, and hopes only in her ! ’ Will you swear to 
me to do this ? ” 

“ I swear it,” said Von Halber, deeply moved. 

The carriage stopped. Von Halber sprang down 
and greeted the officer who was to take charge of 
Trenck. The soldiers placed themselves on both 
sides of the coach, and the door was opened. 
Trenck cast a last despairing, imploring glance to 
heaven, then, with a firm step, approached the 
open coach. In the act of entering, he turned 
once more to the officer Von Halber, whose friend- 
ly eyes were darkened with tears. 

“You will not forget, sir 1 ” 

These simply, sadly-spoken words, breaking the 
solemn, imposing silence, made an impression 
upon the hearts of even the stern soldiers around 
them. 

“I will not forget,” said Von Halber, solemnly. 

Trenck bowed and entered the coach. The of- 
ficer followed him and closed the door. Slowly, 
like a funeral procession, the coach moved on. 
Von Halber gazed after him sadly. 

“ He is right, he is more to be pitied than the 
dying. I will hasten to fulfil his last testa- 
ment.” 

Eight days later, the Princess Amelia received 
through the hands of Pbllnitz a letter from Duke 
Ferdinand. As she read it, she uttered a cry of 
anguish, and sank insensible upon the floor. The 
duke’s letter contained these words : 

“ AU my efforts were in vain ; he would not 
fly, wmuld not believe in his danger. In the case' 


FREDERICK TEffi GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


65 


mates of Magdeburg sits a poor prisoner, whose 
last words directed to me were these : ‘ Say to her 
whom you know that I am a prisoner, and hope 
only in her.’ ” 


CHAPTER III. 

PRINCE HENRY AND HIS WIFE. 

Prince Henry walked restlessly backward and 
forward in his study ; his brow w'as stern, and a 
strange fire flamed in his eye. He felt greatly 
agitated and oppressed, and scarcely knew the 
cause himself. Nothing had happened to disturb 
his equanimity and give occasion for his wayward 
mood. The outside world wore its accustomed 
gay and festal aspect. To-day, as indeed almost 
every day since the prince resided at Rheinsberg, 
prepai’atious were being made for a gay entertain- 
ment. A country /He was to be given in the 
woods near the palace, and all the guests were to 
appear as shepherds and shepherdesses. 

Prince Henry had withdrawn to his own room 
to assume the tasteful costume which had been 
prepared for him ; but he seemed to have entirely 
forgotten his purpose. The tailor and the friseur 
awaited him in vain in his dressing-room ; he for- 
got their existence. He paced his room with 
rapid steps, and his tightly-compressed lips 
opened from time to time to utter a few broken, 
disconnected words. 

Of what was the prince thinking ? He did not 
know, or he would not confess it to himself. 
Perhaps he dared not look down deep into his 
heart and comprehend the new feelings and new 
wishes which were struggling there. 

At times he stood still, and looked with a wild, 
rapt expression into the heavens, as if they alone 
could answer the mysterious questions his soul 
was whispering to him ; then passed on with his 
hand pressed on his brow to control or restrain 
the thoughts which agitated him. He did not 
hear a light tap upon the door, he did not see it 
open, and his most intimate and dearest friend. 
Count Kalkreuth enter, dressed in the full cos- 
lume of a shepherd. 

Count Kalkreuth stood still, and did nothing to 
call the attention of the prince to his presence. 
He remained at the door; his face was also dark 
and troubled, and the glance which he fixed upon 
Prince Henry was almost one of hatred. 

The prince turned, and the count’s expression 
changed instantly ; he stepped gayly forward and 
said : 

“ Your royal highness sees my astonishment at 


finding you lost in such deep thought, and your 
toilet not even commenced. I stand Hire Lot’s 
blessed wife, turned to stone u]^on your thresh- 
old ! Have you forgotten, my prince, that you 
commanded us all to be ready punctually at four 
o’clock? The castle clock is at this moment 
striking four. The ladies and gentlemen will now 
assemble in the music-saloon, as you directed, and 
you, prince, are not yet in costume.” 

“ It is true,” said Prince Henry, somewhat em- 
barrassed, “ I had forgotten ; but I will hasten to 
make good my fault.” 

He stepped slowly, and with head bowed do^vn, 
toward his dressing-room ; at the door, he stood 
and looked back at the count. 

“ You are already in costume, my friend,” said 
he, noticing for the first time the fantastic dress 
of the count. “ Truly, this style becomes you 
marvellously; your bright-colored satin jacket 
shows your fine proportions as advantageously as 
your captain’s uniform. But what means this 
scarf which you wear upon your shoulder ? ” 

“ These are the colors of my shepherdess,” said 
the count, with a constrained smile. 

“ Who is your shepherdess? ” 

‘‘ Your highness asks that, when you yourself 
selected her ! ” said Kalkreuth, astonished. 

“Yes, it is true; I forgot,” said the prince. 
“ The princess, my wife, is your shepherdess. 
Well, I sincerely hope you may find her highness 
more gay and gracious than she was to me this 
morning, and that you may see the rare beauty 
of this fair rose, of which I only feel the thorns ! ” 

While the prince was speaking, the count be- 
came deathly pale, and looked at him with painful 
distrust. 

“ It is true,” he replied, “ the princess is cold 
and reserved toward her husband. Without 
doubt, this is the result of a determination to 
meet your wishes fully, and to remain clearly 
within the boundary which your highness at the 
time of your marriage, more than a year ago, 
plainly marked out for her. The princess knows, 
perhaps too well, that her husband is wholly indif- 
ferent to her beauty and her expression, and 
therefore feels herself at liberty to yield to each 
changeful mood without ceremony in your pres- 
ence.” 

“You are right,” said Prince Henry, sadly, 
“she is wholly indiffei’ent to me, and I have told 
her so. We will speak no more of it. What, in- 
deed, are the moods of the princess to me ? I 
will dress, go to the music-saloon, and ask for for- 
giveness in my name for ray delay. I will soon 
be ready ; I will seek the princess in her apart 
mcnts, and we will join you in a few moments.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The prince bowed and left the room. Kalkreuth 
gazed after him thoughtfully and anxiously. 

“ His manner is unaccountably strange to-day,” 
whispered he. “ Has he, perhaps, any suspicion ; 
and these apparently artless questions and re- 
marks, this distraction and forgetfulness — But 
no, no ! it is impossible ; he can know nothing — 
no one has betrayed me. It is the anguish of my 
conscience which makes me fearful ; this suffering 
I must bear, it is the penalty I pay for my great 
happiness.” The count sighed deeply and with- 
drew. 

The prince completed his toilet, and sought the 
princess in her apartment, in the other wing of 
the castle. With hasty steps he passed through 
the corridors ; his countenance was anxious and 
expectant, his eyes were glowing and impatient, 
haste marked every movement; he held in his 
hand a costly bouquet of white camelias. When 
he reached the anteroom of the princess he be- 
came pallid, and leaned for a moment, trembling 
and gasping for breath, against the wall ; he soon, 
however, by a strong effort, controlled himself, 
entered, and commanded the servant to announce 
him. 

The Princess Wilhelmina received her husband 
with a stiff, ceremonious courtesy, which, in its 
courtly etiquette, did not correspond with the 
costume she had assumed. The proud and stately 
princess was transformed into an enchanting, 
lovely shepherdess. It was, indeed, difficult to 
decide if the princess were more beautiful in her 
splendid court toilet, adorned with diamonds, and 
wearing on her high, clear brow a sparkling dia- 
dem, proud and conscious of her beauty and her 
triumphs; or now, in this artistic costume, in 
which she was less imposing, but more enchanting 
and more gracious. 

Wilhelmina wore an under-skirt of white satin, 
a red tunic, gayly embroidered and festooned with 
white roses ; a white satin bodice, embroidered 
with silver, defined her full but pliant form, and 
displayed her luxurious bust in its rare propor- 
tions ; a bouquet of red roses was fastened upon 
each shoulder, and held the silvery veil which 
half concealed the lovely throat and bosom. The 
long, black, unpowdered hair fell in graceful ring- 
lets about her fair neck, and formed a dark frame 
for the beautiful face, glowing with health, youth, 
and intellect. In her hair she wore a wreath of 
red and white roses, and a bouquet of the same 
in her bosom. 

She was, indeed, dazzling in her beauty, and 
was, perhaps, conscious of her power ; her eyes 
sparkled, and a ravishing smile played upon her 
lips as she looked up at the prince, who stood 


dumb and embarrassed before tier, and could find 
no words to express his admiration. 

“ If it is agreeable to your highness, let us joii. 
your company,” said the princess, at last, anx 
ious to put an end to this interview. She extended 
her hand coolly to her husband; he grasped it, and 
held it fast, but stiU stood silently looking upon 
her. 

‘‘ Madame,” said he, at last, in low and hesitating 
tones — “ madame, I have a request to make of 
you.” 

“ Command me, my husband,” said she, coldly ; 
“ what shall I do ? ” 

“ I do not wish to command, but to entreat,” 
said the prince. 

“Well, then. Prince Henry, speak your re- 
quest.” 

The prince gave the bouquet of white camelias 
to his wife, and said, in a faltering, pleading voice 
“ I beg you to accept this bouquet from me, and 
to wear it to-day in your bosom, although it is 
not your shepherd who offers it ! ” 

“ No, not my shepherd, but my husband,” said 
the princess,* removing angrily the bouquet of 
roses from her bodice. “ I must, of course, wear 
the flowers he gives me.” 

Without giving one glance at the flowers, she 
fastened them in her bosom. 

“ If you will not look upon them for my sake,” 
said the prince, earnestly, “ I pray you, give them 
one glance for the flowers’ sake. You will at 
least feel assured that no other shepherdess is 
adorned with such a bouquet.” 

“ Yes,” said Wilhelmina, “ these are not white 
roses ; indeed, they seem to be artificial flowers ; 
their leaves are hard and thick like alabaster, and 
dazzlingly white like snow. What flowers are 
these, my prince ? ” 

“They are camelias. I recently heard you 
speak of these rare flowers, which had just been 
imported to Europe. I hoped to please you by 
placing them in your hands.” 

“ Certainly ; but I did not know that these new 
exotics were blooming in our land.” 

“ And they are not,” said Prince Henry. “ This 
bouquet comes from Schwetzingen ; there, only, 
in Germany, in the celebrated green-houses of the 
Margravine of Baden can they be seen.” 

“ How, then, did you get them ? ” said the prin- 
cess, astonished. 

“ I sent a courier to Schwetzingen ; the blos- 
soms were wrapped in moist, green moss, and are 
so well preserved, that they look as fresh as when 
they were gathered six days since.” 

“ And you sent for them for me ? ” said Wik 
helmina. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Did you not express a wish to see them V ” 
replied the prince ; and his glance rested upon 
her with such ardent passion that, blushing, she 
cast her eyes to the ground, and stood still and 
ashamed before him. 

“ And you have not one little word of thanks ? ” 
said the prince, after a long pause. “ Will you 
not fasten these pure flowers on yonr bosom, and 
allow them to die a happy death there ? Alas ! 
you are hard and cruel with me, princess ; it 
seems to me that your husband dare claim from 
you more of kindliness and friendship.” 

“ My husband ! ” cried she, in a mocking tone. 
She turned her eyes, searchingly, in every direc- 
tion around the room. “ It appears to me that 
we are alone and wholly unobserved, and that it 
is here unnecessary for us to play this comedy 
and call ourselves by those names which we 
adopted to deceive the world, and which you 
taught me to regard as empty titles. It is, indeed, 
possible that a wife should be more friendly and 
affectionate to her husband ; but I do not believe 
that a lady dare give more encouragement to a 
cavalier than I manifest to your royal highness.” 

“You are more friendly to all the world than 
to me, Wilhelmina,” said the prince, angrily. 
“ You have a kindly word, a magic glance, a 
gi’acious reception for all others who approach 
you. To me alone are you cold and stern ; your 
countenance darkens as soon as I draw near ; the 
smile vanishes from your lips ; your brow is 
clouded, and your eyes are fixed upon me with 
almost an expression of contempt. I see, madame, 
that you hate me! Well, then, hate me; but I 
do not deserve your contempt, and I will not 
endure it I It is enough that you martyr me to 
death with your cutting coldness, your crushing 
indifference. The world, at least, should not 
know that you hate me, and I will not be publicly 
humiliated by you. What did I do this morning, 
for example ? Why were you so cold and scorn- 
ful ? Wherefore did you check your gay laugh 
as I entered the room ? wherefore did you refuse 
me the little flower you held in your hand, and 
then throw it carelessly upon the floor ? ” 

The princess looked at him with flashing eyes. 

“ You ask many questions, sir, and on many 
points,” said she, sharply. “ I do not think it 
necessary to reply to them. Let us join our com- 
pany.” She bowed proudly and advanced, but 
the prince held her back. 

“Do not go,” said he, entreatingly, “ do not go. 
day first that you pardon me, that you are no 
»onger angry. Oh, Wilhelmina, you do not know 
what I suffer ; you can never know the anguish 
which tortures my soul.” 


O i 

“ I know it well ; on the day of our marriage 
your highness explained all. It was not necessary 
to return to this bitter subject. I have not for- 
gotten one word spoken on that festive occasion.” 

“ What do you mean, Wilhelmina ? How could 
I, on our wedding-day, have made known to you 
the tortures which I now suffer; from which I 
was then wholly free, and in whose possibility I 
did not believe ? ” 

“ It is possible that your sufferings have become 
more intolerable,” said the princess, coldly ; “ but 
you confided them to me fully and frankly at that 
time. It was, indeed, the only time since our 
marriage we had any thing to confide. Our only 
secret is, that we do not love and never can love 
each other ; that only in the eyes of the world 
are we married. There is no union of hearts.” 

“ Oh, princess, your words are death 1 ” And 
completely overcome, he sank upon .a chair. 

Wilhelmina looked at him coldly, without one 
trace of emotion. ' 

“ Death ? ” said she, “ why should I slay you ? 
We murder only those whom we love or hate. I 
neither love nor hate you.” 

“ You are only, then, entirely indifferent to me,” 
asked the prince. 

“I think, your highness, this is what you asked 
of me, on our wedding-day. I have endeavored 
to meet your wishes, and thereby, at least, to 
prove to you that I had the virtue of obedience. 
Oh, I can never forget that hour,” cried the prin- 
cess. “ I came a stranger, alone, ill from home- 
sickness and anguish of heart, to Berlin. I was be- 
trothed according to the fate of princesses. I was 
not consulted ’ I did not know — I had never seen 
the man to whom I must swear eternal love and 
faith. This was also your sad fate, my prince. 
We had never met. We saw each other for the 
first time as we stood before God’s altar, and ex- 
changed our vows to the sound of merry wedding- 
bells, and the roar of cannon. I am always think- 
ing that the bells ring and the cannon thunders at 
royal marriages, to drown the timid, trembling 
yes, forced from pallid, unwilling lips, which rings 
in the ears of God and men like a discord — like 
the snap of a harp-string. The bells chimed 
melodiously. No man heard the yes at which our 
poor hearts rebelled I We alone heard and un- 
derstood! You were noble, prince; you had 
been forced to swear a falsehood before the altar ; 
but in the evening, when we were alone in our 
apartment, you told me the frank and honest 
truth. State policy united us; we did not and 
could never love each other! You were amiable 
enough to ask me to be your friend — your sister ; 
and to give me an immediate proof of a ti other’s 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


confidence, you confessed to me that, with all the 
ardor and ecstasy of your youthful heart, you had 
loved a woman who betrayed you, and thus ex- 
tinguished forever all power to love. I, my 
prince, could not follow your frank example, and 
give a like confidence. I had nothing to relate. 
I had not loved! I loved you not! I was there- 
fore grateful when you asked no love from me. 
You only asked that, with calm indifference, we 
should remain side by side, and greet each other, 
before the world, with the empty titles of wife and 
husband.' I accepted this proposal joyfully, to 
remain an object of absolute indifference to you, 
and to regard you in the same light. I cannot, 
therefore, comprehend why you now reproach me.” 

“Yes! yes! I said and did all that,” said 
Prince Henry, pale and trembling with emotion. 
“ I was a madman ! More than that, I was a 
blasphemer ! Love is as God — holy, invisible, and 
eternal ; and he who does not believe in her im- 
mortality, her omnipresence, is like the heathen, 
who has faith only in his gods of wood and stone, 
and whose dull eyes cannot behold the invisible 
glory of the Godhead. My heart had at that 
time received its first wound, and because it bled 
and pained me fearfully, I believed it to be dead, 
and I covered it up with bitter and cruel remem- 
brances, as in an iron coffin, from which all escape 
was impossible. An angel drew near, and laid 
her soft, fine hand upon my coffin ; my wounds 
were healed, my youth revived, and I dared hope 
in happiness and a future. At first, I would not 
confess this to myself. At first, I thought to 
smother this new birth of my heart in the mourn- 
ing veil of my past experience ; but my heart was 
like a giant in his first manhood, and cast off all 
restraint ; like Hurcules in his cradle, he strangled 
the serpents which were hissing around him. It 
was indeed a painful happiness to know that I 
had again a heart ; that I was capable of feeling 
the rapture and the pain, the longing, the hopes 
and fears, the enthusiasm and exaltation, the 
doubt and the despair which make the passion of 
love, and I have to thank you, Wilhelmina — you 
alone, you, my wife, for this new birth. You turn 
away your head, Wilhelmina ! You smile* deri- 
sively ! It is true I have not the right to call you 
my wife. You are free to spurn me from you, to 
banish me forever into that cold, desert region to 
which I fled in the madness and blindness of my 
despair. But think well, princess ; if you do this, 
you cast a shadow over my life. It is my whole 
future which I lay at your feet, a future for which 
fate perhaps intends great duties and greater 
deeds. I cannot fulfil these duties, I can perform 
no heroic deed, unless jor, princess, grant me the 


blessing of happiness. I shall be a silent, un- 
known, and useless prince, the sad and pitiful 
hanger-on of a throne, despised and unloved, a 
burden only to my people, unless you give free- 
dom and strength to my sick soul, which lies a 
prisoner at your feet. Wilhelmina, put an end to 
the tortures of the last few months, release me 
from the curse which binds my whole life in 
chains; speak but one word, and I shall have 
strength to govern the world, and prove to you 
that I am worthy of you. I will force the stars 
from heaven, and place them as a diadem upon 
your brow. Say only that you will try to love 
me, and I will thank you for happiness and fame.” 

Prince Henry was so filled with his passion and 
enthusiasm, that he did not remark the deadly 
pallor of Wilhelmina’s face — that he did not see 
the look of anguish and horror with which her 
eyes rested for one moment upon him, then shrank 
blushingly and ashamed upon the floor. He seized 
her cold, nerveless hands, and pressed them to 
his heart; she submitted quietly. She seemed 
turned to stone. 

“Be merciful, Wilhelmina; say that you for- 
give me — that you will try to love me.” 

The princess shuddered, and glanced up at him, 
“ 1 must say that,” murmured she, “ and you hawe 
not once said that you love me.” 

The prince shouted with rapture, and, falling up- 
on his knees, he exclaimed, “ I love you ! I adore 
you ! I want nothing, will accept nothing, but 
you alone ; you are my love, my hope, my future. 
Wilhelmina, if you do not intend me to die at 
your feet, say that you do not spurn me — open 
your arms and clasp me to your heart.” 

The princess stood immovable for a iroment, 
trembling and swaying from side to side ; her lips 
opened as if to utter a wild, mad cry — ^pain was 
written on every feature. The prince saw nothing 
of this — his.^lips were pressed upon her hand, and 
he did not look up — he did not see his wife press 
her pale lips tightly together to force back her 
cries of despair — ^he did not see that her eyes 
were raised in unspeakable agony to heaven. 

The battle was over ; the princess bowed over 
her husband, and her hands softly raised him from 
his knees. “ Stand up, prince — I dare not see 
you lying at my feet. You have a right to mj 
love — ^you are my husband.” 

Prince Henry clasped her closely, passionateif 
in his arms. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FAMILY. 


50 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE FETE IN THE WOODS. 

No fete was ever brighter and gayer than that 
of Rheinsberg. It is true, the courtly circle waited 
a long time before the beginning of their merry 
sports. Hours passed before the princely pair 
joined their guests in the music-saloon. 

The sun of royalty came at last, sheddin" light 
and gladness. Never had the princess looked 
more beautiful — more rosy. She seemed, indeed, 
to blush at the consciousness of her own attrac- 
tions. Never had Prince Henry appeared so hap- 
py, so triumphant, as to-day. His flashing eyes 
seemed to challenge the whole world to compete 
with his happiness ; joy and hope danced in his 
eyes ; never had he given so gracious, so kindly a 
greeting to every guest, as to-day. 

The whole assembly was bright and animated, 
and gave themselves up heartily to the beautiful 
idyl for which they had met together under the 
shadow of the noble trees in the fragrant woods 
of Rheinsberg. No gayer, lovelier shepherds and 
'Shepherdesses were ever seen in Arcadia, than 
those of Rheinsberg to-day. They laughed, and 
jested, and performed little comedies, and rejoiced 
in the innocent sports of the happy moment. 
Here wandered a shepherd and his shepherdess, 
chatting merrily ; there, under the shadow of a 
mighty oak, lay a forlorn shepherd singing, ac- 
companied by his zitter^ a love-lorn ditty to his 
cruel shepherdess, who was leading two white 
lambs decked with ribbons, in a meadow near by, 
and replied to his tender pleading with mocking 
irony. Upon the little lake, in the neighborhood of 
which they had assembled, the snow-white swans 
swam majestically to and fro. The lovely shep- 
herdesses stood upon the borders and enticed the 
swans around them, and laughed derisively at the 
shepherds who had embarked in the little boats, 
and were now driven sportively back in every di- 
rection, and could find no place to land. 

Prince Henry loved this sort of fete^ and often 
gave such at Rheinsberg, but never had he seem- 
ed to enjoy himself so thoroughly as to-day. His 
guests generally sympathized in his happiness, but 
there was one who looked upon his joyous face 
with bitterness. This was Louise du Trouffle, once 
Louise von Kleist, once the beloved of the prince. 

She was married, and her handsome, amiable, 
and intelligent husband was ever by her side; 
but the old wounds still burned, and her pride 
bled at the contempt of the prince. She knew he 
was ignorant of the great sacrifice she had been 
forced to make — ^that he despised, in place of ad- 
miring and pitying, her. 


The prince, in order to show his utter indiffer- 
ence, had invited her husband and herself to 
court. In the pride of his sick and wounded heart, 
he resolved to convince the world that the beauti- 
ful Louise von Kleist had not scorned and rejected 
his love. In her presence he resolved to show his 
young wife the most lover-like attentions, and 
prove to his false mistress that he neither sought 
nor fled from her — that he had utterly forgotten her. 

But Louise was not deceived by this acting. 
She understood him thoroughly, and knew better 
than the prince himself, that his indifference was 
assumed, and his contempt and scorn was a veil 
thrown over his betrayed and quivering heart to 
conceal his sufferings from her. Louise had the 
courage to accept Prince Henry’s invitations, and 
to take part in all the festivities with which he 
ostentatiously celebrated his happiness. She had 
the courage to receive his cutting coldness, his 
cruel sarcasm, his contempt, with calm com- 
posure and sweet submission. With the smile of 
a stoic, she offered her defenceless breast to his 
poisoned arrows, and even the tortures she en- 
dured were precious in her sight. She was con- 
vinced that the prince had not relinquished or 
forgotten her — that his indifference and contempt 
was assumed to hide his living, breathing love. 
For some time past the change in the manners 
and bearing of the prince had not escaped the 
sharp, searching glance of the experienced co- 
quette. For a long time he appeared not to see 
her — now she felt that he did not see her. He 
had been wont to say the most indifferent things 
to her in a fierce, excited tone — ^now he was self- 
possessed, and spoke to her softly and kindly. 

“ The wound has healed,” said Louise du Trouf- 
fle to herself. “ He no longer scorns because he 
no longer loves me.” But she did not know that 
he had not only ceased to love her, but loved an- 
other passionately. This suspicion was excited, 
however, for the first time to-day. In the flashing 
eye, the glad smile, the proud glance which he 
fixed upon his fair young wife, Louise discovered 
that Henry had buried the old love and a new one 
had risen from its ashes. This knowledge tortured 
her heart in a wild storm of jealousy. She forgot 
all considerations of prudence, all fear, even of 
the king. She had been compeUed to relinquish 
the hand of the prince, but she would not lose 
him wholly. Perhaps he would return to her 
when he knew what a fearful offering she had 
made to him. He would recognize her innocence, 
and mourn over the tortures he had inflicted dur- 
ing the last year. She would try this 1 She would 
play her last trump, and dare all with the hope of 
winning. 


60 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAI^HLY. 


There stood the prince under the shadow of a 
large tree, gazing dreamily at his wife, who, with 
other shepherdesses, and her shepherd, Count Kal- 
kreuth, was feeding the swans on the border of the 
lake. The prince was alone, and Louise rashly re- 
solved to approach him. He greeted her with a 
slight nod, and turning his eyes again upon his 
wife, he said, carelessly, • Are you also here, 
Madame du Trouffle ? ” 

“ Your royal highness did me the honor to in- 
vite me — I am accustomed to obey your wishes, 
and I am here.” 

“ That is kind,” said the prince, abstractedly, 
still glancing at the princess. 

Louise sighed deeply, and stepping nearer, she 
said, “ Are you still angry with me, my prince ? 
Have you never forgiven me ? ” 

“ What ? ” said the prince, quietly ; “ I do not 
remember that I have any thing to forgive.” 

“ Ah, I see ! you despise me still,” said Lcfuise, 
excitedly ; “ but I will bear this no longer ! I will 
no longer creep about like a culprit, burdened 
with your curse and your scorn. You shall at least 
know what it cost me to earn your contempt — 
what a fearful sacrifice I was compelled to make 
to secure your supposed personal happiness. I 
gave up for you the happiness of my life, but I 
can and will no longer fill a place of shame in 
your memory. If, from time to time, your high- 
ness thinks of me, you shall do me justice ! ” 

“ I think no longer of you in anger,” said the 
prince, smiling. “ That sorrow has long since 
passed away.” 

“From your heart, prince, but not from mine ! 
My heart bleeds, and will bleed eternally ! You 
must not only forgive — you must do me justice. 
Listen, then ; and so truly as there is a God above 
us, I will speak the truth. I did not betray you 
— I was not faithless. My heart and my soul I 
laid gladly at your feet, and thanked God for the 
fulness of my happiness. My thoughts, my ex- 
istence, my future, was chained to you. I had no 
other will, no other wish, no other hope. I was 
your slave — I wanted nothing but your love.” 

“ Ah, and then came this Monsieur du Trouffle, 
and broke your fetters — gave your heart liberty 
and wings for a new flight,” said Prince Henry. 

“ No, then came the king and commanded me 
to give you up,” murmured Louise ; “ then came 
the king, and forced me to offer up myself and 
my great love to your future welfare. Oh, my 
prince ! recall that terrible hour in which we sep- 
arated. I said to you that I had betrothed my- 
self to Captain du Trouffle— that of my own free 
choice, and inflnoneed by love »lone, I gave my- 
•elf to him.” 


“ I remember that hour.” 

“ Well, then, in that hour we were not alone. 
The king was concealed behind the portiere^ and 
listened to my words. He dictated them ! — he 
threatened me with destruction if I betrayed his 
presence by look or word ; if I gave you reason 
to suspect that I did not, of my own choice and 
lovingly, give myself to this unloved, yes, this^j 
hated man ! I yielded only after the most fearful 
contest with the king, to whom, upon my knees 
and bathed in tears, I pleaded for pity.” 

“ What means could the king use, what threats 
could he utter, which forced you to such a step?” 
said the prince, incredulously. “ Did he threaten 
you with death if you did not obey ? When one 
truly loves, death has no terrors ! Did he say he 
would murder me if you did not release me ? You 
knew I had a strong arm and a stronger will ; you 
should have trusted both. You placed your fate 
in my hands ; you should have obeyed no other 
commands than mine. And now shall I speak 
the whole truth ? I do not believe in this sacri 
fice on your part; it would have required more 
than mortal strength, and it would have been 
cruel in the extreme. You saw what I suffered. 
My heart was torn with anguish ! No, madarae, 
no ; you did not make this sacrifice, or, if you 
did, you loved me not. If you had loved me, you 
could not have seen me suffer so cruelly ; you 
would have told the truth, even in the presence 
of the king. No earthly power can control true 
love ; she is self-sustained and makes her own 
laws. No ! no ! I do not believe in this offering; 
you make this excuse either to heal my sick heart, 
or because your pride is mortified at my want of 
consideration ; you wish to recover my good 
opinion.” 

“ Alas ! alas ! he does not believe me,” cried 
Louisa. 

“ No, I do not believe you,” said the prince, 
kindly ; and yet you must not think that I am 
still angry. I not only forgive, but I thank you. 

It is to you, indeed, Louise, that I owe my pres- 
ent happiness, all those noble and pure joys which 
a true love bestows. I thank you for this — you 
and the king. It was wise in the king to deny 
me that which I then thought essential to my 
happiness, but which would, at last, have brought 
us both to shame and to despair. The love, which 
must shun the light of day and hide itself in ob- 
scurity, pales, and withers, and dies. Happy love 
must have the sunlight of heaven and God’s 
blessing upon it ! All this failed in our case, and 
it was a blessing for us both that you saw it 
cleaily, and resigned a doubtful happiness at iny 
side for surer peace with Monsieur du Trouffle 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


61 


From my, soul I thank you, Louise. See what a 
costly treasure has bloomed for me from the 
grave of my betrayed love. Look at that lovely 
young woman who, although disguised as a shep- 
herdess, stands out in the midst oi all other women, 
an imperial queen ! a queen of beauty, grace, and 
fascination ! This charming, innocent, and mod- 
est young woman belongs to me ; she is my wife ; 
and I have your inconstancy to thank for this rare 
gem. Oh, inadame, I have indeed reason to for- 
give you for the past, to be grateful to you as long 
as I live. But for you I should never have mar- 
ried the Pi’incess Wilhelmina. What no menaces, 
® no entreaties, no commands of the king could ac- 
complish, your faithlessness effected. I married ! 
God, in his goodness, chose you to be a mediator 
between me and my fate ; it was His will that, 
from your hand, I should receive my life’s bless- 
^ing. You cured me of a wandering and unworthy 
passion, that I might feel the truth and enjoy the 
blessing of a pure love, and a love which now 
fills my heart and soul, my thoughts, my existence 
for my darling wife.” 

“ Ah, you are very cruel,” said Louise, scarcely 
able to suppress her tears of rage. 

“I am' only true, madame,” said the prince, 
smiling. “ You wished to know of me if I were 
still angry with you, and I reply that I have not 
only forgiven, but I bless your inconstancy. And 
now, I pray you, let us end this conversation, 
which I will never renew. Let the past die and 
be buried ! We have both of us commenced a 
new life under the sunshine of a new love ; we 
will not allow any cloud of remembrances to cast 
a shadow upon it. Look, the beautiful shep- 
herdesses are seeking flowers in the meadows, and 
my wife stands alone upon the borders of the 
lake. Allow me to join her, if only to see if the 
clear waters of the lake reflect back her image as 


lovely and enchanting as the reality.” 

The prince bowed, and with hasty steps took 
the path that led to the lake. 

Louise looked at him scornfully. “ He despises 
me and he loves her fondly ; but she — does the 
princess love him ? — not so ! — her glance is cold, 
icy, when she looks upon him ; and to-day I saw 
her turn pale as the prince approached her. No, 
fihe loves him not ; but who then — who ? she is 
young, ardent, and, it appears to me, impressi- 
ole ; she cannot live without love. I will find 
out ; a day will come when I will take vengeance 
for this hour. I await that day ! ” 

While Louise forced herself to appear gay, in 
order to meet her husband without embarrass- 
ment, and the prince walked hastily onward, the 
princess stood separated from her ladies, on the 


6 


borders of the lake, with the Count Kalkreuth t.i 
her side. The count had been appointed her 
cavalier for the day, by the prince her husband ; 
she seemed to give her undivided attention to the 
swans, who were floating before her, and stretch- 
ing out their graceful necks to receive food from 
her hands. As she bowed down to feed the swans, 
she whispered lightly, “ Listen, count, to what I 
have to say to you. If possible, laugh merrily, 
that my ladies may hear ; let your countenance 
be gay, for I see the prince approaching. In ten 
minutes he will be with us ; do you understand 
my low tones ? ” 

“ I understand you, princess ; alas ! I fear I 
understand without words ; I have read my sen- 
tence in the eyes of your husband. The prince 
suspects me.” 

“No,” said she, sadly bowing down and pluck- 
ing a few violets, which she threw to the swans ; 
“ he has no suspicion, but he loves me.” 

The count sprang back as if wounded. “ He 
loves you ! ” he cried, in a loud, almost threatening 
tone. 

“ For pity’s sake speak low’,” said the princess. 
“ Look, the ladies turn toward us, and are listen- 
ing curiously, and you have frightened the swans 
from the shore. Laugh, I pray you ; speak a few 
loud and jesting words, count, I implore you.” 

“ I cannot,” said the count. “ Command me 
to throw myself into the lake and I will obey you 
joyfully, and in dying I will call your name and 
bless it ; but do not ask me to smile when ycu 
tell me that the prince loves you.” 

“ Yes, he loves me ; he confessed it to-day,” 
said the princess, shuddering. Oh, it was a mo- 
ment of inexpressible horror ; a moment in which 
that became a sin which, until then, had been pure 
and innocent. So long as my husband did not 
love me, or ask my love, I was free to bestow li 
where I would and when I would ; so soon as he 
loves me, and demands my love, I am a culprit if 
I refuse it.’* 

“ And I false to my friend,” murmured Kal- 
kreuth. 

“We must instantly separate,” whispered she; 
“We must bury our love out of our sight, which 
until now has lived purely and modestly in our 
hearts, and this must be its funeral procession. 
You see I have already begun to deck the grave 
with flowers, and that tears are consecrating 
them.” She pointed with her jewelled hand to 
the bouquet of white camelias which adorned het 
bosom. 

“ It was cruel not to wear my flowers,” said tht 
count. “ Was it not enough to crush me ? — ^must 
you also trample my poor flowers, consecrated 


52 


N 

FREDERICK THE GRE. 

with my kisses and my whispers, under your 
feet ? ” 

“ The red roses which you gave me,” said she, 
lightly, “I will keep as a remembrance of the 
beautiful and glorious dream which the rude real- 
ity of life has dissipated. These camelias are su- 
perb, but without fragrance, and colorless as my 
sad features. I must wear them, for my husband 
gave them to me, and in so doing I decorate the 
grave of my love. Farewell ! — hereafter I will 
live for my duties ; as I cannot accept your love, 

I will merit your highest respect. Farewell, and 
if from this time onward we are cold and strange, 
never forget that our souls belong to each other, 
and when I dare no longer think of the past, I will 
pray for you.” 

“You never loved me,” whispered the count, 
with pallid, trembling lips, “ or you could not give 
me up so rashly ; you would not have the cruel 
courage to spurn me from you. You are weary 
of me, and since the prince loves you, you despise 
the poor humble heart which laid itself at your 
feet. Yes, yes, I cannot compete with this man, 
who is a prince and the brother of a king ; 
who — ” 

“Who is my husband,” cried she, proudly, 

“ and who, while he loves me, dares ask that I 
shall accept his love.” 

“ Ah, now you are angry with me,” stammered 
the count ; “ you — ” 

“ Hush ! ” whispered she, “ do you not see the 
prince ? Do laugh ! Bow down and give the 
swans these flowers ! ” 

The count took the flowers, and as he gave 
them to the swans, he whispered 

“ Give me at least a sign that you are not an- 
gry, and that you do not love the prince. Throw 
this hated bouquet, which has taken the place of 
mine, into the water ; it is like a poisoned arrow 
in my heart.” 

“ Hush ! ” whispered the princess. She turned 
and gave the prince a friendly welcome. 

Prince Henry was so happy in her presence, 
and so dazzled by her beauty, that he did not re- 
mark the melancholy of the count, and spoke with 
him gayly and jestingly, while the count mastered 
himself, and replied in the same spirit. 

The princess bowed down to the swans, whom 
she enticed once more with caresses' to the bor- 
ders of the lake. Suddenly she uttered a loud 
cry, and called to the two gentlemen for help. 
The great white swan had torn the camelias from 
the bosom of the princess, and sailed off proudly 
upon the clear waters of the lake. 


AT AND HTS FAMILY. 

CHAPTER V. 

INTRIGUES. 

While Prince Henry celebrated Arcadian fetet 
at Rheinsberg, and gave himself up lo love and 
joy, King Frederick lived in philosophic retire- 
ment at Sans-Souci. He came to Berlin only to 
visit the queen-mother, now dangerously ill, or to 
attend the meetings of his cabinet ministers. 
Never had the king lived so quietly, never had ho 
received so few guests at Sans-Souci, and, above 
all, never had the world so little cause to speak 
of the King of Prussia. He appeared content 
with the laurels which the two Silesian wars had 
placed upon his heroic brow, and he only indulged 
the wish that Europe, exhausted by her long an« 
varied wars, would allow him that rest and peace 
which the world at large seemed to enjoy. 

Those who were honored with invitations to 
Sans-Souci, and had opportunities to see the king, 
could only speak of that earthly paradise ; of tlie 
peaceful stillness which reigned there, and which 
was reflected in every countenance ; of Frederick’s 
calm cheerfulness and innocent enjoyment. 

“ The king thinks no more of politics,” said the 
frolicsome Berliners ; “ he is absorbed in the arts 
and sciences, and, above all other things, he lives 
to promote the peaceful prosperity of his people.” 

The balance of power and foreign relations 
troubled him no longer ; he wished for no con- 
quests, and thought not of war. In the morning 
he was occupied with scientific works, wrote in 
his “ Histoire de mon Temps,” or to his friends, 
and took part in the daily-recurring duties of the 
government. The remainder of the day was 
passed in the garden of Sans-Souci, in pleasant 
walks and animated conversation, closing always 
with music. Concerts took place every evening 
in the apartments of the king, in which he took 
part, and he practised difficult pieces of his own 
or Quantz’s composition, under Quantz’s direction. 
From time to time he was much occupied with his 
picture-gallery, and sent Gotzkowsky to Italy to 
purchase the paintings of the celebrated masters. 

King Frederick appeared to have reached his 
goal ; at least that which, during the storm of 
war, he had often called his ideal ; he could de- 
vote his life to philosophy and art in the enchant- 
ing retirement of his beloved Sans-Souci. The 
tumult and discord of the world did not trouble 
him ; in fact, the whole world seemed to be at 
peace, and all Europe was glad and happy. 

Maria Theresa was completely bound by the 
last peace contract at Dresden ; besides, the two 
Silesian wars had weakened and impoverished 
Austria, and time was necessary to heal her 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


63 


wDondd before sbe dared make a new attempt to 
reconquer the noble jewel of Silesia, which Freder- 
ick had torn from her crown. Notwithstanding 
her pious and Christian pretensions, she hated 
Frederick with her whole heart. 

England had allied herself with Russia. France 
was at the moment too much occupied with the 
pageants which the lovely Marquise de Pompa- 
dour celebrated at Versailles, not to be in peace 
and harmony with all the world ; yes, even with 
her natural enemy, Austria. Count Kaunitz, her 
ambassador at Paris, had, by his wise and adroit 
conduct, banished the cloud of mistrust which had 
io long lowered between these two powers. 

This was the state of things at the close of the 
year IVYS. Then was the general quiet inter- 
rupted by the distant echo of a cannon. Europe 
was startled, and rose up from her comfortable 
tksta to listen and inquire after the cause of this 
significant thunderbolt. 

This roar of cannon, whose echo only had been 
heard, had its birth far, far away in America. 
The cannon, however, had been fired by a Euro- 
pean power — ^by England, always distinguished for 
her calculating selfishness, which she wished the 
world to consider praiseworthy and honorable 
policy. England considered her mercantile in- 
terests in America endangered by France, and 
she thirsted with desire to have not only an East 
India but a West India company. The French 
colonies in America had long excited the envy 
and covetousness of England, and as a sufficient 
cause for war had utterly failed, she was bold 
enough to take the initiative without excuse ! 

In the midst of a general peace, and without 
any declaration of war, she seized upon a country 
lying on the borders of the Ohio River, and belong- 
ing to French Canada, made an attack upon some 
hundred merchant-ships, which were navigating 
the Ohio, under the protection of the ships-of- 
war, and took them as prizes.* 

That was the cannon-shot which roused all Eu- 
rope from her comfortable slumber and dreamy 
rest. 

The Empress of Austria began to make warlike 
preparations in Bohemia, and to assemble her 
troops on the borders of Saxony and Bohemia. 
The Empress of Russia discontinued instantaneous- 
V ly her luxurious feasts and wild orgies, armed her 

1 soldiers, and placed them on the borders of Cour- 
land. She formed an immediate alliance with 
j England, by which she bound herself to protect 
the territory of George II. in Germany, if attacked 
j by France, in retaliation for the French merchant- 

I * “Characteristics of the Important Byents of the 
I Seven Yearrf War,” by Retson. 


ships taken by England on the Ohio River. Han 
over, however, was excepted, as Frederick of 
Prussia might possibly give her his aid. For this 
promised aid, Russia received from England the 
sum of £160,000 sterling, which was truly wel- 
come to the powerful Bestuchef, from the ex 
travagant and pomp-loving minister of the queen. 

Saxony also prepared for war, and placed her 
army on the borders of Prussia, for which she re- 
ceived a subsidy from Austria. This was as 
gladly welcombd by Count Briihl, the luxurious 
minister of King Augustus the Third of Poland 
and Saxony, as the English subsidy was by Bes 
tuchef. 

The King of France appeared to stand alone ; 
even as completely alone as Frederick of Prussia. 
Every eye therefore was naturally fixed upon 
these two powers, who seemed thus forced by 
fate to extend the hand of fellowship to each 
other, and form such an alliance as England had 
done with Russia, and Austria with Saxony. 

This contract between Prussia and France 
would have been the signal for a general war, for 
which all the powers of Europe were now arming 
themselves. But France did not extend her hand 
soon enough to obtain the friendship of Prussia. 
France distrusted Prussia, even as Austria, Eng- 
land, Russia, and Saxony distrusted and feared 
the adroit young adventurer, who in the last fifty 
years had placed himself firmly amongst the 
great powers of Europe, and was bold, brave, and 
wise enough to hold a powerful and self-sustained 
position in their circle. 

France — ^that is to say, Louis the Fifteenth— 
France — that is to say, the Marquise de Pompa- 
dour, hated the King of Prussia manfully. By his 
bold wit he had often brought the French court 
and its immoralities into ridicule and contempt. 

Austria and her minister Kaunitz and Maria 
Theresa hated Frederick of Prussia, because of his 
conquest of Silesia. 

Russia — that is to say, Elizabeth and Bestuchef — 
hated the King of Prussia for the same reason 
with France. Frederick’s cutting wit had scourged 
the manners of the Russian court, as it had hu- 
miliated and exposed the court of France. 

Saxony — that is to say, Augustus the Third, and 
his minister. Count Briihl— hated Frederick from 
instinct, from envy, from resentment. This insig- 
nificant and small neighbor had spread her wings 
and made so bold a flight, that Saxony was com- 
pletely overshadowed. 

England hated no one, but she feared Prussia 
and France, and this fear led her to master the 
old-rooted national hatred to Russia, and form an 
alliance with her for mutual protection. But the 


64 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


English people did not share the fears of their 
king ; they murmured over this Russian ally, and 
this discontent, which found expression in Par- 
liament, rang so loudly, that Frederick might well 
have heard it, and formed his own conclusions as 
to the result. 

But did he hear it ? Was the sound of his flute 
80 loud ? Was his study hermetically sealed, so 
that no echo from the outside world could reach 
his ears ? 

There was no interruption to his quiet, peace- 
ful life ; he hated nobody, made no warlike prep- 
arations; his soldiers exercised no more than 
formerly. Truly they exercised ; and at the first 
call to battle, 150,000 men would be under arms. 

But Frederick seemed not inclined to give this 
call ; not inclined to exchange the calm pleasures 
of Sans-Souci for the rude noises of tents and battle- 
fields. He seemed to be in peaceful harmony with 
all nations. He was particularly friendly and 
conciliating tow^ard the Austrian embassy; and 
not only was the ambassador. Count Peubla in- 
vited often to the royal table, but his secretary, 
Baron Weingarten, came also to Potsdam and 
Sans-Souci. The king appeared attached to him, 
and encouraged him to come often, to walk in the 
royal gardens. 

Frederick was gracious and kind toward the 
officials of all the German powers. On one occa- 
eion, when the wife of Councillor Reichart, attached 
to the Saxon embassy, was confined, at Frederick’s 
earnest wish, his private secretary, Eichel, stood 
as god-father to the child.* 

In order to promote good feeling in Saxony, the 
king sent Count Matstahn, one of the most elo- 
quent cavaliers of the day, to the Dresden court ; 
and so well supplied was he, that he dared com- 
pete in pomp and splendor with Count Briihl. 

Frederick appeared to attach special importance 
to the friendship of Saxony, and with none of his 
foreign ambassadors was he engaged in so active 
a correspondence as with Mattsahn. It was said 
that these letters were of a harmless and innocent 
nature, relating wholly to paintings, which the 
count was to purchase from the Saxon galleries, 
or to music, which Frederick wished to obtain 
from amongst the collection of the dead Hesse, or 
to an Italian singer Frederick wished to entice to 
Berlin. 

The world no longer favored Frederick’s retire- 
ment. The less disposed he was to mingle in 
politics, the more Maria Theresa, Elizabeth of 
Russia, Augustus of Saxony, and the Marquise 
de Pompadour agitated the subject. 

♦ “ Characteristics of the Important Events of the Seven 

Years ’War.” 


France had not forgotten that the contract bo 
tween herself and Prussia was about to expire. 
She knew also that the subsidy money between 
England and Russia had not yet been voted by 
Parliament. It was therefore possible to reap 
some advantages from this point. With this view, 
France sent the Duke de Nivernois as special am.- 
bassador to Berlin, to treat with the king as to 
the renewal of the old alliance. 

The Duke de Nivernois came with a glittering 
suite to Berlin, and was received at the Prussian 
court with all the consideration which his rank 
and official character demanded. The grand mas- 
ter of ceremonies, Baron von Pbllnitz, was sent 
forward to meet him, and to invite him, in the 
name of the king, to occupy one of the royal pal- 
aces in Berlin. 

Every room of the palace was splendidly deco- 
rated for the reception of the duke, and as soon 
as he arrived, two guards were placed before the 
house — a mark of consideration which the king 
had only heretofore given to reigning princes. 

The duke accepted these distinguished atten- 
tions with lively gratitude, and pleaded for an imme- 
diate audience, in order to present his credentials. 

Pollnitz was commissioned to make all neces- 
sary arrangements, and agree with the duke as to 
the day and hour of the ceremony. 

The king, who wished to give the French duke 
a proof of his consideration, intended that the 
presentation should be as imposing as possible, 
and all Berlin was to be witness of the friendship 
existing between the French and Prussian courts. 

Upon the appointed day, a dazzling assemblage 
of equipages stood before the palace of tJje Duke 
de Nivernois. These were the royal festal car- 
riages, intended for the members of the French 
embassy. Then followed a long line of carriages, 
occupied by the distinguished members of the 
Prussian court. Slowly and solemnly this pom- 
pous procession moved through the streets, and 
was received at the portal of the king’s palace by 
the royal guard. Richly-dressed pages, in advance 
of whom stood the grand master of ceremonies 
with his golden stjxff, conducted the French am- 
bassador to the White saloon, where the king, in 
all his royal pomp, and surrounded by the prin- 
ces of his house, received him. 

The solemn ceremony began ; the duke drew 
near the throne, and, bowing his knee, handed 
his credentials to the king, who received them 
with a gracious smile. 

The duke commenced his address ; it was filled 
w'ith flowery phrases, suited to the great occasion. 
Frederick listened with the most earnest attention 
and his reply was kind, but dignifiexl and laconic- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


65 


The public ceremony was over, and now came 
the important part of the audience, the confiden- 
tial conversation. To this point the duke had 
.ooked .with lively impatience ; for this, indeed, 
had he been sent to Berlin. 

The king descended from the throne, and laying 
aside all the solemnity of court etiquette, he ap- 
proached the duke in the most gracious and genial 
manner, welcomed him heartily, and expressed 
his sincere delight at his arrival. 

“Ah, sire,” said the duke, with animation, 
•‘how happy will my king be to learn that his 
ambassador has been so graciously received by 
your majesty ! ” 

The king smiled. “I thought the ceremony 
was all over,” said he, “ and that I no longer 
spoke with the ambassador, but with the Duke de 
Nivernois, whom I know and love, and whose in- 
tellectual conversation will afford me a rare pleas- 
ure. Let us, therefore, chat together innocently, 
and forget the stiff ceremonies with which, I 
think, w^e have both been sufficiently burdened 
to-day. Tell me something of Paris, monsieur, 
of that lovely, enchanting, but overbold coquette, 
Paris, whom the world adores while it ridicules, 
imd imitates while it blames.” 

“ Ah, sire, if I must speak of Paris, I must first 
tell you of my king — of my king, who wishes 
nothing more ardently than the renewal of the 
bond of friendship between your majesty and him- 
self, and the assurance of its long continuance; 
who — ” 

“ That is most kind of his majesty,” said Fred- 
erick, interrupting him, “ and I certainly share the 
friendly wishes of my exalted brother of France. 
But tell me now something of your learned men ; 
how goes it with the Academy ? do they still re- 
fuse Voltaire a seat, wdiile so many unknown men 
have become academicians ? ” 

“ Yes, sire ; these academicians are obstinate 
in their conclusions ; and, as the Academy is a 
sort of republic, the king has no power to control 
them. If that were not so, my exalted master. 
King Louis, in order to be agreeable to your ma- 
jesty, would exert all his influence, and — ” 

“ Ah, sir,” interrupted the king, “ it is just and 
beautiful that the Academy is a free republic, which 
w'ill not yield to the power and influence of the 
king. Art and science need for their blossom 
and growth freedom of thought and speech. Fate 
ordained that I should be born a king ; but when 
alone in my study, alone with my books, I am 
fully content to be republican in the kingdom of 
letters. I confess the truth to you when, as a 
wise republican, I read thoughtfully in the pages 
of history, I sometimes come to the conclusion 


that kings and princes are unnecessary articles ol 
luxury, and I shrug my shoulders at them rather 
contemptuously.” 

“ And yet, sire, the arts need the protection of 
princes ; that the republic of letters blooms and 
flourishes in a monarchy is shown in Prussia, 
where a royal republican and a republican king 
governs his people, and at the same time gives 
freedom of thought and speech to science. 
France should be proud and happy that your 
majesty has adopted so many of her sons into 
your republic of letters ; we dare, therefore, come 
to the conclusion that your majesty will not con- 
fine your interest wholly to them, but that this 
alliance between France and Prussia, w'hich my 
king so earnestly desires and — ” 

“ Unhappily,” said the king, interrupting him 
eagerly, “ the distinguished Frenchmen who have 
become my allies, are exactly those wdiom their 
strong-minded, fiinatical mother. La France^ has 
cast out from her bosom as dishonored sons. Vol- 
taire lives in Ferney. Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
whom I admire but do not love, lives in Geneva, 
where he has been obliged to take refuge. I 
have also been told that the pension Avhich, in a 
favorable moment, was granted to D’Alembert, has 
been withdrawn. Have I been falsely informed ? 
has my friend D’Alembert not fallen into disgrace ? 
is not my friend, the encyclopaedian, regarded as a 
transgressor and a high traitor because he uses 
the undoubted right of free thought, does not 
blindly believe, but looks abroad with open e3'es 
and a clear intellect ? ” 

The duke replied by a few confused and discon- 
nected words, and a shadow fell upon his clear 
countenance ; three times had Frederick interrupt- 
ed him when he sought to speak of the King of 
France and his friendship for his brother of Prus- 
sia. The duke did not dare choose this theme for 
the fourth time, which was so evidently distasteful 
to the king ; he must, therefore, submit and follow 
the lead of his majesty, and in lieu of alliances and 
state questions discuss philosophy and the arts. 
So soon as the duke came to this conclusion, he 
smoothed his brow, and, with all his amiability, 
animation, and intelligence, he replied to tho 
questions of the king, and the conversation was 
carried on in an unbroken stream of wit and 
gayety. 

“ At the next audience I will surely find an op- 
portunity to speak of politics,” said the duke to 
himself. “ The king cannot always be so immov- 
able as to-day.” 

But the second and the third audience came, 
and the king was as inexplicable as the first time » 
he conversed with the duke kindly and freely, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


showed him the most marked attention and per- 
sonal confidence ; but so often as the duke sought 
to introduce the subject of politics and the public 
interests which had brought him to Berlin, the 
king interrupted him and led the conversation to 
indifferent subjects. This lasted two weeks, and 
the French court looked with painful anxiety for 
intelligence from the Duke de Nivernois that the old 
alliance was renewed and fully ratified, and she 
had, therefore, nothing to fear from Prussia. This 
uncertainty was no longer to be borne, and the 
duke determined to end it by a coup cT etai. 

He wrote, therefore, to the king, and asked for 
a private audience. To his great joy his request 
was granted ; the king invited him to come the 
next day to Sans-Souci. 

“ At last ! at last ! ” said the duke, drawing a 
long breath ; and with proud, French assurance, 
he added, “ To-morrow, then, we will renew this 
contract which binds the hands of Prussia, and 
gives France liberty of action.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PRIVATE AUDIENCE. 

The king received the French ambassador 
without ceremony. There were no guards, no pages, 
no swarms of curious listening courtiers, only a 
few of his trusty friends, who welcomed the duke 
and conversed with him, while Pollnitz entered 
the adjoining room and informed the king of his 
arrival. 

“ His majesty entreats the duke to enter,” said 
Pollnitz, opening the door of the library. The 
king advanced. He was dressed simply ; even the 
golden star, which was seldom absent from his 
coat,, was now missing. 

“ Come, duke,” said the king, pleasantly, “ come 
into my tusculum." He then entered the library, 
quickly followed by the duke. 

“ Well, sir,” said the king, “ we are now in that 
room in which I lately told you I was but a repub- 
lican. You have crossed the threshold of the 
republic of letters ! ” 

“ But I see a king before me,” said the duke, 
bowing reverentially ; “ a king who has vanquish- 
ed this republic, and surpassed all the great spir- 
its that have gone before him.” 

The king’s glance rested upon the shelves 
filled with books, on whose backs glittered in 
golden letters the most distinguished names of all 
ages. 

“Homer, Tacitus, Livy, Petrarch!— ye great 


spirits of my republic 1 hear how this traitor slan 
ders you.” 

“How I honor you, sire, for truly it is a great 
honor to be subdued and vanquished by such a 
king as Frederick the Second.” 

The king looked at him fixedly. “ You wish to 
bewilder me with flattery, duke,” said he, “ well 
knowing that it is a sweet opiate, acceptable to 
princes, generally causing their ruin. But in 
this chamber, duke, I am safe from this danger, 
and here in my republic we will both enjoy the 
Spartan soup of truth. Believe me, sir, it is at 
times a wholesome dish, though to the pampered 
stomach it is bitter and distasteful. I can digest 
it, and as you have come to visit me, you will have 
to partake of it.” 

“ And I crave it, sire — crave it as a man who 
has fasted for two weeks.” 

“ For two weeks ? ” said the king, laughing. 
“ Ah, it is ti’ue you have been here just that time.” 

“For two long weeks has your majesty kept 
me fasting and longing for this precious soup,” 
said the duke, reproachfully. 

“ My broth was not ready,” said the king, gay- 
ly ; “ it was still bubbling in the pot. It is now 
done, and we will consume it together. Let us be 
seated, duke.” 

If Frederick had turned at this moment, he 
would have seen the grand chamberlain Pollnitz 
advancing on tiptoe to the open door, in order to 
listen to the conversation. But the king was 
looking earnestly at the ambassador. After a few 
moments of silence, he turned to the duke. 

“ Is my soup still too hot for you ? ” said he, 
laughingly. 

“ No, sire,” said the duke, bowing. “ But 1 
waited for your majesty to take the first spoon- 
ful. Would it not be better to close that door ? ” 

“ No,” said the king, hastily ; “ I left it open, 
intentionally, so that your eyes, when wearied 
with the gloom of my republic, could refresh 
themselves on the glittering costumes of my 
courtiers.” 

“ He left it open,” thought the duke, “ for these 
courtiers to hear all that is said. He wishes the 
whole world to know how he rejected the friend- 
ship of France.” 

“Well,” said the king, “ I will take my spoon- 
ful. We will commence without further delay. 
Duke de Nivernois, you are here because the con- 
tract made between France and Prussia is at an 
end, and because France wishes me to fancy that 
she is anxious for a renewal of this treaty, and fo* 
the friendship of Prussia.” 

“France wishes to convince you of this, sire,* 
said the duke. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


67 


“ Convince me ? ” sai(J the king, ironically. “And 
how?” 

“ King Louis of France not only proposes to re- 
new this contract, sire, but he wishes to draw the 
bonds of friendship much closer between France 
and Prussia.” 

“ And to what end ? ” said the king. “ For you 
well know, duke, that in politics personal inclina- 
tions must not be considered. Were it not so, I 
would, without further delay, grasp the friendly 
hand that my brother of France extends toward 
me, for the whole world knows that I love France, 
and am proud of the friendship of her great spii> 
its. But as, unfortunately, there is no talk here 
of personal inclinations but of politics, I repeat my 
question. To what end does France desire the 
friendship of Prussia ? What am I to pay for it ? 
You see, duke, I am a bad diplomatist — I make 
no digression, but go to the point at once.” 

“ And that, perhaps, is the nicest diplomacy,’’ 
said the duke, sighing. 

“ But, duke, do tell me. why is France so anxious 
for the friendship of Prussia ? ” 

“ To have an ally in you and be your ally. By 
the first, France will have a trusty and powerful 
friend in Germany when her lands are attacked by 
the King of England ; by the last, your majesty 
will have a trusty and powerful friend when Prus- 
sia is attacked by Russia or Austria.” 

“We will now speak of the first,” said the 
king, quietly. “ France, then, thinks to trans- 
plant this war with England to German ground ? ” 
\ “Everywhere, sire, that the English colors pre- 
dominate. England alone will be accountable for 
this war.” 

“ It is true England has been hard upon you, 
but still it seems to me you have revenged your- 
selves sufficiently. When England made herself 
supreme ruler of the Ohio, France, by the con- 
quest of the Isle of Minorca, obtained dominion 
over the Mediterranean Sea, thereby wounding 
England so deeply, that in her despair she 
turned her weapons against herself. Admiral 
Byng, having been overcome by your admiral, 
Marquis de la Gallissionaire, paid for it with his 
life. I think France should be satisfied with this 
expiation.” 

“France will wash off her insults in English 
blood, and Minorca is no compensation for Can- 
ada and Ohio. England owes us satisfaction, and 
we will obtain it in Hanover.” 

“ In Hanover ? ” repeated the king, angrily. 

“ Hanover will be ours, sire, though we had no 
inch ally as Germany ; but it will be ours the 
sooner if we have that help which you can give 
as. Standing between two fires, England will 


have to succumb, there will be no escape for her. 
That is another advantage, sire, that France ex- 
pects from the treaty with Prussia. But I will 
now speak of the advantages which your majesty 
may expect from this alliance. You are aware 
that Prussia is surrounded by threatening ene- 
mies ; that Austria and Russia are approacliing 
her borders with evil intentions, and that a day 
may soon come when Maria Theresa may wish to 
reconquer this Silesia which, in her heart, she 
still calls her own. When this time comes, your 
majesty will not be alone ; your ally, France, will 
be at your side ; she will i*epay with faithful, ac- 
tive assistance the services which your majesty 
rendered her in Hanover. She will not only ren- 
der her aU the assistance in her power, but she 
will also allow her to partake of the advantages 
of this victory. Hanover is a rich land, not rich 
only in products, but in many other treasures. 
The Electors of Hanover have in their residences 
not only their chests filled with gold and precious 
jewels, but also the most magnificent paintings. 
It is but natural that we should pay ourselves in 
Hanover for the expenses of this war of which 
England is the cause. You, then, will share with 
us these treasures. And still this is not all 
France is grateful ; she offers you, therefore, one 
of her colonies, the Isle of Tobago, as a pledge 
of friendship and love.” 

“ Where is this isle ? ” said the king, quietly. 

“In the West Indies, sire.” 

“ And where is Hanover ? ” 

The duke looked at the king in amazement, and 
remained silent. 

The king repeated his question. 

“ Well,” said the duke, hesitatingly, “ Hanover 
is in Germany.” 

“ And for this German land which, with my 
aid, France is to conquer, I am to receive as a re- 
ward the little Isle of Tobago in the West Indies ! 
Have you finished, duke, or have you other prop- 
ositions to make ? ” 

“Sire, I have finished, and await your an- 
swer.” 

“ And this answ'er, duke, shall be clearer and 
franker than your questions. I will begin by an- 
swering the latter part of your speech. Small and 
insignificant as the King of Prussia may appear in 
your eyes, I would have you know he is no rob- 
ber, no highwayman ; he leaves these brilliant 
amusements without envy to France. And now, 
my dear duke, I must inform you, that since this 
morning it has been placed out of my power tc 
accept this alliance ; for this morning a treaty 
was signed, by which I became the ally of Eng 
land ! ” 


68 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ It is j"npossible, sire,” cried the duke ; “ this 
cannot be 1 ” 

“ Not possible, sir ! ” said the king, “ and still it 
is I have formed a treaty with England — 

thw matter is settled ! I have been an ally of 
Laui 8 XY. ; I have nothing to complain of in him. 
I Jove him ; well, am I now his enemy ? I hope 
that there may be a time when I may again ap- 
proach the King of France. Pray tell him how 
anxiously I look forward to this time. Tell him I 
am much attached to him.” 

“Ah, sire,” said the duke, sighing, “it is a 
great misfortune. I dare not go to my monarch 
with this sad, unexpected news ; my monarch who 
loves you so tenderly, whose most earnest wish it 
is for France to be allied to Prussia.” 

“ Ah, duke,” said Frederick, laughing, “ France 
wishes for ships as allies. I have none to offer — 
England has. With her help I shall keep the 
Russians from Prussia, and with my aid she will 
keep the French from Hanover.” 

“ W e are to be enemies, then ? ” said the duke, 
sadly. 

“ It is a necessary evil, for which there is no 
remedy. But Louis XV. can form other al- 
liances,” said Frederick, ironically. “ It may be 
for his interest to unite with the house of Aus- 
tria ! ” - 

The duke was much embarrassed. 

“Your majesty is not in earnest,” said he, 
anxiously. 

“ Why not, duke ? ” said Frederick ; “ an al- 
liance between France and Austria— it sounds 
very natural. If I were in your place, I would 
propose this to my court.” 

He now rose, which was a sign to the duke that 
the audience was at an end. 

“ I must now send a courier at once to my 
court,” said the duke, “ and I wiU not fail to state 
chat your majesty advises us to unite with Aus- 
tria.” 

“ You will do well ; that is,” said the king, with 
A meaning smile— “ that is, if you think your 
court is in need of such advice, and has not al- 
ready acted without it. When do you leave 
duke ? ” ’ 

“ To-morrow morning, ‘Sire.” 

“ Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my 
heart I am the friend of France, though we meet 
as enemies on the battle-field.” 

The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing 
deeply, left the royal library, “ the republic of 
letters,” to hasten to Berlin. 

The king looked after him thoughtfully. 

“The die is cast,” said he, softly. “There will 
be war! Oir days of peace and quietude are 


over, and the days of danger are approacl 
ing ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE TRAITOR. 

The sun had just risen, and was shedding its 
golden rays over the garden of Sans-Souci, deck- 
ing the awaking flowe;rs with glittering dew-drops. 
All was quiet — Nature alone was up and doing ; 
no one was to be seen, no sound was to be heard, 
but the rustling of trees and the chirping of 
birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as 
if the sound of human misery and passion could 
not reach this spot. There was something so 
holy in this garden, that you could but believe it 
to be a part of paradise in which the serpent had 
not yet exercised his arts of seduction. But no, 
this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he 
is sleeping ; he is still resting from the toils and 
sorrows of the past day. Man is here ! — he is 
coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature with 
his sorrows and complaints. 

The little gate at the farthest end of that shady 
walk is opened, and a man enters. The dream is 
at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but a beautiful 
garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated 
by the foot of man. He hastens up the path lead- 
ing to the palace ; he hurries forward, panting and 
gasping. His face is colorless, his long hair is 
fiuttering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed- 
and glaring ; his clothes are covered with dust,^^ 
and his head is bare. 

There is something terrifying in the sudden ap- 
pearance of this man. Nature seems to smile no 
more since he came; the trees have stopped their 
whispering, the birds cannot continue their melo- 
dious songs since they have seen his wild, anxious 
look. The peacefulness of Nature is broken. For 
— that IS to sa}^ misery, misfortune ; for 
^‘lan — that is to say, sin, guilt, and meanness — ^is 
there, pouring destroying drops of poison in the 
golden chalice of creation. 

Breathlessly he hurries on, looking neither to 
right nor left. He has now reached the terrace, 
and now he stops for a moment to recover breath. 
He sees not the glorious panorama lying at his 
feet; he is blind to all but himself. He is alone 
in the world — alone with his misery, his pain. 
Now he hastens on to the back of the palace. 
The sentinels walking before the back and the 
fiont of the castle know him, know where he is 
going, and they barely glance at him as he knocki 
long and loudly at that little side window 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


It is opened, and a young girl appears, who, 
when perceiving this pale, anxious countenance, 
which is striving in vain to smile at her, cries out 
»oudly, and folds her hands as if in prayer. 

“ Hush ! ” said he, roughly ; “ hush ! let me in.” 

“ Some misfortune has happened ! ” said she, 
terrified. 

“ Yes, Rosa, a great misfortune ; but let me in, 
if you do not wish to ruin me.” 

The young girl disappears, and the man hastens 
to the side door of the castle. It is opened, and 
he slips in. 

Perfect peace reigns once more in the garden 
of Sans-Souci. Nature is now smiling, for she is 
alone with her innocence. Man is not there ! 
But now, in the castle, in the dwelling of the cas- 
tle warder, and in the room of his lovely daughter 
Rosa, all is alive. There is whispering, and w^eep- 
ing, and sighing, and praying ; there is Rosa, fear- 
ful and trembling, her face covered with tears, and 
opposite her, her pale, woe-begone lover. 

“ I have been walking all night,” said he, with 
a faint and hollow voice. “ I did not know that 
Berlin was so far from Potsdam, and had I known 
it, I would not have dared to take a wagon or a 
horse ; I had to slip away very quietly. While by 
Count Puebla’s order my room was guarded, and 
I thought to be in it, I descended into the garden 
by the grape-vine, which reached up to my win- 
dow. The gardener had no suspicions of how 1 
came there, when I required him to unlock the 
door, but laughed cunningly, thinking I was bound 
to some rendezvous. And so I wandered on in 
fear and pain, in despair and anger, and it seemed 
to me as if the road would never come to an end. 
At times I stopped, thinking I heard behind me 
wild cries and curses, the stamping of horses, and 
the rolling of wheels ; but it was imagination. 
Ah! it was a frightful road; but it is past. But 
now I will be strong, for this concerns my name, 
my life, my honor. Why do you laugh, Rosa ? ” 
said he, angrily ; “ do you dare to laugh, because 
I speak of my name — my honor ? ” 

“ I did not laugh,” said Rosa, looking with terror 
at the disturbed countenance of her lover. * 

“Yes, you laughed, and you were right to laugh, 
when I spoke of my honor ; I who have no honor ; 
I who have shamed my name ; I upon whose 
Drow is the sign of murder : for I am guilty of the 
ruin of a man, and the chains on his hands are 
tursing my name.” ' 

“ My God ! he is mad,” murmured Rosa. 

“ No, I am not mad,” said he, with a heart- 
breaking smile. “ I know all, all I Were I mad, 

^ would not be so unhappy. Were I unconscious, 
I would suffer less. But, no, I remember all. I 


6‘J 

know how this evil commenced, how it grew and 
poisoned ray heart. The evil was ray poverty, my 
covetousness, and perhaps also my ambition. I 
was not content to bear forever the chains of 
bondage ; I wished to be free from want. I de- 
termined it should no more be said that the sisters 
of Count Weingarteu had to earn their bread by 
their needlework, while he feasted sumptuously at 
the royal table. This it was that caused my ruin. 
These frightful words buzzed in my ears so long, 
that in my despair I determined to stop them a^ 
any price; and so I committed my first crime, and 
received a golden reward for my tpason. My 
sisters did not work now ; I bought a small house 
for them, and gave them all that I received. I 
shuddered at the sight of this money ; I would 
keep none of it. I was again the poor secretary 
Weingarten, but my family was not helpless ; they 
had nothing to fear.” 

To whom was he telling all this? Certainly 
not to that young girl standing before him, pale 
and trembling. He had forgotten himself; he 
had forgotten her whom,* in other days he had 
called his heart’s darling. 

As she sank at his feet and covered his hands 
with her tears, he rose hastily from his seat ; he 
now remembered that he was not alone. 

“ What have I said ? ” cried he, wildly. . “ Why 
do you weep ? ” 

“ I weep because you have forgotten me,” said 
she, softly; “I weep because, in accusing your- 
. self, you make no excuse for your crime ; not even 
your love for your poor Rosa.” 

“ It is true,” said he, sadly, “ I had forgotten 
our love. And still it is the only excuse that I have 
for my second crime. I had determined to be a 
good man, and to expiate my one crime through- 
out my whole life. But when I saw you, your 
beauty fascinated me, and you drew me on. I 
went with open eyes into the net which you pre- 
pared for me, Rosa. I allowed myself to be al- 
lured by your beauty, knowdng well that it would 
draw me into a frightful abyss.” 

“ Ah,” said Rosa, groaning, “ how cruelly you 
speak of our love I ” 

“ Of our love ! ” repeated he, shrugging his 
shoulders. “ Child, in this hour we will be true 
to each other. Ours was no true love. You were 
in love wdth my noble name and position — I with 
your youth, your beauty, your coquettish ways. 
Our souls were not in unison. You gave yourself 
to me, not because you loved me, but because you 
wished to deceive me. I allowed myself to be de- 
ceived because of your loveliness and because I 
saw the golden reward which your deceitful lovt 
would bring me.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ You arc cruel and unjust,” said Rosa, sadly. 
“It may be true that you never loved me, 
but I loved you truly. I gave you my whole 
heart.” 

“Yes, and in giving it,” said he, harshly “in 
giving it you had the presence of mind to keep 
the aim of your tenderness always in view, ^hile 
vour arms were around me, your little hand which 
seemed to rest upon my heart, sought for the key 
which I always kept in my vest-pocket, and which 
% had lately told you belonged to the desk in 
which the important papers of the embassy were 
placed, "^u found this key, Rosa, and I knew 
it, but I only laughed, and pressed you closer to 
my heart,” 

“Terrible! terrible!” said Rosa, trembling. 

“ He knew all, and still he let me do it ! ” 

“ Yes I allowed you to do it — I did not wish to 
be better than the girl I loved ; and, as she desi- 
red to deceive me, I let myself be deceived. I al- 
lowed it, because the demon of gold had taken 
possession of me. I took the important papers 
out of my desk, to wh^ you had stolen the key, 
and hid them. Then the tempters came and whis- 
pered of golden rewards, of eternal gratitude, of 
fortune, honor ; and these fiendish whispers mis- 
led my soul. I sold my honor and became a trai- 
tor, and all this for the sake of gold ! So I be- 
came what I now am. I do not reproach you, 
Rosa, for most likely it would have happened 
without you.” 

“ But what danger threatens you now ? ” asked 
Rosa. 

“ The just punishment for a traitor,” said he, 
hoarsely. “ Give me some wine, Rosa, so that I 
can gain strength to go to the king at once.” 

“ To the king at this early hour ? ” 

“ And why not ? Have I not been with him 
often at this hour, when I had important news or 
dispatches to give him ? So give me the wine, 
Rosa.” 

Rosa left the room, but returned almost instant- 
ly. He took the bottle from her and filled a glass 
hastily. 

“ Now,” said he, breathing deeply, “ I feel that 
I live again. My blood fiows freely through my 
veins, and my heart is beating loudly. Now to 
the king ! ” 

He stood before a glass for a moment to arrange 
his hair ; then pressed a cold kiss upon Rosa’s 
pale, trembling lips, and left the room. With a 
firm, sure tread, he hurried through the halls and 
chambers. No one stopped him, for no one was 
there to see him. In the king’s antechamber sat 
Dcesen taking his breakfast. 

“ Is the king up ? ” asked Weingarten. 


“ The sun has been up for hours, and so of courst 
the king is up,” said Deeserl^roudly. 

‘Announce me to his majesty; I have some 
important news for him.” 

He entered the king’s chamber, and returned in 
a few moments for Weingarten. 

The king was sitting in an arm-chair by a win- 
dow, which he had opened to breathe the fresh 
summer air. His white greyhound, Amalthea, lay 
at his feet, looking up at him with his soft black 
eyes. In his right hand the king held his flute. 

“ You are early, sir,” said he, turning to Wein- 
garten. “ You must have very important news.” 

“ Yes, sire, very important,” said Weingarten, 
approaching nearer. 

The king reached out his hand. “ Give them 
to me,” said he. 

“ Sire, I have no dispatches.” 

“ A verbal message, then. Speak.” 

“ Sire, all is lost ; Count Puebla suspects me.” 

The king was startled for a moment, but col- 
lected himself immediately. “ He suspects, but he 
is certain of nothing ? ” 

“ No, sire ; but his suspicion amounts almost to 
certainty. Yesterday I was copying a dispatch 
which was to go that evening, and which was of 
the highest importance to your majesty, when I 
suddenly perceived Count Puebla standing beside 
me at my desk. He had entered my room very 
quietly, which showed that he had his suspicions, 
and was watching me. He snatched my copy 
from the desk and read it. ‘ For whom is this ? ’ 
said be, in a threatening tone. I stammered 
forth some excuses; said that I intended writ- 
ing a history, and that I took a copy of all dis- 
patches for my work. He would not listen to 
me. ‘ You are a traitor ! ’ said he, in a thundering 
voice. ‘ I have suspected you for some time ; I 
am now convinced of your treachery. You shall 
have an examination to-morrow ; for to-night you 
will remain a prisoner in your room.’ He then 
locked my desk, put the key in his pocket, and, 
taking with him the dispatch and my copy, left 
the room. I heard him lock it and bolt my door. 
I was a prisoner.” 

“ How did you get out ? ” said the king. 

“ By the window, sire. And I flew here to 
throw myself at your majesty’s feet, and to beg 
for mercy and protection.” 

“ I promised you protection and help in case of 
your detection — I will fulfil ray promise. What 
are your wishes. Let us see if they can be real- 
ized.” 

“ Will your majesty give me some sure place 
of refuge where Count Puebla’s threats cannot 
harm me ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AJfD HIS FAMILY. 


" You will remain here in the dwelling of the 
castle-warder until a suitable residence can be 
found for you. What next ? What plans have 
you made for the future ? ” 

“I would humbly beseech your majesty to give 
me some position in your land worthy of my sta- 
tion, such as your highness promised me.” 

“ You remember too many of my promises,” 
said the king, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Your majesty will not grant me the promised 
position ?” said Count Weingarten, tremblingly. 

“ I remember no such promise,” said Frederick. 
“ Men of your stamp are paid, but not rewarded. 
T have made use of your treachery ; but you are, 
nevertheless, in my eyes a traitor, and I will have 
none such in my service.” 

“Then I am lost!” said Weingarten. “My 
honor, my good name, my future are annihilated.” 

“ Your honor has been weighed with gold,” said 
the king, sternly, “ and I think I have already paid 
more for it than it was worth. Your good name, 
it is true, will be from now changed into a bad 
one ; and your mother will have to blush when 
she uses it. Therefore I advise you to let it go ; 
to take another name ; to begin a new existence, 
and to found a new future.” 

“ A future without honor, without name, with- 
out position 1 ” sighed Weingarten, despairingly. 

“ So are men 1 ” said the king, softly ; “ inso- 
lent and stubborn when they think themselves 
secure ; cowardly and uncertain when they are in 
danger. So you were rash enough to think that 
your treacherous deeds wmuld always remain a 
secret ? You did not think of a possible detec- 
tion, or prepare yourself for it. In treading the 
road w'hich you have trodden, every step should 
be considered. This, it seems to me, you have 
not done. You wash to enjoy the fruits of your 
treachery in perfect security ; but you have not 
the courage to stand before the world as a trai- 
tor. Do away with this name, which will cause 
you many dangers and insults. Fly from this 
place, where you and your deeds are known. Un- 
der a different name look for an asylum in an- 
other part of my land. Money shall not fail you ; 
and if what you have earned from me is not suf- 
ficient, turn to me, and I will lend you still more. 

I will not forget that to me your treachery has 
been of great use, and therefore I will not desert 
you, though I shall despise the traitor. And now, 
farewell 1 This is our last meeting. Call this 
afternoon upon my treasurer ; he will pay you two 
hundred louis d’or. And now go.” And with a 
acomful look at Weingarten’s pale countenance, 
ne turned to the window. 


W eingarten hurried past the halls and charr^ers^ 
an(i|gl^ntered Rosa’s room. She read in his ^^e, 
sad face that he had no good news to tell her. 

“ Has it all been in vain ? ” said she, breath- 
lessly. 

“ In vain ? ” cried he, with a scornful smile. 
“No, not in vain. The king rewarded me well ; 
much better than Judas Iscariot w'as rewarded. 
I have earned a large sura of money, and am still 
to receive a thousand crowns. Quiet yourself, 
Rosa ; we will be very happy, for we will have 
money. Only I must ask if the proud daughter 
of the royal eastle-warder will give her hand to a 
man who can offer her no name, no position. 
Rosa, I warn you, think well of what you do. 
You loved me because I was a count, and had po- 
sition to offer you. From to-day, I have no posi- 
tion, no name, no honor, no family. Like Ahas- 
uerus, I will wander wearily through the world, 
happy and thanking God if I can find a quiet spot 
where I am not kno^vn, and my name was never 
heard. There I will rest, and trust to ehance for 
a name. Rosa, will you share with me this ex- 
istence, without sunshine, without honor, without 
a name ? ” 

She was trembling so, that she could barely speak. 

“I have no choice,” stammered she, at last ; “I 
must follow you, for my honor demands that I 
should be your wife. I must go with you ; fate 
wills it.” 

With a loud shriek she fainted by his side. 
Weingarten did not raise her; he glanced wildly 
at the pale, lifeless woman at his feet. 

“We are both condemned,” murmured he, “we 
have both lost our honor. And with this Cain’s 
mirk upon our foreheads we will wander wearily 
through the world.” * 

The king, in the mean while, after Weingarten 
had left him, walked thoughtfully up and down 
his room. At times he raised his head and gazed 
with a proud, questioning glance at the sky. 
Great thoughts were at work within hin>. Now 
Frederick throws back his head proudly, and hla 
eyes sparkle. 

“ The time has come,” said he, in a loud, full 
voice. “The hour for delay is past; now the 
sword must decide between me and my enemies.” 
He rang a bell hastily, and ordered a valet to send 
a courier at once to Berlin, to call General Winter- 
feldt, General Retzow,and also Marshal Schwerin, 
to Sans-Souci. 

* Count Weingarten escaped from all his troubles 
happily. He married his sweetheart, the daughter of 
the castle-warder, and went to Altmark, where, undei 
the name of Veis, he lived happily for many years. 


f2 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


CHAPTEK YIII. 

DECLARATION OF WAR. 

A FEW hours after the departure of the courier, 
the heavy movement of wheels in the court below 
announced to the lung, who was standing impa- 
tiently at his window, the arrival of the expected 
generals. In the same moment, his chamberlain, 
opening wide the library door, ushered them into 
his presence. 

“ Ah ! ” said the king, welcoming them pleas- 
antly, “ I see I am not so entirely without friends 
as my enemies think. I have but to call, and 
Marshal Schwerin, that is, wisdom and victory, is 
at my side ; and Generals Winterfeldt and Retzow, 
that is, youth and courage, boldness and bravery, 
are ready to give me all the assistance in their 
power. Sirs, I thank you for coming to me at once. 
Let us be seated ; listen to what I have to say, 
and upon what earnest, important subjects I wish 
your advice.” 

And in a few words the king first showed them 
the situation of Europe and of his own states, so 
as to prepare them for the more important sub- 
jects he had to introduce before them. 

“ You will now understand,” said he, “ why I was 
so willing to make this contract with England. I 
hoped thereby to gain Russia, who is allied to 
England, to my side. But these hopes have been 
destroyed. Russia, angry with Britain for having 
allied herself to Prussia, has broken her contract. 
Bestuchef, it is true, wavered for a moment be- 
tween his love of English guineas and his hatred 
of me, but hate carried the day.” 

“But, sire,” said Retzow, hastily, “if your 
majesty can succeed in making a reconciliation be- 
tween France and England, you , may become the 
ally of these two powerful nations. Then let Aus- 
tria, Russia, and Saxony come upon us all at 
once, we can confront them.” 

“We can do that, I hope, even without the as- 
sistance of France,” said the king, impetuously. 
“We must renounce all idea of help from France ; 
she is allied to Austria. What Kaunitz com- 
menced with his wisdom, Maria Theresa carried 
out with her flattery. All my enemies have de- 
termined to attack me at once. But I am ready 
for them, weapons in hand. I have been hard at 
work ; all is arranged, every preparation for the 
march of our army is finished. And now I have 
called you together to counsel me as to where we 
can commence our attack advantageously.” 

Frederick stopped speaking, and gazed earnest- 
ly at his generals, endeavoring to divine their 
thoughts- Marshal Schwerin was looking silently 


before him; a dark -cloud rested upon Genera 
Retzow’s brow ; but the young, handsome face ol 
Winterfeldt was sparkling with delight at th. 
thought of war. 

“Well, marshal,” said the king, impatiently, 
'* what is your advice ? ” 

“ My advice, sire,” said the old marshal, sigh- 
ing ; “ I see my king surrounded by threatening 
and powerful foes ; I see him alone in the midst 
of all these allied enemies. For England may, 
perchance, send us n/oney, but she has no soldiers 
for us, and moreover, we must assist her to de- 
fend Hanover. I cannot counsel this war, for 
mighty enemies are around us, and Prussia standi 
alone.” 

“ No,” said Frederick, solemnly, “Prussia stands 
not alone ! — a good cause and a good sword are 
her allies, and with them she will conquer. And 
now. General Retzow, let us have your opinion.” 

“I agree entirely with Marshal Schwerin,” said 
Retzow. “ Like him, I think Prussia should not 
venture into this strife, because she is too weak to 
withstand such powerful adversaries.” 

“ You speak prudently,” said Frederick, scorn- 
fully. “ And now, Winterfeldt, are you also against 
this war ? ” 

“ No, sire,” cried Winterfeldt, “ I am for the at■^ 
tack, and never were circumstances more favor- 
able than at present. Austria has as yet made no 
preparations for war; her armies are scattered, 
and her finances are in disorder ; and now it null 
be an easy task to attack her and subdue her sur- 
prised army.” 

The king looked at him pleasantly, and turning 
to the other generals, said quietly : 

“We must not be carried away by the brave 
daring of this youth ; he is the youngest among 
us, and is, perhaps, misled by enthusiasm. But 
we old ones must reflect ; and I wished to convince 
you that I had not failed to do this. But all haa 
been in vain.” 

“ Now is the time,” said Winterfeldt, with 
sparkling eyes, “ to convince the crippled, un- 
wieldy Austrian eagle that the young eagle of 
Prussia has spread her wings, and that her claws’ 
are strong enough to grasp all her enemies and 
hurl them into an abyss.” 

“ And if the young eagle, in spite of his daring, 
should have to succumb to the superiority of num- 
bers,” said Marshal Schwerin, sadly. “ If the 
balls of his enemies should break his wings, 
thereby preventing his flight for the future ? 
Were it not better to avoid this possibility, and 
not to allow the whole world to say that Prussia, 
out of love of conquest, began a fearful WiU^ 
which she could have avoided ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


' “ There is no reason in this war,” said General 
^ Retzow ; “ for, though Austria, Saxony, and Rus- 
i; eia are not our friends, they have not shown as 
yet by any open act that they are our enemies ; 
and though Austria’s alliance with France sur- 
prised the world, so also did Prussia’s alliance 
with England. Our soldiers will hardly know why 
they are going to battle, and they will be wanting 
in that inspiration which is necessary to excite an 
army to heroic deeds.” 

“ Inspiration shah not be wanting, and my army 
os well as yourselves shall know the many causes 
we have for this war. The reasons I have given 
you as yet have not satisfied you? Well, then, I 
will give you others ; and, by Heaven, you will be 
content with them ! You think Austria’s unkindly 
feelings to Prussia have not been shown by any 
overt act. I will now prove to you that she is on 
the point of acting.” And Frederick, lifting up 
some papers from his desk, continued : “ These 

papers will prove to you, what you seem deter- 
mined not to believe, namely, that Saxony, Russia, 
and France are prepared to attack Prussia with 
their combined forces, and to turn the kingdom 
of Prussia into a margraviate once more. These 
papers are authentic proofs of the dangers which 
hover over us. I will now inform you how I came 
by them, so that you may be convinced of their 
genuineness. For some time I have suspected 
that there was, amongst my enemies, an alliance 
against me, and that they had formed a contract 
in which they had sworn to do all in their power 
to destroy Prussia. I only needed to have my 
huspicions confirmed, and to have the proofs of 
this contract in my hands. These proofs were in 
the Saxon archives, and in the dispatches of the 
Austrian embassy. It was therefore necessary to 
get the key of these archives, and to have copies 
of these dispatches. I succeeded in doing both. 
Chance, or if you prefer it, a kind Providence, 
came to my aid. The Saxon chancellor, Reinitz, 
a former servant of General Winterfeldt, came 
from Dresden to Pottsdam to look for Winterfeldt 
and to confide to him that a friend of his. Chan- 
cellor Minzel of Dresden, had informed him that 
the state papers interchanged between the court, 
of Vienna and Dresden, were kept in the Dresden 
archives, of which he had the key. Winterfeldt 
brought me this important message. Reinitz con- 
ilucted the first negotiations with Menzel, which I 
then delivered into the hands of my ambassador 
in Dresden, Count Mattzahn. Menzel was poor 
and covetous. He was therefore easily to be 
bribed. For three years Mattzahn has received 
copies of every dispatch that passed between the 
three courts. I am quite as well informed of all 


negotiations between Austria and France, for the 
secretary of the Austrian legation of this place, a 
Count Weingarten, gave me, for promises and 
gold, copies of all dispatches that came from Vi- 
enna and were forwarded to France. You see the 
corruption of man has borne me good fruit, and 
that gold is a magic wand which reveals all se- 
crets. And now,, let us cast a hasty glance over 
these papers which I have obtained by the aid of 
treachery and bribery.” 

He took one of the papers and spread it before 
the astonished generals. “ You see here,” he con- 
tinued, “ a sample of all other negotiations. It is 
a copy of a share contract which the courts of 
Vienna and Dresden formed in 1V45 They then 
regarded the decline of Prussia as so sure an oc- 
currence that they had already divided amongst 
themselves the different parts of my land. Rus- 
sia soon aflBxed her name also to this contract, 
and here in this document you will see that these 
three powers have sworn to attack Prussia at the 
same moment, and that for this conquest, each 
one of the named courts was to furnish sixty 
thousand men.” 

While the generals were engaged in reading 
these papers, the king leaned back in his arm- 
chair, gazing keenly at Retzow and Schwerin. He 
smiled gayly as he saw Schwerin pressing his lips 
tightly together, and trying in vain to suppress a cry 
of rage, and Retzow clinching his fists vehemently. 

When the papers had been read, and Schwerin 
was preparing to speak, the king, with his head 
thrown proudly back, and gazing earnestly at his 
listeners, interrupted him, saying : 

“Now, sirs, perhaps you see the dangers by 
which we are surrounded. Under the circum- 
stances, I owe it to myself, to my honor, and tc 
the security of my land, to attack Austria and 
Saxony, and so to nip their abominable designs 
in the bud, before their allies are ready to give 
them any assistance. I am prepared, and the on- 
ly question to be answered before setting our 
army in motion, is where to commence the attack 
to our advantage ? For the deciding of this ques- 
tion, I have called you together. I have finished, 
and now. Marshal Schwerin, it is your turn.” 

The old gi’ay warrior arose. It may be that ne 
was convinced by the powerful proofs and w'orda 
of the king, or that knowing that his will was 
law it were vain to oppose him, but he was now 
as strongly for war as the king or Winterfeldt, 

“ If there is to be war,” said he, enthusiasti- 
cally, “ let us start to-morrow, take Saxony, and, 
in that land of corn, build magazines for the hold- 
ing of our provisions, so as to secure a way for 
our future operations in Bohemia.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY 


“ Ah ! now I recognize my old Schwerin,” said 
the king, gayly pressing the marshal’s hand. 
“ No more delay ! ‘ To anticipate ’ is my motto, 
and shall, God willing, be Prussia’s in future.” 

“ And our army,” said Winterfeldt, with spark- 
ling eyes, “ has been accustomed, for hundreds 
of years, not only to defend themselves, but also 
to attack. Ah, at last it is to be granted us to 
fight our arch-enemies in open field, mischief- 
making Austria, intriguing Saxony, barbarous 
Russia, and finally lying, luxurious France, and to 
convince them that, though we do not fear their 
anger, we share their hatred with our whole 
hearts.” 

“And you, Retzow,” said the king, sternly, 
turning to the general, who was sitting silently 
with downcast head ; “do your views coincide 
with Schwerin’s ? Or do you still think it were 
better to wait ? ” 

“ Yes, sire,” said Retzow, sadly ; “ I think de- 
lay, under the present threatening circumstances, 
would be the wisest course ; I — ” 

He was interrupted by the entrance of a valet, 
who approached the king, and whispered a few 
words to him. 

Frederick turned smilingly to the generals. 
“ The princes, my brothers, have arrived,” said 
he ; “ they were to be here at this hour to hear 
the result of our consultation. And, it strikes me, 
they arrive at the right moment. The princes 
may enter.” 


OHAPTEK IX. 

iHE KING AND HIS BROTHERS. 

The door was thrown open and the princes en- 
tered. First came the Prince of Prussia, whose 
pale, dejected countenance was to-day paler and 
sadder than usual. Then Prince Henry, whose 
quick, bright eyes were fixed inquiringly on Gen- 
eral Retzow. The general shrugged his shoulders, 
and shook his head. Prince Henry must have 
understood these movements, for his brow became 
clouded, and a deep red suffused his countenance. 
The king, who had seen this, laughed mockingly, 
and let the princes approach very close to him, 
before addressing them. 

“ Sirs,” said he, “ I have called you here, be- 
cause I have some important news to communi- 
cate. The days of peace are over, and war is at 
hand!” 

“War! and with whom ? ” said the Prince of 
Prussia, earnestly. 

“ W ar with our enemies ! ” cried the king. 


“ War with those who have sworn Prussia’s de 
struction. War with Austria, France, Saxony 
and Russia ! ” 

“That is impossible, my brother,” cried the 
prince, angrily. “You cannot dream of warring 
against such powerful nations. You cannot be- 
lieve in the possibility of victory. Powerful and 
mighty as your spirit is, it will have to succumb 
before the tremendous force opposed to it. Oh ! 
my brother! my king! be merciful to yourself, 
to us, to our country. Do not desire the impossi- 
ble ! Do not venture into the stormy sea of war, 
to fight with your frail barks against the powerful 
men of war that your enemies will direct against 
you. We cannot be victorious! Preserve to 
your country your own precious life, and that of 
her brave sons.” 

The king’s eyes burned with anger ; they were 
fixed with an expression of deep hatred upon the 
prince. 

“ Truly, my brother,” said he, in a cold, cutting 
tone, “fear has made you eloquent. You speak 
as if inspired.” 

A groan escaped the prince, and he laid his 
hand unwittingly upon his sword. He was deadly 
pale, and his lips trembled so violently, that he 
could scarcely speak. 

“Fear ! ” said he, slowly. “ That is an accusa- 
tion which none but the king would dare to bring 
against me, and of which I wiU clear myself, if it 
comes to this unhappy war which your majesty 
proposes, and which I now protest against, in the 
name of my rights,’ my children, and my country.” 

“And I,” said Prince Henry, earnestly — “I 
also protest against this war ! Have pity on us, 
my king. Much as I thirst for renown and glory, 
often as I have prayed to God to grant me an oc- 
casion to distinguish myself, I now swear to sub- 
due forever this craving for renown, if it can only 
be obtained at the price of this frightful, useless 
war. You stand alone ! Without allies, it is im- 
possible to conquer. Why, then, brave certain 
ruin and destruction ? ” 

The king’s countenance was frightful to look 
at; his eyes were flashing with rage, and his 
voice was like thunder, it was so loud and threat- 
ening. 

“ Enough of this ! ” said he ; “ you were called 
here, not to advise, but to receive my commands. 
The brother has heard you patiently, but now the 
King of Prussia stands before you, and demands 
of you obedience and submission. We are going 
to battle ; this is settled ; and your complaints 
and fears will not alter rny determination. But 
all those who fear to follow me on the battle-field, 
have my permission to remain at home, and pass 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


75 


their time in love idyls. Who, amongst you all, 
prefers this ? Let him speak, and he shall follow 
his own inclinations.” 

“ None of us could do that,” said Prince Henry, 
passionately. ‘‘ If the King of Prussia calls his 
soldiers, they will all come and follow their chief- 
tain joyfully, though they are marching to certain 
death. I have already given you my personal 
opinion ; it now rests with me to obey you, as a 
soldier, as a subject. This I will do joyfully, with- 
out complaining.” 

“I also,” said Prince Augustus William, ear- 
nestly. “ Like my brother, I will know how to sub- 
due my own opinions and fears, and to follow in 
silent obedience my king and my chieftain.” 

The king threw a glance of hatred upon the 
pale, disturbed countenance of the prince. 

“ You will go where I command you,” said he, 
sharply ; and not giving the prince time to an- 
“ swer, he turned abruptly to Marshal Schwerin. 

“ Well, marshal, do you wish for a furlough, 
during this war ? You heard me say I would re- 
fuse it to no one.” 

!■ “ I demand nothing of your majesty, but to 

f take part in the first battle against your enemies. 
^ I do not ask who they are. The hour for consul- 
tation is past ; it is now time to act. Let us to 
work, and that right quickly.” 

“ Yes, to battle, sire,” cried Retzow, earnestly. 
“ As soon as your majesty has said that this war 
is irrevocable, your soldiers must have no further 
doubts, and they will follow you joyfully, to con- 
quer or to die.” 

“And you, Winterfeldt,” said the king, taking 
his favorite’s hand tenderly ; ‘‘ have you nothing 
to say? Or have the Prince of Prussia’s fears 
infected you, and made of you a coward ? ” 

“ Ah, no ! sire,” said Winterfeldt, pressing the, 
g king’s hand to his breast ; “ how could my courage 
fail, when it is Prussia’s hero king that leads to 
battle ? How can 1 be otherwise than joyous and 
confident of victory, when Frederick calls us to 
fight against his wicked and arrogant enemies ? 
No ! I have no fears ; God and the true cause is 
on our side.” 

Prince Henry approached nearer to the king, 
and looking at him proudly, he said : 

“Sire, you asked General Winterfeldt if he 
shared the Prince of Prussia’s fears. He says no ; 
but I will beg your majesty to remember, that I 
share entirely the sentiments of my dear and noble 
brother.” 

As he finished, he threw an angry look at Gen- 
eral Winterfeldt. The latter commenced a fierce 
rejoinder, but was stopped by the king. 

“Be still, Winterfeldt,” he said; “war has as 


yet not been declared, and till then, let there at 
least be peace in my own house.” Then ap- 
proaching Prince Henry, and laying his hand on 
his shoulder, he said kindly : “ We will not exas- 
perate each other, my brother. You have a noble, 
generous soul, and no one would din’s to doubt 
your courage. It grieves me that you do not 
share my views as to the necessity of this war, 
but I know that you will be a firm, helpful friend, 
and share with me my dangers, my burdens, and 
if God wills it, also my victory.” 

“ Not I alone will do this,” cried Prince Henry, 
“but also my brother, Augustus William, the 
Prince of Prussia, whose heart is not less brave, 
whose courage — ” 

“ Hush, Henry ! I pray you,” said the Prince of 
Prussia, sadly ; “ speak not of my courage. By 
defending it, it would seem that it had been 
doubted, and that is a humiliation which I would 
stand from no one.” 

The king appeared not to have heard these 
words. He took some papers from the table by 
which he was standing, and said : 

“ All that remains to be told you now, is that I 
agree with Marshal Schwerin. We will commence 
the attack in Saxony. To Saxony, then, gentle- 
men ! But, until the day before the attack, let us 
keep even the question of war a secret.” 

Then, with the paper under his arm, he passed 
through the saloon and entered his library. 

There was a long pause after he left. The 
Prince of Prussia, exhausted by the storm which 
had swept over his soul, had withdrawn to one of 
the windows, where he was hid from view by the 
heavy satin damask curtains. 

Prince Henry, standing alone in the middle of 
the room, gazed after his brother, and a deep sigh 
escaped him. Then turning to Retzow, he said : 

“You would not, then, fulfil my brother’s and 
my own wishes ? ” 

“ I did all that was in my power, prince,” said 
the general, sighing. “ Your highness did not 
wish this war to take place ; you desired me, if 
the king asked for my advice, to tell him that we 
were too weak, and should therefore keep the 
peace. Well, I said this, not only because you de- 
sired it, but because it was also my own opinion. 
But the king’s will was unalterable. He has med- 
itated this war for years. Years ago, with Win- 
terfeldt’s aid, he drew all the plans and made 
every other arrangement.” 

“ Winterfeldt ! ” murmured the prince to him- 
self, “ yes, Winterfeldt is the fiend whose whispers 
have misled the king. We suspected this long 
ago, but we had to bear it in silence, for we could 
not prevent it.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Aud giving his passionate nature full play, he 
approached General Winterfeldt, who was whis- 
pering to Marshal Schwerin. 

“You can rejoice, general,” said the prince, 
“ for now you can take your private revenge on 
the Empress of Russia.” 

Winterfeldt encountered the prince’s angry 
glance with a quiet, cheerful look. 

“Your highness does me too much honor in 
thinking that a poor soldier, such as I am, could 
be at enmity with a royal empress. What could 
this Russian empress have done to me, that could 
call for revenge on my part ? ” 

“ What has she done to you ? ” said the prince, 
with a mocking smile. “ Two things, which man 
finds hardest to forgive ! She outwitted you, and 
took your riches from you. Ah ! general, I fear 
this war will be in vain, and that you will not be 
able to take your wife’s jewels from St. Petersburg, 
where the empress retains them.” 

Winterfeldt subdued his anger, and replied; 
“ You have related us a beautiful fairy tale, prince, 
a tale from the Arabian Nights, in which there is 
a talk of jewels and glorious treasures, only that 
in this tale, instead of the usual dragon, an em- 
press gqards them. I acknowledge that I do not 
understand your highness.” 

“But I understand you perfectly, general. I 
know your ambitious and proud plans. You wish 
to make your name renowned. General, I con- 
sider you ar much in fault as to this war. You 
were the king’s confidant — you had your spies 
everywhere, who, for heavy rewards, imparted to 
you the news by which you stimulated the king.” 

“If in your eyes,” said Winterfeldt, proudly, 
“ it is wrong to spend your gold to find out the in- 
trigues of your own, your king’s, and your coun- 
try’s enemies, I acknowledge that I am in fault, 
and deserve to be punished. Yes, everywhere I 
have had my spies, and thanks to them, the king 
knows Saxony’s, Austria’s, and Russia’s inten- 
tions. I paid these spies with my own gold. Your 
highness may thus perceive that I am not entire- 
ly dependent on those jewels of my wife which 
are said to be in the Empress of Russia’s posses- 
sion.” 

At this moment the Prince of Prussia, who had 
been a silent witness to this scene, approached 
General Winterfeldt. 

“General,” said he, in a loud, solemn voice, 
“ you are the cause of this unfortunate war which 
will soon devastate onr poor land. The respon- 
sibility falls upon your head, and woe to you if 
this war, caused by your ambition, should be the 
ruin of our beloved country ! I would, if there 
were no punishment for you on earth, accuse you 


before the throne of God, and the blood of tne 
slaughtered sons of my country, the blood of my 
future subjects, would cry to Heaven for revenge ! 
Woe to you if this war should be the ruin of 
Prussia ! ” repeated Prince Henry. “ I could nev- 
er forgive that ; I would hold your ambition re 
sponsible for it, for you have access to the king’s 
heart, and instead of dissipating his distrust against 
these foreign nations, you have endeavored tc 
nourish it — instead of softening the king’s anger, 
you have given it fresh food.” 

“ What I have done,” cried Winterfeldt, sol- 
emnly raising his right hand heavenward — “ what 
I have done was done from a feeling of duty, 
from love of my country, and from a firm, un- 
shaken trust in my king’s star, which cannot fade, 
but must become ever more and more resplendent ! 
May God punish me if I have acted from other and 
less noble motives ! ” 

“ Yes, may God punish you — may He not re- 
venge your - crime upon our poor country ! ” said 
Prince Augustus William. “ I have said my last 
upon this sad subject. From now on, my private 
opinions are subdued— I but obey the king’s com- 
mands. What he requires of me shall be done — 
where he sends me I will go, without questioning 
or considering, but quietly and obediently, as it 
becomes a true soldier. I hope that you, my 
brother. Marshal Schwerin, and General Retzow, 
will follow my example. The king has command- 
ed — we have but to obey cheerfully.” 

Then, arm in arm, the princes left the audience- 
room and returned to Berlin. 


CHAPTEK X. 

THE LAUREL-BRANCH. 

While this last scene was passing in the audi- 
ence-room, the king had retired to his study, and 
was walking up and down in deep thought. His 
countenance was stem and sorrowful — a darl* 
cloud was upon his brow — his lips were tightly 
pressed together — powerful emotions were dis- 
turbing his whole being. He stopped suddenly, 
and raising his head proudly, seemed to be listen- 
ing to the thoughts and suggestions of his soul. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ these were his very words : 
‘ I protest against this war in the name of my 
rights, my children, and my country ! ’ Ah, it is a 
pleasant thought to him that he is to be heir tc 
my throne. He imagines that he has rights be- 
yond those that I grant him, and that he can pro- 
test against an action of mine ! He is a rebel, a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


^railor He dares to think of the time when I 
ifUI be gone — of the time when he or his cliildren 
will wear this crown ! I feel that I hate him as 
my father hated me because I was his heir, and 
because the sight of me always reminded him of 
his death ! Yes, I hate him ! This effeminate 
boy will disturb the great work which I am en- 
deavoring to iDerform. Under his weak hands, 
this Prussia, which I would make great and power- 
ful, will fall to pieces, and all my battles and com 
quests will be in vain. He will not know how to 
make use of them. I will make of my Prussia a 
mighty and much-feared nation. And if I suc- 
ceed, by giving up my every thought to this one 
object, then my brother will come and destroy 
this work which has cost me such pain and trou- 
ble. Prussia needs a strong, active king, not an 
effeminate boy who passes his life in sighing for 
his lost love and in grumbling at fate for making 
him the son of a king. Yes, I feel that I hate 
him, for I foresee that he will be the destroyer of 
my great work. But no, no — I do him wrong,” 
said the king, “ and my suspicious heart sees, per- 
haps, things that are not. Ah, has it gone so far ? 
Must I, also, pay the tribute which princes give 
for their pitiful splendor? I suspect the heir 
to ray thi’one, and see in him a secret enemy ! 
Mistrust has already thrown her shadow upon 
my soul, and made it dark and troubled. Ah, 
there will come a cold and dreary night for me, 
when I shall stand alone in the midst of all my 
glory ! ” 

His head fell upon his breast, and he remained 
silent and immovable. 

“ And am I not alone, now ? ” said he, and in 
his voice there was a soft and sorrowful sound. 
“ My brothers are against me, because they do 
not understand me ; my sisters fear me, and, be- 
cause this war will disturb their peace and com- 
fort, will hate me. My mother’s heart has cooled 
toward me, because I will not be influenced by 
her ; and Elizabeth Christine, whom the world 
calls my wife, weeps in solitude over the heavy 
chains which bind her. Not one of them loves 
me ! — not one believes in me, and in my fu- 
ture ! ” 

The king, given up to these melancholy thoughts, 
did not hear a knock at his door ; it was now re- 
peated, and so loudly, that he could not but hear it. 
He hastened to the door and opened it. Wiuter- 
feldt was there, with a sealed paper in his hand, 
which he gave to the king, begging him at the 
same time to excuse this interruption. 

“ It is the best thing you could have done,” 
Baia the king, entering his room, and signing to 
flie general to follow him. “I was in bad com- 
6 


77 

pany, with my own sorrowful thoughts, and it is 
good that you came to dissipate them.” 

“ This letter will know well how to do that,” 
said Winterfeldt, handing him the packet ; “ a 
courier brought it to me from Berlin.” 

“ Letters from my sister Wilhelmina, from 
Italy,” said the king, joyfully breaking the seal, 
and unfolding the papers. 

There were several sheets of paper closely writ- 
ten, and between them lay a small, white packet. 
The king kept the latter in his hand, and com- 
menced reading eagerly. As he read, the dark, 
stern expression gradually left his countenance. 
His brow was smooth and calm, and a soft, bea\i- 
tiful smile ;‘layed about his lips. He finished the 
letter, and throwing it hastily aside, tore open the 
package. In it was a laurel-branch, covered with 
beautiful leaves, which looked as bright and green 
as if they had just been cut. The king raised it, 
and looked at it tenderly. 

“ Ah, my friend,” said he, with a beaming smile, 
“see how kind Providence is to me! On this 
painful day she sends me a glorious token, a lau- 
rel-branch. My sister gathered it for me on my 
birthday. Do you know where, my friend ? Bow 
your head, be all attention ; for know that it is a 
branch from the laurel-tree that grows upon Vir- 
gil’s grave ! Ah, my friend, it seems to me as if 
the great and glorious spirits of the olden ages 
were greeting me with this laurel which came 
from the grave of one of their greatest poets. My 
sister sends it to me, accompanied by some beau- 
tiful verses of her own. An old fable says thai, 
these laurels grew spontaneously upon Virgil’s 
grave, and that they are indestructible. May this 
be a blessed omen for me ! I greet you, Virgil’s 
holy shadow 1 I bow down before you, and kiss 
■ in all humility your ashes, which have been turned 
into laurels ! ” 

Thus speaking, the king bowed his head, and 
pressed a fervent kiss upon the laurel. He then 
handed it to Winterfeldt. 

“ Do likewise, my friend,” said he ; “ your lips 
are worthy to touch this holy branch, to inhale 
the odor of these leaves which grew upon Virgil’s 
grave. Kiss this branch — and now let us swear 
to become worthy of this kiss ; swear that in this 
war, which will soon begin, laurels shall either 
rest upon our brows or upon our graves 1 ” 

Winterfeldt having sworn, repeated these woi-ds 
after him. 

“ Amen 1 ” sara the Ring ; “ God and Virgil have 
heard us.” 


78 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AHD HIS FAMILY. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE BALL AT COUNT BRUHL’S. 

Count Bruhl, first minister to the King of 
Saxony, gave to-day a magnificent fete in his pal- 
ace, in honor of his wife, whose birthday it was. 
The feast was to be honored by the presence of 
the King of Poland, the Prince Elector of Saxony, 
Augustus III., and Maria Josephine, his wife. 
This was "a favor which the proud queen granted 
to her favorite for the first time. For she who 
had instituted there the stern Spanish etiquette to 
which she had been accustomed at the court of 
her father, Joseph I., had never taken a meal at 
the table of one of her subjects ; so holy did she 
consider her royal person, that the ambassadors 
of foreign powers were not permitted to sit at the 
same table with her. Therefore, at every feast at 
the court of Dresden, there was a small table set 
apart for the royal family, and only the prime 
minister. Count Briihl, was deserving of the honor 
to eat with the king and queen. This was a cus- 
tom which pleased no one so well as the count 
himself, for it insured him from the danger that 
some one might approach the royal pair, and in- 
form them of some occurrence of which the count 
wished them to remain in ignorance. 

There were many slanderers in this wretched 
kingdom — ^many who were envious of the count’s 
high position — many who dared to believe that 
the minister employed the king’s favor for his 
own good, and not for that of his country. They 
said that he alone lived luxuriously in this miser- 
able land, while the people hungered; that he 
spent every year over a million of thalers. They 
declared that he had not less than five millions 
now lying in the banks of Rotterdam, Venice, and 
Marseilles ; others said that he had funds to the 
amount of seven millions. One of these calum- 
niators might possibly approach the king’s table 
and w'hisper into the royal ear his wicked slan- 
ders ; one of these evil-doers might even have the 
audacity to make his unrighteous complaints to 
the queen. This it was that caused Count Briihl 
to tremble ; this'it was that robbed him of sleep 
at night, of peace by day, this fear of a possible 
disgrace. 

He was well acquainted with the history of 
Count Lerma, minister to King Philip IV. of 
Spain. Lerma was also the ruler of a king, and 
reigned over Spain, as Briihl over Saxony. All 
had succumbed to his power and influence, even 
the royal family trembled when he frowned, and 
felt themselves honored by his smile. What was 
it that caused the ruin of this all-powerful, irre- 


proachable favorite ? A little note which King 
Philip found between his napkin one day, upon 
which was this address: “To Philip IV., once 
King of Spain, and Master of both the Indies, but 
now in the service of Count Lerma ! ” This it 
was that caused the count’s ruin ; Philip was en- 
raged by this note, and the powerful favorite fell 
into disgrace. 

Count Briihl tnew this history, and was on his 
guard. He knew that even the air which he 
breathed was poisoned by the malice of his ene- 
mies; that those who paused in the streets to 
greet him reverentially when he passed in his 
gilded carriage, cursed him in their inmost hearts ; 
that those friends w'ho pressed his hand and sung 
songs in his praise, would become his bitterest 
enemies so soon as he ceased paying for their 
friendship with position, with pensions, with hon- 
ors, and with orders. He spent hundreds of thou- 
sands yearly to gain friends and admirers, but still 
he was in constant fear that some enemy would 
undermine him. This had indeed once hap- 
pened. During the time that the king’s favor 
was shared equally with Count Briihl, Count Sul- 
kovsky, and Count Hennicke, whilst playing 
cards, a piece of gold was given to the king, upon 
which was represented the crown of Poland, rest- 
ing upon the shoulders of three men, with the fol- 
lowing inscription : “ There are three of us, tw'o 
pages and one lackey ! ” The King of Poland was 
as much enraged by this satirical piece of gold as 
was the King of Spain by his satirical note. But 
Count Briihl succeeded in turning the king’s an- 
ger upon the two other shoulder-bearers of his 
crown. Counts Sulkovsky and Hennicke fell into 
disgrace,’ and were banished from the court; 
Count Briihl remained, and reigned as absolute 
master over Poland and Saxony ! 

But reigning, he still trembled, and therefore he 
favored the queen’s fancy for the strictest eti- 
quette; therefore, no one but Count Briihl was 
to eat at the royal table ; he himself took their 
napkins from their plates and handed them to the 
royal couple ; no one was to approach the sover- 
eigns who w'as not introduced by the prime minis- 
ter, who was at once master of ceremonies, field- 
marshal, and gi’and chamberlain, and received for 
each of these different posts a truly royal salary. 
Etiquette and the fears of the powerful favorite 
kept the royal pair almost prisoners. 

But for to-day etiquette was to be done away 
with ; the crowned heads were to be gracious, so 
as to lend a new glory to their favorite’s house. 
To-day the count was fearless, for there was no 
danger of a traitor being among his guests. His 
wife and himself had drawn up the list of invita’ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


^9 


tions. But still, as there might possibly be 
those among them who hated the count, and 
would very gladly injure him, he had ordered 
some of the best paid of his friends to watch all 
suspicious characters, not to leave them alone for 
a moment, and not to overlook a single word of 
theirs. Of course, it was understood that the 
count and his wife must remain continually at the 
side of the king and queen, that all who wished to 
speak to them must first be introduced by the 
“ host or hostess. 

The count was perfectly secure to-day, and 
therefore gay and happy. He had been looking 
at the different arrangements for this feast, and he 
saw with delight that they were such as to do 
honor to his house. It was to be a summer festi- 
val ; the entire palace had been turned into a 
greenhouse, that served only for an entrance to 
I the actual scene of festivities. This was the im- 
mense garden. In the midst of the rarest and 
most beautiful groups of flowers, immense tents 
were raised ; they were of rich, heavy silk, and 
were festooned at the sides with golden cords and 
tassels. Apart from these was a smaller one, 
which outshone them all in magnificence. The 
li roof of this tent rested upon eight pillars of gold ; 
it was composed of a dark-red velvet, over which a 
slight gauze, worked with gold and silver stars, 
was gracefully arranged. Upon the table below 
this canopy, which rested upon a rich Turkish 
carpet, there was a heavy service of gold, and the 
most exquisite Venetian glass ; the immense pyr- 
amid in the middle of the table was a master-work 
of Benevenuto Cellini, for which the count had 
paid in Rome one hundred thousand thalers. 
There were but seven seats, for no one was to eat 
at this table but the royal pair, the prince-elector 
and his wife, the Prince Xavier, and the Count 
“and Countess Briihl. This was a new triumph 
that the count had prepared for himself ; he wished 
his guests to see the exclusive royal position he 
occupied. An d no one could remain in ignorance 
of this triumph, for from every part of the garden 
the royal tent could be seen, being erected upon 
a slight eminence. It was like a scene from fairy- 
land. There were rushing cascades, beautiful 
marble statues, arbors and bowers, in which were 
birds of every color from every clime. Behind a 
group of trees was a lofty structure of the purest 
marble, a shell, borne aloft by gigantic Tritons and 
mermaids, in which there was room for fitty mu- 
sicians, who were to fill the air with sweet sounds, 
and never to become so loud as to weary the ear 
or disturb conversation. 

If the tents, the rushing cascades, the rare 
flowers, the many-colored b'mds, were a beautiful 


sight by daylight, how much more entrancing it 
would be at night, when illuminated by thousands 
of brilliant lamps ! 

The count, having taken a last look at the ar- 
rangements and seen that they were perfect, now 
retired to his rooms, and there, with the aid of his 
twelve valets, he commenced his toilet. The 
countess had alredy been in the hands of her 
Parisian coiffeur for some hours. 

The count wore a suit of blue velvet. The 
price of embroidery in silver and pearls on his 
coat would have furnished hundreds of wretched, 
starving families with bread. His diamond shoe- 
buckles would almost have sufficed to pay the 
army, which had gone unpaid for months. When 
his toilet was finished, he entered his study to (fe 
vote a few moments, at least, to his public duties, 
and to read those letters which to-day’s post had 
brought him from all parts of the world, and 
which his secretary was accustomed to place in 
his study at this hour. He took a letter, broke 
the seal hastily, and skimming over it quickly, 
threw it aside and opened another, to read anew 
the complaints, the prayers, the flatteries, the as- 
surances of love, of his correspondents. But none 
of them were calculated to compel the minister’s 
attention. He had long ago hardened his heart 
against prayers and complaints ; as for flattery, he 
well knew that he had to pay for it with pen- 
sions, with position, with titles, with orders, etc., 
etc. But it seemed as if the letters were not all 
of the usual sort, for the expression of indiffer- 
ence which had rested upon his countenance 
while reading the others, had vanished and given 
place to one of a very different character. This 
letter was from Flemming, the Saxon ambassa- 
dor in Berlin, and contained strange, wild rumors. 
The King of Prussia, it seemed, had left Berlin 
the day before, with all the princes and his staff 
officers, and no one knew exactly where he was 
going ! Rumor said, though, that he and his army 
Were marching toward Saxony! After reading 
this. Count Briihl broke into a loud laugh. 

“Well,” said he, “it roust be granted that this 
little poet-king, Frederick, has the art of telling 
the most delightful fairy-tales to his subjects, and 
of investing every action of his with the greatest 
importance. Ah, Mkrgrave of Brandenburg ! we 
will soon be in a condition to take your usurped 
crown from your head. Parade as much as you 
like — make the world believe in you and your ab- 
surd manoeuvres — the day will soon come when 
she will but see in you a poor knight with naught 
but his title of marquis.” With a triumphant 
smile he threw down the letter and grasped tha 
next. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Another from Flemming ? ” said he. “ Why, 
truly, the good count is becoming fond of writing. 
Ah,” said he, after reading it carelessly, “ more 
warnings ! He declares that the King of Prussia 
intends attacking Saxony — that he is now already 
at our borders. He then adds, that the king is 
aware of the contract which we and our friends 
have signed, swearing to attack Prussia simultane- 
ously. Well, my good Flemming, there is not much 
wisdom needed to tell me that if the king knows 
of our contract, he will be all the more on his 
guard, and will make preparations to defend him- 
self; for he would not be so foolhardy as to at- 
tempt to attack our three united armies. No, no. 
Our regiments can remain quietly in Poland — the 
seventeen thousand men here will answer all pur- 
poses. 

“ There is but one more of these begging let- 
ters,” said he, opening it, but throwing it aside 
without reading it. Out of it fell a folded piece 
of paper. “ Why,” said the count, taking it up, 
“ these are verses. Has Flemming’s fear of the 
Prussian king made a poet of him ? ” He opened 
it and read aloud : 

“ ‘ A piece of poetry which a friend, Baron Poll- 
nitz, gave me yesterday. The author is the King 
of Prussia.’ 

“Well,” said the count, laughing, “a piece of 
poetry about me — the king does me great honor. 
Let us see ; perhaps these verses can be read at 
the table to-day, and cause some amusement. 

‘ Ode to Count Briihl,’ with this inscription : '•11 ne 
faut pas sHriquieter de Vavenirl That is a wise 
philosophical sentence, which nevertheless did 
not spring from the brain of his Prussian majes- 
ty. And now for the verses.” And straightening 
the paper before him, he commenced : 

“ Esclave malheureux de la haute fortune. 

D’un roi trop indolent souverain absolu, 

Surcharg6 de travaux dont le Boin I’importune, 
Bruhl, quitte des grandeurs I’embarras superfiu. 

Au sein de ton opulence 
Je vois le Dieu des ennuis, 

Et dans ta magniOcence 
Le repos fait tes nuits. 

“ Descend de ce palais dont le superbe faite 
Domine sur la Saxe, 8’616vent aux cieux. 

D’ou ton esprit craintif conjure la tempete 
Que soul^ve ala cour un peuple d’envieux; 

Vois cette grandeur fragile 
Et cesse enfln d’admirer 
L’6clat pompeux d’une ville 
Ou tout feint de t’adorer.” * 

Tlie count’s voice had at first been loud, pa- 
thetic, and slightly ironical, but it became gradu- 
ally lower, and sank at last almost to a whisper. 
A deep, angry red suffused his face, as he read 
* See note, page 800. 


on. Again his voice became louder as he read the 
last two verses : 

“Connaissez la Fortune inconstante et 16g6re; 

La perfide se plait aux plus cruels revers, 

On la voit abuser le sage, le vulgaire, 

Jouer insolemment tout ce faible uni vers ; 
Aujourd’hui c’est sur ma tSte 
Qu’elle rdpand des favours, 

Dds demain elle s’appr^te 
A les emporter ailleurs. 

“Fixe-t-elle sur moi sa bizarre inconstance, 

Mon ccBur lui saura gr6 du bien qu’elle me fait 
Veut-elle en d’autres lieux marquer sa bienveillanco. 
Je lui remets ses dons sans chagrin, sans regret 
Plein d’une vertu plus forte 
J’6pouse la pauvrete 
Si pour dot elle m’apporte 
L’honneur et la probit6.” 

The paper fell from the count’s hand and he 
looked at it thoughtfully. An expression of deep 
emotion rested upon his countenance, which, in 
spite of his fifty years, could still be called hand- 
some — as he repeated in a low, trembling voice: 

“ J’6pouse la pauvret6, 

81 pour dot elle m’apporte 
L’honneur et la probite.” 

The sun coming through the window rested up 
on his tall form, causing the many jewels upou 
his garments to sparkle like stars on the blue 
background, enveloping him in a sort of glory. He 
had repeated for the third time, “ J''epouse la paw- 
vreU^' when the door leading to his wife’s apart- 
ments was opened, and the countess entered in 
the full splendor of her queenly toilet, sparkling 
with jewels. The count was startled by her en- 
trance, but he now broke out into a loud, mock- 
ing laugh. 

“ Truly, countess,” said he, “ you could not 
have found a better moment to interrupt me. For 
the last half hour my thoughts have been given 
up 4o sentiment. Wonderful dreams have been 
chasing each other through my brain. But you 
have again shown yourself my good angel, Anto- 
nia, by dissipating these painful thoughts.” He 
pressed a fervent kiss upon her hand, then look- 
ing at her with a beaming countenance, he said : 

“ How beautiful you are, Antonia ; you must 
have found that mysterious river which, if bathed 
in, insures perpetual youth and beauty.” 

“ Ah I ” said the countess, smiling, “ all know 
that no one can flatter so exquisitely as Count 
Briihl.” 

“ But I am not always paid wdth the same coin, 
Antonia,” said the count, earnestly. “ Look at 
this poem, that the King of Prussia has written 
of me. Truly, there is no flattery in it.” 

While reading, the countess’s countenance was 


FREDERICK TIIE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


81 


Perfectly clear ; not the slightest cloud was to be 
seen upon her brow. 

“ Do you not think it a good poem ? ” said she, 
indifferently. 

“Well,” said he, “I must acknowledge that 
;here was a certain fire in it that touched my 
aeart.” 

“ I find it stupid,” said she, sternly, “ There is 
but one thing in it that pleases me, and that is 
the title — '■line faut pas sHnquieter de Vavenir.'' 
The little King of Prussia has done well to choose 
this for his motto, for without it, it strikes me, 
his peace would be forever gone, for his future 
will surely be a humiliating one.” 

The count laughed. 

“ How true that is ! ” said he ; “ and a just an- 
swer to his stupid poem. Speak of something 
else.” 

He tore the paper into small pieces, which, with 
a graceful bow, he laid at the feet of the countess. 

“ A small sacrifice,” said he, “ which I bring to 
my goddess. Tread upon it, and destroy the 
king’s words with your fairy foot.” 

The countess obeyed him, laughingly. 

“ But now, count,” said she, “ we will, for a 
moment, speak of graver things. I have received 
letters from London — from our son. Poor Henry 
is in despair, and he has requested me to inter- 
cede for him. You were always very stern with 
him, my friend, therefore he fears your anger, now 
that he has been a little imprudent.” 

“Well, what is it?” said the count; “I hope 
it is no duel, for that would make me extremely 
angry.” 

“ It is nothing of that kind. His imprudence 
is of another sort. He is in want of money.” 

“ Money ! ” said the count, in amazement ; 
“Why, barely a month ago, I sent him six hun- 
dred thousand thalers. That, and what he took 
with him, three months ago, is quite a large sum, 
for it amounts to more than a million of thalers.” 

“ But, my dear husband, in England every thing 
is so dear ! and there, to move amongst and im- 
press those rich lords, he must really have more. 
It seems that our Charles Joseph has fallen in 
love with a lady whom all London worships for 
her surpassing beauty. But she, having a cold 
heart, will listen to no one. She laughs at those 
who flatter her, and will receive no presents. She 
seemed an invincible fortress, but our son, thanks 
io stratagem, has taken it.” 

“I am curious to know how,” said the count, 
laughing. 

“He played a game of ecarte with her. He 
played for notes to the amount of ten pounds, 
and, at first, Charles won, much to the displeasure 


of the proud lady, who did not relish being beaten, 
even in a game of cards. Charles, perceiving this, 
played badly. The lady won from him eighty 
thousand pounds.” 

“Eighty thousand pounds,” cried the count, 
“why, that is a half a million of thalers !” 

“And do you mean to say,” said the countess, 
angrily, “ that that is too much to gain the favor 
of a beautiful lady ? ” 

“No! it is not too much; but it is certainly 
enough. I hope, at least, it was not in vain.” 

“No, no! and London is now raving about 
the intellectual, genial, and generous sou of Count 
Briihl. I trust, count, that you instantly sent 
him a check.” 

“ Yes,” said the count, shrugging his shoulders. 
“But, countess, if the king were to hear this story, 
it would cause much evil ; for you know that he 
believes in economy ; luckily for me, he believes 
me to be an economical man. Those enemies who 
would not dare to accuse us, would have no fears 
of saying evil of our son ; he will certainly hear 
this eighty-thousand-pound story.” 

“We will tell him ourselves, but say that the 
story is much exaggerated.” 

“ What a wonderful woman you are, Antonia ! ” 
said her husband ; “ your counsel is wise ; wo will 
follow it.” 

At this moment a slight knocking was heard at 
the door, and the secretary entered with a sealed 
letter. 

“ A courier from Torgau just arrived with this 
from the commandant.” 

The count’s brow became clouded. 

“ Business ! forever business ! ” said he. “ How 
dared you annoy me with this, upon the birthday 
of my wife ? ” 

“ Pardon, your excellency ; but the courier 
brought with this packet such strange news, that 
I ventured to disturb you, to communicate — ” 

The beating of drums and the thunder of can- 
non interrupted him. 

“ The king and queen are now entering their 
carriage,” cried the count. “No more business 
to-day, my friend. It will keep till to-morrow. 
Come, Antonia, we must welcome their majesties.” 
And taking his wife’s hand, he passed out of the 
study. 


OHAPTEK XII. 

THE INTERRUPTED FEAST. 

As the Count Briihl and his wife entered the 
saloon, it almost seemed as if they were the royal 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


couple for whom all this company was waiting. 
Every one of any rank or position in Dresden was 
present. There were to be seen the gold and sil- 
ver embroidered uniforms of generals and ambas- 
sadors ; jewelled stars were sparkling upon many 
breasts ; the proudest, loveliest women of the 
court, bearing the noblest Saxon names, were 
there, accompanied by princes, counts, dukes, and 
barons, and one and all were bowing reverentially 
to the count and his wife. And now, at a sign 
from the grand chamberlain, the pages of the 
countess, clothed in garments embroidered with 
silver and pearls, approached to carry her train ; 
beside them were the count’s officers, followed by 
all the noble guests. Thus they passed through 
the third room, where the servants of the house, 
numbering upward of two hundred, were placed 
in military order, and then on until they came to 
the grand entrance, which had been turned into a 
floral temple. 

The royal equipage was at the gate ; the host 
and hostess advanced to welcome the king and 
queen, whose arrival had been announced by the 
roar of cannon. 

The king passed through the beautiful avenue, 
and greeted the company placed on either side of 
him, gayly. The queen, sparkling with diamonds, 
forcing herself also to smile, was at his side ; and 
as their majesties passed on, saying here and there 
a kind, merry word, it seemed as if the sun had 
just risen over all these noble, rich, and powerful 
guests. This was reflected upon every countenance. 

The gods had demanded from Olympus to favor 
these mortals with their presence, and to enjoy 
themselves among them. And truly, even a king 
might spend some happy hours in this delightful 
garden. 

The air was so soft and mild, so sweet from the 
odor of many flowers ; the rustling of the trees 
was accompanied by soft whispers of music that 
seemed floating like angels’ wings upon the air. 
Every countenance was sparkling with happiness 
and content, and the king could but take the flat- 
tering unction to his soul that all his subjects were 
equally as happy as the elite by which he was sur^ 
rounded. 

Pleased with this thought and delighted with all 
the arrangements for the/efe, the king gave him- 
self up to an enjoyment which, though somewhat 
clouding his character as a deity, was immensely 
gratifying to him. 

He abandoned himself to the delights of the ta- 
ble 1 He devoured with a sort of amiable aston- 
ishment the rare and choice dishes which, even to 
his experienced and pampered palate, appeared 
unfathomable mysteries ; luxuries had been pro- 


cured, not only from London and Paris, but from 
every part of the world. He delighted himself 
with the gold and purple wines, whose vintage was 
unknown to him, and whose odor intoxicated him 
more than the perfume of flowers. He requested 
the count to give the name and history of all these 
wines. 

The count obeyed in that shy, reverential man- 
ner in which he was accustomed to speak. He 
charmed him by relating the many difficulties he 
bad overcome to obtain this wine from the Cape 
of Good Hope, which had to cross the line twice 
to arrive at its highest perfection. He said that 
for two years he had been' thinking of this glo- 
riously happy day, and had had a ship upon the 
sea for the purpose of perfecting this wine. He 
bade the king notice the strangely formed fish, 
which could only be obtained from the Chinese 
sea. Then, following up the subject, he spoke of 
the peculiar and laughable customs and habits of 
the Chinese, thus causing even the proud queen 
to laugh at his humorous descriptions. 

Count Briihl was suddenly interrupted in an un- 
usual manner. 

His secretary, Willmar, approached the royal 
table, and without a word of excuse, without greet- 
ing the king, handed the count a sealed package ! 

This was such a crime against courtly etiquette 
that the count, from sheer amazement, made no 
excuses to the kmg ; he only cast a threatening 
look at the secretary. But as he encountered 
Willmar’s pale, terrified countenance, a tremor 
seized him, and he cast an eager glance upon the 
papers in his hand,, which, no doubt, contained the 
key to all this mystery. 

“ They are from the commandant at Leipsic,” 
whispered the secretary; “I entreat your excel- 
lency to read them.” 

Before the count had time, however, to open 
the dispatch, a still stranger event took place. 

The Prussian ambassador, who, upon the plea 
of illness, had declined Count Briihl’s invitation, 
suddenly appeared in the garden, accompanied by 
the four secretaries of his legation, and approached 
the royal table. Upon his countenance there was 
no sign of sickness, but rather an expression of 
great joy. 

As he neared the tent, the gay song and merry 
jest ceased. Every eye was fixed inquiringly 
upon the individual who had dared to disturb this 
fHe by his presence. The music, which had be- 
fore filled the air with joyous sounds, was now 
playing a heart-breaking air. 

Count Briihl now arose and advanced. He 
greeted the Prussian ambassador in a few cold, 
ceremonious words. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


83 


But Count Mattzahn’s only answer to this greet- 
ing was a silent bow. He then said, in a voice 
»oud enough to be heard by the king and queen : 

“ Count Briihl, as ambassador of the King of 
Prussia, I request you to demand an audience for 
me at once from the King of Saxony. I have an 
important dispatch from my king.” 

Count Briihl, struck with terror, could only gaze 
at him, he had not the strength to answer. 

But King Augustus, rising from his seat, said : 

“ The ambassador of my royal brother can ap- 
proach ; I consent to grant him this audience ; 
it is demanded in so strange a manner, it must 
surely have some important object.” 

The count entered the royal tent. 

“ Is it your majesty’s wish,” said Mattzahn, sol- 
emnly, “that all these noble guests shall be wit- 
nesses ? I am commanded by my royal master to 
demand a private audience.” 

“ Draw the curtain ! ” said the king. 

Count Briihl, with trembling fingers, drew the 
golden cord, and the heavy curtains fell to the 
ground. They were now completely separated 
from the guests. 

“And now, count,” said the king, taking his 
seat by his proud, silent queen, “ speak.” 

Bowing profoundly, Count Mattzahn drew a dis- 
patch from his pocket, and read in a loud, earnest 
voice. 

It was a manifesto from the King of Prussia, 
written by himself, and addressed to all the Eu- 
ropean courts. In it, Frederick denied being ac- 
tuated by any desire of conquest or gain, but de- 
clared that he was compelled to commence this 
war to which Austria had provoked him by her 
many and prolonged insults. 

There was a pause when the count finished read- 
ing. Upon the gentle, amiable countenance of 
the king there was now an angry look. The 
queen was indifierent, cold, and haughty; she 
seemed to have paid no attention whatever to 
Count Mattzahn, but, turning to the princess at 
her side, she asked a perfectly irrelevant ques- 
tion, which was answered in a whisper. 

Countess Briihl dared not raise her eyes ; she 
did not wish her faithless lover. Count Mattzahn, 
whose cunning political in tiagues she now perfectly 
understood, to see her pain and confusion. The 
prince-elector, well aware of the importance of 
this hour, stood at the king’s side ; behind him 
was Count Briihl, whose handsome, sparkling 
countenance was now deadly pale. 

Opposite to this agitated group, stood the Pras- 
eian ambassador, whose haughty, quiet appear- 
ance presented a marked contrast. His clear, 
piercing glance rested upon each one of them, 


and seemed to fathom every thought of their 
souls. His tall, imposing form was raised proud 
ly, and there was an expi’ession of the noblest sat- 
isfaction upon his countenance. After waiting 
some time in vain for an answer, he placed tb€ 
manifesto before the king. 

“ With your niajesty’s permission, I will now 
add a few words,” said he. 

“ Speak ! ” said the king, laconically. 

“His majesty, my royal master,” continued 
Count Mattzahn, in a loud voice, “ has commis- 
sioned me to give your majesty the most quiet- 
ing assurances, and to convince you that his 
march through Saxony has no purpose inimi- 
cal to you, but that he only uses it as a passway 
to Bohemia.” 

The king’s countenance now became dark and 
stern, even the queen lost some of her haughty 
indifference. 

“ How ? ” said the king ; “Frederick of Prussia 
does us the honor to pass through our land with- 
out permission? He intends coming to Sax- 
ony ? ” 

“ Sire,” said Mattzahn, with a slight smile, “ his 
majesty is already there ! Yesterday his army, 
divided into three columns, passed the Saxon bor- 
ders ! ” 

The king rose hastily from his seat. The queen 
was deadly pale, her lips trembled, but she re- 
mained silent, and cast a look of bitter hatred 
upon the ambassador of her enemy. 

Count Briihl was leaning against his chair, 
trembling with terror, when the king turned to him. 

“ I ask my prime minister if he knows how far 
the King of Prussia has advanced into Saxony ? ” 

“Sire, I was in perfect ignorance of this un- 
heard-of event. The King of Prussia wishes to 
surprise us in a manner worthy of the most skilful 
magician. Perhaps it is one of those April jests 
which Frederick II. is so fond of practising.” 

“ Your excellency can judge for yourself,” said 
Count Mattzahn, earnestly, “ whether the taking 
of towns and fortresses is to be considered a jest. 
For, if I am rightly informed, you have this day 
received two dispatches, informing you of my 
royal master’s line of march.” 

“How?” said the king, hastily; “you were 
aware of this, count, and I was not informed? 
You received important dispatches, and I was not 
notified of it ? ” 

“ It is true,” said the count, much embarrassed. 
“ I received two couriers. The dispatches of the 
first were handed to me the same moment your 
majesties entered my house ; I received the other 
just as Count Mattzahn arrived. I have, there 
fore, read neither.” 


FREDERICK THE GRE 

“With your majesty’s permission,” said Count 
Mattzahn, “ I will inform you of their contents.” 

“ You will be doing me a great service,” said 
the king, earnestly. 

“The first dispatch, sire, contained the news 
that his majesty the King of Prussia had taken 
without resistance the fortresses of Torgau and 
Wittenberg ! ” 

A hollow' groan escaped the king as he sank in 
his chair. The queen became paler than before. 

“ What more ? ” said the king, gloomily. 

“ The second dispatch,” continued Count Matt- 
zahn, smilingly, “informed his excellency Count 
Briihl that the King of Prussia, my noble and vic- 
torious master was pressing forward, and had also 
taken Leipsic without the slightest resistance ! ” 

“ How ! ” said the king, “ he is in Leipsic ? ” 

“ Sire, I think he was there,” said Count Matt- 
zahn, laughing ; “ for it seems that the Prussians, 
led by their king, have taken the wings of the 
morning. Frederick was in Leipsic when the 
courier left — he must now be on his way to Dres- 
den. But he has commissioned me to say that his 
motive for passing through Saxony is to see and 
request your majesty to take a neutral part in this 
war between Austria and Prussia.” 

^ “A neutral part!” said the king, angrily, 

** when my land is invaded without question or 
permission, and peace broken in this inexplicable 
manner. Have you any other message, count ? ” 

“ I have finished, sire, and humbly ask if you 
have any answer for my sovereign ? ” 

“ Tell the king, your master, that I will raise 
my voice throughout the land of Germany to com- 
plain of this unheard-of and arbitrary infringe- 
ment of the peac.e. At the throne of the German 
emperor I will demand by what right the King 
of Prussia dares to enter Saxony with his army 
and take possession of my cities. You can de- 
part, sir ; I have no further answer for his majes- 
ty!” 

The count, bowing reverentially to the king and 
queen, left the royal tent. 

Every eye was fixed upon the prime minister. 
From him alone, who was considered the soul of 
the kingdom of Saxony, help and counsel was ex- 
pected. All important questions were referred to 
him, and all were now eagerly looking for his de- 
cision. But the powerful favorite was in despair. 
He knew how utterly impossible it was to with- 
stand the King of Prussia’s army. Every arrange- 
ment for this war had been made on paper, but in 
reality little had been accomplished. The army 
was not in readiness ! The prime minister had 
been in want of a few luxuries of late, and had, 
therefore, as he ^lieved there would be no war 


lAT AND HIS FAMILY. J 

i 

until the following spring, reduced it. He knew j 
how little Saxony was prepared to battle against i 
the King of Prussia’s disciplined troops, and the |i 
ambassador’s friendly assurances did not deceive 
him. 

“Well, count,” said the king, after a long , 
pause, “how is this strange request of Frederick 
II., that we should remain neutral, to be au- | 
swered ? ” ' 

Before the count was able to answer, the queen i 
said, in a loud voice : 

“ By a declaration of, war, my husband ! This 
is due to your honor. We have been insulted ; it 
therefore becomes you to throw down the gauntlet 
to your presumptuous adversary.” 

“We will continue this conversation in my 
apartments,” said the king, rising ; “ this is no 
place for it. Our beautiful feast has been dis- 
turbed in a most brutal manner. Count Briihl, 
notify the different ambassadors that, in an hour, 

I will receive them at my palace.” 

“ This hour is mine ! ” thought the queen, as 
she arose ; “ in it I will stimulate my husband’s 
soft and gentle heart to a brave, warlike decision ; 
he will yield to my prayers and tears.” She took 
the king’s arm with a gay smile, and left the 
tent, followed by the princes, and the host and' 
hostess. 

Silently they passed the festive tables, ftora 
which the guests had risen to greet them. The 
courtiers sought to read in their countenances the 
solution of that riddle which had occupied them 
since the arrival of the Prussian ambassador, and 
about which they had been anxiously debating. 

But, upon the queen’s countenance there was 
now her general look of indifference. It is true, 
the king was not smiling as was his wont when 
amongst his subjects, but his pleasant countenance 
betrayed no fear or sorrow. The queen main- 
tained her exalted bearing ; nothing had passed to 
bow her proud head. 

After the royal guests had left. Count Briihl re- 
turned. He also had regained his usual serenity. 
With ingenious friendliness he turned to his 
guests, and while requesting them, in a flattering 
manner, to continue to grace his wife’s fete by 
their presence, demanded for himself leave of ab- 
sence. Then passing on, he whispered here and 
there a few words to the different ambassadors. 
They and the count then disappeared. 

They^fe continued quietly; the music recom- 
menced its gay, melodious sounds, the birds car- 
olled their songs, and the flowers were as beauti- 
ful and as sweet as before. The jewels of the 
courtiers sparkled as brilliantly. Their eyes alone 
were not so bright, and the happy smile bad left 


85 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


their lips. Tliey were all weighed down by a pre- 
ientiment that danger was hovering around them. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE ARCHIVES AT DRESDEN. 

Count Mattzahn’s prophecy came true. The 
King of Prussia came to Dresden, and there, as in 
every other part of Saxony, found no resistance. 
Fear and terror had gone before him, disarming 
all opposition. The king and prince-elector were 
not accustomed to have a will of their own ; and 
Count Briihl, the favorite of fortune, showed him- 
self weak and helpless in the hour of adversity. 
It needed the queen’s powerful energy, and the 
forcible representations of the French ambassador. 
Count Broglio, to arouse them from their lethargy ; 
and what Count Broglio’s representations, and the 
queen’s prayers and tears commenced, hatred fin- 
ished. Count Briihl’s sinking courage rose at the 
Ihought of the possibility of still undermining the 
King of Prussia, and putting an end to his victo- 
rious march. It was only necessary to detain him, 
to prevent him from reaching the Bohemian bor- 
ders, until the Austrian army came to their assist- 
ance, until the French troops had entered and 
taken possession of Prussia. Therefore, Count 
Briihl sent courier after courier to Saxony’s allies, 
to spread her cry for help to every friendly court. 
He then collected the army, ordered them to camp 
at Ihrna, which was very near the boundary of 
Bohemia, and, as it was guarded on one side by 
the Elbe, and on the other by high rocks, ap- 
peared perfectly secure. When these prepara- 
tions were commenced, the count’s courage rose 
considerably, and he determined to prove himself 
a hero, and to give the Saxon army the inspiring 
consciousness that, in the hour of danger, their 
king would be in their midst. 

The king therefore left for the fortress of Ko- 
nigstein, accompanied by Count Briihl, leaving the 
army, consisting of about seventeen thousand men, 
to follow under the command of General Rutrosky, 
and to encamp at the foot of Konigstein. Arrived 
at Konigstein, where they thought themselves 
perfectly secure, they gave themselves up to the 
free and careless life of former days. They had 
only changed their residence, not their character ; 
their dreams were of future victories, of the many 
provinces they would take from the King of Prus- 
«ia ; and with this delightful prospect the old gay, 
luxurious, and wanton life was continued. What 
diflference did it make to Count Briihl that the 


army was only provided with commissary stores 
for fourteen days, and that this time was almost 
past, and no way had been found to furnish them 
with additional supplies. The King of Prussia 
had garrisoned every outlet, and only the King 
of Saxony’s forage-wagon was allowed to pass. 

Frederick knew better than the Saxon generals 
the fearful, invincible enemy that was marching 
to the camp of Pirna. What were the barricades, 
the palisades, and ambushes, by which the camp 
was surrounded, to this enemy ? This foe was in 
the camp, not outside of it — he had no need to 
climb the barricades — ^he came hither flying 
through the air, breathing, like a gloomy bird of 
death, his horrible cries of woe. This enemy was 
hunger — enervating, discouraging, demoralizing 
hunger ! 

The fourteeil days had expired, and in the camp 
of Pirna languished seventeen thousand men! 
The bread rations became smaller and smaller; 
but the third part of the usual meat ration was 
given; the horses’ food also was considerably 
shortened. Sorrow and starvation reigned in the 
camp. Why should this distress Count Briihl ? 
He lived in his usual luxurious splendor, with 
the king. Looking out from his handsome 
apartments upon the valley lying at his feet, he 
saw on a little meadow by which the Elbe was 
flowing, herds of cows and calves, sheep and 
beeves, which were there to die, like the Saxon 
soldiers, for their king. These herds were for the 
royal table ; there was, therefore, no danger that 
the enemy visiting the army should find its way 
to the fortress. It was also forbidden, upon pain 
of death, to force one of these animals intended 
for the royal table, from their noble calling, and 
to satisfy therewith the hungry soldiers. Count 
Briihl could therefore wait patiently the arrival of 
the Austrian army, which was already in motion, 
under the command of General Brown. 

While the King of Poland was living gay and 
joyous in the fortress of Konigstein, the queen 
with the princes of the royal house had remained 
in Dresden ; and though she knew her husband’s 
irresolute character, and knew that the King of 
Prussia, counting upon this, was corresponding 
with him, endeavoring to persuade him to neutrali- 
ty, still she had no fears of her husband succumb- 
ing to his entreaties. For was not Count Briihl, 
the bitter, irreconcilable enemy of Prussia, at his 
side ? — and had not the king said to her, in a 
solemn manner, before leaving : Better that every 
misfortune come upon us than to take the part of 
our enemies 1 ” The queen, therefore, felt pen 
fectly safe upon this point. She remained in Dres* 
den for two reasons : first, to ^^ch the King o1 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Prussia, and then to guard the archives— those 
archives which contained the most precious treas- 
ures of Saxon diplomacy — the most important 
secrets of their allies These papers were prized 
more highly by the queen than all the crown- 
jewels now l}'ing in their silver casket ; and though 
the keeping of the latter was given over to some 
one else, no one seemed brave enough to shield the 
former. No one but herself should guard these rich 
treasures. The state archives were placed in those 
rooms of the palace which had but one outlet, and 
that leading into one of the queen’s apartments. 
In this room she remained — she took her meals, 
worked, and slept there — there she received the 
princes and the foreign ambassadors — always 
guarding the secret door, of which she carried the 
key fastened to a gold chain around her neck. 
But still the queen was continually in fear her 
treasure would be tom from her, and the King of 
Prussia’s seeming friendliness was not calculated 
to drive away this anxiety. It is true the king had 
sent her his compliments by Marshal Keith, with 
the most friendly assurances of his aifection, but 
notwithstanding this, the chancery, the colleges, 
and the mint department had been closed ; all the 
artillery and ammunition had been taken from the 
Dresden arsenal and carried to Magdeburg ; some 
of the oldest and worthiest officers of the crown 
had been dismissed; and the Swiss guard, in- 
tended for service in the palace, had been dis- 
armed. All this agreed but badly with the king’s 
quieting assurances, and was calculated to in- 
crease the hatred of his proud enemy. She had, 
nevertheless, stifled her anger so far as to invite 
the King of Prussia, who was staying in the pal- 
ace of the Countess Morizinska, not far from his 
army, to her table. 

Frederick had declined this invitation. He re- 
mained quietly in the palace, whose doors were 
open to all, giving audience to all who desired it, 
listening to their prayers and granting their 
wishes. 

The Queen of Poland heard this with bitter an- 
ger; and the more gracious the King of Prussia 
showed himself to the Saxons, the more furious 
and enraged became the heart of this princess. 

“He will turn our people from their true ruler,” 
said she to Countess Ogliva, her first maid of 
honor, who was sitting at her side upon a divan 
placed before the princess’s door. “This hypo- 
critical affability will only serve to gain the 
favor of our subjects, and turn them from their 
duty.” 

“ It has succeeded pretty well,” said the count- 
ess, sighing. “The Saxon nobility ate continu- 
ally in the anteghamber of this heretical king ; 


and yesterday several of the city authorities, ao \ 
companied by the foreign ambassadors, waited | 
upon him, and he received them.” 1 

“ Yes, he receives every one ; he gives gay balls 
every evening, at which he laughs and jokes mer- , j 
rily. He keeps-open house, and the poor people | 
assemble there in crowds to see him eat.” Maria 
Josephine sighed deeply. “ I hate this miserable, 
changeable people ! ” murmured she. 

“ And your majesty does well,” said the count 
ess, whose wrinkled, yellow countenance was now 
illuminated by a strange fire. “The anger of 
God will rest upon this heretical nation that has 
turned from her salvation, and left the holy 
mother church in haughty defiance. The King 
of Poland cannot • even appoint true Catholic- 
Christians as his officers — every position of any 
importance is occupied by heretics. But the del- 
uge will surely come again upon this sinful peo- 
ple and destroy them.” 

The queen crossed herself, and prayed in a low 
voice. 

The countess continued : “This Frederick stim- 
ulates these heretical Saxons in their wicked un- 
belief. He, who it is well known, laughs and 
mocks at every religion, even his own — attended, 
yesterday, the Protestant church, to show our peo-^ 
pie that he is a protector of that church.” 

“ Woe, woe to him! ” said the queen. 

“ With listening ear he attended to his so-called 
preacher’s sermon, and then loudly expressed his 
approval of it, well knowing that this preacher is 
a favorite of heretics in Dresden. This cunning 
king wished to give them another proof of his fa- 
vor. Does your majesty wish to know of the 
present he made this preacher ? ” 

“What?” said the queen, with a mocking# 
laugh. “ Perhaps a Bible, with the marginal ob- 
servations of his profligate friends, Voltaire and 
La Mettrie ? ” 

“No, your majesty; the king sent this learned 
preacher a dozen bottles of champagne 1 ” 

“ He is a blasphemous scoffer, even with that 
which he declares holy. But punishment will 
overtake him. Already the voice of my exalted 
nephew, the Emperor of Germany, is to be heard 
throughout the entire land, commanding the King 
of Prussia to return at once to his own kingdom, 
and to make apologies to the King of Poland for 
his late insults. It is possible that, in his haughty 
pride, Frederick will take no notice of this com- 
mand. But it will be otherwise with the generals 
and commandants of this usurper. They have 
been commanded by the emperor to leave their 
impious master, and not to be the sharers of his 
frightful crime.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AKD HIS TAMIL y. 


“ I fear,” said Countess Ogliva, sighing, and 
raising her eyes heavenward — “I fear they will 
not listen to the voice of our good emperor.” 

“ But they will hear the voice of his cannon,” 
cried the queen, impetuously ; “ the thunder of 
our artillery and the anger of God will annihi- 
late them, and they will fall to the ground as if 
struck by lightning before the swords blessed by 
our holy priests;” 

The door of the antechamber was at this mo- 
ment opened violently, and the queen’s chamber- 
lain appeared upon its threshold. 

“ Your majesty, a messenger from the King of 
Prussia requests an audience,” said he. 

The queen’s brow became clouded, and she 
blushed with anger. “ Tell this messenger that I 
am not in a condition to receive his visit, and 
that he must therefore impart to you his mes- 
sage.” 

“ It is, no doubt, another of his hypocritical, 
friendly assurances,” said the queen, as the cham- 
berlain left. “ He has, no doubt, some evil de- 
sign, and wishes to soothe us before he strikes.” 

The chamberlain returned, but his countenance 
was now white with terror. 

“Well!” said the queen, “what is this mes- 
sage ? ” 

“Ah, your majesty,” stammered the trembling 
courtier, “ my lips would not dare to repeat it ; 
and I could never find the courage to tell you 
what he demands.” 

“ What he demands I ” repeated the queen ; 
“has it come to that, that a foreign prince com- 
mands in our land ? Go, countess, and in my 
name, fully empowered by me, receive this King 
of Pi'ussia’s message ; then return, and dare not 
keep the truth from me.” 

Countess Ogliva and the chamberlain left the 
royal apartment, and Maria Josephine was alone. 
And now, there was no necessity of guarding this 
mask of proud quietude and security. Alone, 
with her own heart, the queen’s woman nature 
conquered. She did not now force back the 
tears which streamed from her eyes, nor did she 
repress the sighs that oppressed her heart. She 
wept, and groaned, and trembled. But hearing a 
step in the antechamber, she dried her eyes, and 
again put on the proud mask of her royalty. It was 
the countess returning. Slowly and silently she 
passed through the apartmeut. Upon her color- 
less countenance there was a dark, angry expres- 
sion, and a scoffing smile played about her thin, 
pale lips. 

“The King of Prussia,” said she, in a low, 
whispering voice, as she reached the queen, “ de- 

ands that the key to the state archives be deliv- 


87 

cred at once to his messenger. Major von Van* 
genheim.” 

The queen raised herself proudly from her seat. 

“Say to this Major von Vangenheim, that he 
will never receive this key ! ” said she, command 
ingly. 

The countess bowed, and left the room. 

“ He has left,” said she, when she returned to 
the queen ; “ though he said that he or another 
would return.” 

“ Let us now consult as to what is to be done,” 
said the queen. “Send for Father Guarini, so 
that we may receive his advice.” 

Thanks to the queen’s consultation with her 
confe*ssor and her maid of honor, the King of 
Prussia’s messenger, when he returned, was not 
denied an audience. This time, it was not Major 
von Vangenheim, but General von Wylich, the 
Prussian commandant at Dresden, whom Freder- 
ick sent. 

Maria Josephine received him in the room next 
to the archives, sitting upon a divan, near to the 
momentous door. She listened with a careless 
indifference, as he again demanded, in the king’s 
name, the key to the state archives. 

The queen turned to her maid of honor. 

“ How is it that you are so negligeut, countess ? ” 
said she ; “ did I not tell you to answer to the 
messenger of the king, that I would give this key, 
which is the property of the Prince-Elector of 
Saxony, and which he intrusted to me, to no one 
but my husband ? ” 

“I had the honor to fulfil your majesty’s com- 
mand,” said the countess, re'spectfully. 

“How is it, then,” said she, turning to General 
von Wylich, “that you dare to come again with 
this request, which I have already answered ? ” 

“ Oh, may your majesty graciously pardon me,’* 
cried the general, deeply moved; “ but his majes- 
ty, my king and master, has given me the sternest 
commands to get the key, and bring him the 
papers. I am therefore under the sad necessity to 
beseech your majesty to agree to my master’s will.” 

“ Never 1 ” said the queen, proudly. “ That door 
shall never be opened ; you shall never enter it.” 

“ Be merciful. I dare not leave here without 
fulfilling my master’s commands. Have pity on 
my despair, your majesty, and give me the key to 
that door.” 

“ Listen ! I shall not give you the key,” said 
the queen, white and trembling with anger ; “ and 
if you open the door by force, I will cover it with 
ray body ; and now, sir, if you wish to murder the 
Queen of Poland, open the door.” And raising 
her proud, imposing form, the queen placed her 
self before the door. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Mercy ! mercy ! queen,” cried the general ; do 
not force me to do something terrible; do not 
make me guilty of a crime against your sacred 
royalty. I dare not return to my King without 
these papers. I therefore implore your majesty 
humbly, upon my knees, to deliver this key to 
me.” 

He fell upon his knees before the queen, hum- 
bly supplicating her to repent her decision. 

“ I will not give it to you,” said she, with a 
triumphant smile. “ I do not move from this 
door ; it shall not be opened.” 

General Wylich rose from his lowly position. 
He was pale, but there was a resolute expression 
upon his countenance. Looking upon it, you 
could not but see that he was about to do some- 
thing extremely painful to his feelings. 

“ Queen of Poland,” said he, in a loud, firm 
voice, “I am commanded by my king to bring 
to him the state archives. Below, at the castle 
gate, wagons are in attendance to receive therp ; 
they are accompanied by a detachment of Prus- 
sian soldiers. I have only to open that window, 
sign to them, and they are here. In the ante- 
chamber are the four officers who came with me ; 
by opening the door, they will be at my side.” 

“ What do you mean by this ? ” said the queen, 
in a faltering voice, moving slightly from the door. 

“ I mean, that at any price, I must enter that 
room. If the key is not given to me, I will call 
upon my soldiers to break down the door; as 
they have learned to tear down the walls of a for- 
tress, it will be an easy task ; that if the Queen 
of Poland does not value her high position suffi- 
ciently to guard herself against any attack, I will 
be compelled to lay hands upon a royal princess, 
and lead her by force from that door, which my 
soldiers must open ! But, once more, I bend my 
knee, and implore your majesty to preserve me 
from this crime, and to have mercy on me.” 

And again he fell upon his knees supplicating 
for pity. 

“ Be merciful ! be merciful ! ” cried the queen’s 
confessor and the Countess Ogliva, who both knew 
that General Wylich would do all that he had said, 
and had both fallen on their knees, adding their 
entreaties to his. “Tour majesty has done all 
that human power can do. It is now time to 
guard your holy form from insult. Have mercy 
on your threatened royalty.” 

“No, no!” murmured the queen, “I cannot! 
I cannot ! Death would be sweet in comparisoii 
to this humiliating defeat.” 

The queen’s confessor. Father Guarini, now rose 
from his knees, and, approaching the queen, he 
said, in a solemn, commanding voice : 


“ My daughter, by virtue of my profession, as s 
servant of the holy mother church, tp whom if» 
due obedience and trust, I command you to dr 
liver up to this man the key of this door.” 

The queen’s 'head fell upon her breast, and hol- 
low, convulsive groans escaped her. Then, with 
a hasty movement, she severed the key from her 
chain. 

“ I obey you, my father,” said she. “ There is 
the key, general ; this room can now be entered.” 

General Wylich took the key, kissing reveren- 
tially the hand that gave it to him. He then said 
to her, in a voice full of emotion : 

“ I have but this last favor to ask of your ma- 
jesty, that you will now leave this room, so that 
my soldiers may enter it.” 

Without answering, the queen, accompanied by 
her confessor and maid of honor, left the apart* 
ment. 

“ And now,” said the queen to Countess Ogliva, 
as she entered her reception-room, “ send messen- 
gers at once to all the foreign ambassadors, and 
tell them I command their presence.” 


CHAPTER XIY. 

SAXONY HUMILIATED. 

A HALF an hour later the ambassadors of France, 
Austria, Holland, Russia, and Sweden, were as- 
sembled in the queen’s reception-room. The 
queen was there, pale, and trembling with anger. 
With the proud pathos of misfortune, and hu- 
miliated royalty, she apprised them of the re- 
peated insults she had endured, and commanded 
them to write at once to their different courts, im- 
ploring their rulers to send aid to her sorely 
threatened kingdom. 

“And if these princes,” said she, impetuously, 
“ help us to battle against this usurper, in defend- 
ing us they will be defending their own rights and 
honor. For my cause is now the cause of all 
kings ; for if my crown falls, the foundation of 
their thrones will also give way. For this little 
Margrave of Brandenburg, who calls himself King 
of Prussia, will annihilate us all if we do not ruin 
him in advance. I, for my part, swear him a per- 
petual resistance, a perpetual enmity ! I will per- 
ish willingly in this fight if only my insults are re- 
venged and my honor remains untarnished. Hast- 
en, therefore, to acquaint your courts with all 
that has occurred here.” 

“ I will be the first to obey your majesty,” said 
the French ambassador, Count Broglio, approach 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


89 


big the queen. “I will repeat your words to my 
exalted master ; I will portray to your majesty’s 
lovely daughter, the Dauphine of France, the suf- 
ferings her royal mother has endured, and I know 
she will strain every nerve to send you aid. With 
your gracious permission, I will now take my 
leave, for to-day I start for Paris.” 

“To Paris!” cried the queen; “would you 
leave my court in the hour of misfortune ? ” 

“ I would be the last to do this, unless forced by 
necessity,” said the count ; “ but the King of 
Prussia has just dismissed me, and sent me my 
passport I ” 

“Your passport ! dismissed you ! ” repeated the 
I queen. “ Have I heard aright ? Do you speak 
j of the King of Prussia ? Has he then made him- 
self King of Saxony ? ” 

Q Before any one had time to answer the queen’s 
painful questions, the door was opened, and the 
king’s ministers entered ; beside them was to be 
seen the pale, terrified countenance of Count 
: Leuke, the king’s chamberlain. 

' Slowly and silently these gentlemen passed 
through the room and approached the queen. 

“ We have come,” said Count Hoymb, bowing 
I lowly, “ to take leave of your majesty.” 

The queen fell slightly back, and gazed in ter- 
ror at the four ministers standing before her with 
I bowed heads. 

I “ Has the king, my husband, sent for you ? 
i Are you come to take leave of me before starting 
■ to Konigstein ? ” 

i “ No, your majesty ; we come because we have 
; been dismissed from our offices by the King of 
Prussia.” 

The queen did not answer, but gazed wildly at 
the sad countenances about her ; and now she fixed 
a searching glance upon the royal chamberlain. 

“Well, and you?” said she. “Have you a 
message for me from my husband ? Are you from 
Konigstein ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, I come from Konigstein. 
But I am not a bearer of pleasant news. 1 am 
: Bent to Dresden by the King of Poland to request 
of the King of Prussia passports for himself and 
' Count Brlihl. The king wishes to visit Warsaw, 
and is therefore desirous of obtaining these 
passports.” 

“ Ah I ” said the queen, sighing, “ to think that 
ity husband requires permission to travel in his 
own kingdom, and that he must receive it from 
our enemy ! Well, have you obeyed the king’s 
command. Count Leuke ? Have you been to the 
King of Prussia and received the passports ? ” 

“I was with the King of Prussia,” said the 
count, in a faltering voice. 


“ Well, what more ? ” 

“ He refused me ! He does not give his consent 
to this visit.” 

“ Listen, listen !” said the queen, wildly ; “ hear 
the fresh insult thrown at our crown 1 Can God 
hear this and not send His lightning to destroy this 
heretical tyrant ? Ah, I will raise my voice ; it 
shall be a cry of woe and lamentation, and shall 
resound throughout all Europe; it shall reach 
every throne, and every one shall hear my voice 
calling out: ‘Woe! woe! woe to us all; our 
thrones are tottering, they will surely fall if we do 
not ruin this evil-doer who threatens us all ! ’ ” 

With a fearful groan, the queen fell fainting into 
the arms of Countess Ogliva. But the sorrows 
and humiliations of this day were not the only 
ones experienced by Maria Josephine from her 
vietorious enemy. 

It is true her cry for help resounded throughout 
Europe. Preparations for war were made in many 
places, but her allies were not able to prevent the 
fearful blow that was to be the ruin of Saxony. 
Though the Dauphine of France, daughter of the 
wretched Maria Josephine, and the mother of the 
unfortunate King of France, Louis XVI., threw 
herself at the feet of Louis XV., imploring for help 
for her mother’s tottering kingdom, the French 
troops came too late to prevent this disaster. Even 
though Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, and 
niece to the Queen of Saxony, as her array were in 
want of horses, gave up all her own to carry the 
cannon. The Austrian cannon was of as little 
help to Saxony as the French troops. 

Starvation was a more powerful ally to Prussia 
than Austria, France, Russia, and Sweden were to 
Saxony, for in the Saxon camp also a cry of woe 
resounded. 

It was hunger that compelled the brave Saxon 
General Rutrosky to capitulate. It was the same 
cause that forced the King of Saxony to bind him- 
self to the fearful stipulations which the victorious 
King of Prussia, after having tried in vain for 
many years to gain an ally in Saxony, made. 

In the valley of Lilienstein the first of that 
great drama, whose scenes are engraved in blood 
in the book of history, was performed, and for 
whose further developments many sad, long years 
were necessary. 

In the valley of Lilienstein the Saxon army, 
compeUed to it by actual starvation, gave up their 
arms ; and as these true, brave soldiers, weeping 
over their humiliation, with one hand laid down 
their weapons, the other was extended toward 
their enemies for bread ! 

Lamentation and despair reigned in the camp at 
Lilienstein, and there, at a window of the castle 


90 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AlID HIS FAMILY. 


of Konigstein, stood the Prince-Elector of Saxony, 
with his favorite Count Briihl, witnesses to their 
misery. 

After these fearful humiliations, by which Fred- 
erick punished the Saxons for their many in- 
trigues, by which he revenged himself for their 
obstinate enmity, their proud superiority — after 
these humiliations, after their complete defeat, the 
King of Prussia was no longer opposed to the 
King of Saxony’s journey. He sent him the desired 
.passports ; he even extended their number, and 
not only sent one to the king and to Count Briihl, 
but also to the Countess Briihl, with the express 
command to accompany her husband. He also 
sent a pass to Countess Ogliva, compelling this 
bigoted woman to leave her mistress. 

And when the queen again raised her cry of 
woe, to call her allies tf her aid, the King of 


Prussia answered her with the victorious thunder 
of the battle of Losovitz, the first battle fought in 
this war, and in which the Prussians, led by their 
king, performed wonders of bravery, and defeated 
for the third time the tremendous Austrian army, 
under the command of General Brown. 

“Never,” says Frederick, “since I have had 
the honor to command the Prussian troops, have 
they performed such deeds of daring as to-day.” 

The Austrians, in viewing these deeds, cried 
out : 

“ We have found again the old Prussians ! ” 

And still they fought so bravely, that the Prus- 
sians remarked in amazement : 

“ These cannot be the same Austrians ! ” 

This was the first act of that great drama 
enacted by the European nations, and of which 
King Frederick II. was the hero. 


BOOK III 



^ ’ CHAPTER I. 

Icr. I • 

‘ TEE MAIDEN OP BRUNEN. 


The sun was just setting, throwing its crimson 
glow upon the waters of the Rhine, which ap- 
peared to flow like a river of blood between the 
green meadows on either side of it. 

From the littl§ village of Briinen, whose red 
chimneys were visible above a group of oak and 
beech trees, the sound of the evening bell was 
heard, reminding the pious peasants, engaged in 
cutting and gamering their golden corn, of the 
hour for devotion. 

With the sweet sounds of the bell mingled the 
joyous mountain ^odel of the cowherd, who had 
just descended the little hill yonder, with his herd 
straying here and there in picturesque confusion. 
Upon the green meadow in the foreground, the 
flocks of the village were pasturing, strictly guard- 
ed by a large white dog, whose stern, martial 
glance not the slightest movement among his army 
contrary to discipline, escaped. As soon as one of 
the sheep committed to his care left the fold- and 
approached the field where the reapers were mow- 
ing the corn, which was bound at once in sheaves 
by busy maidens, the stern Phylax barking, growl- 
ing, and snarling, rushed after the audacious wan- 
derer who sought to appease the anger of his in- 
exorable overseer by a speedy return. 

The old shepherd, sitting not far off upon a lit- 
tle wooden stool, with his long, silver hair falling 
about him, was engaged in weaving a graceful 
basket of some meadow roots ; at every bark of 
his Phylax he looked up and smiled his approval 
at his faithful steward ; occasionally he gazed 
across the meadow at the reapers and busy maid- 
ens, then there came upon his venerable old coun- 
tenance an expression of great interest. 

And well he might be pleased with what he saw 


there ; for that tall, sturdy youth, standing in the 
wagon, waiting with outstretched arms to catch 
the sheaves whieh are skilfully thrown him ; that 
youth with the bright rosy face, the sparkling eye, 
the full red lip, upon which there is always a 
merry smile, the ivory white teeth — ^that youth is 
his beloved son, Charles Henry. And yonder 
maiden, not far from the wagon, binding up the 
corn, in whose tall, proud form, in spite of her 
plain peasant-gown, there is something imposing ; 
that maiden with the youthful, blooming, lovely 
face, is his son’s betrothed ; whom all in the village 
called the beautiful Anna Sophia, and for whose 
love Charles Henry was envied by all the village 
boys. It is true she was a penniless orphan, but 
in her busy, industrious hands there was a better 
and surer treasure than in a purse of gold, and her 
ability and goodness would be a much better dow- 
ry to her husband ; for Anna Sophia Detzloff could 
do almost every thing, and the villagers knew not 
whether to respect her more for her great knowl- 
edge, or love her more for her kind, good heart. 
Anna could read and write like a school-teacher. 
She wrote every letter which the women of the 
village sent to their sons and husbands, now far 
away with the King of Prussia’s array, and read 
to them the answers ; and in so beautiful and win- 
ning a manner did she read them, that to the happy 
women it almost seemed as . if they were hearing 
the voices of their loved ones. But, notwithstand- 
ing her learning, she was well versed in every sort 
of work that beseemed a w'oman. None in the 
village could prepare more delightful dishes than 
she ; no one could equal her beautiful, rapid sew- 
ing and knitting. Anna Sophia learned all these 
things from her mother, who had lived and 
worked for many long years in Briinen. Her 
father had been the village school-teacher, and it 
was owing to his diligence and activity that the 
women could now receive letters from their sons 


92 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


and husbands. He had taught the boys to read 
and write ; and though the girls did not learn, the 
example of his daughter showed that it was not 
owing to inability, but for a want of time and de- 
sire. From her mother, Anna had learned aU her 
womanly duties. She had taught her to be amia- 
ble, ready with help for all, kind and sympathet- 
ic, and to strive by her good deeds to gain the 
love of her fellow-creatures. 

A joyous family had lived in the little village 
school-house ; though they had poverty jxd want 
to fight against, these three happy human be- 
ings did not consider this a misfortune, but a 
necessary evil of life. They loved each other, 
and when the parents looked upon the lovely, rosy 
countenance of their only child, they did not per- 
ceive that their bread was hard and heavy, they 
did not miss the butter and cheese without which 
the rich villagers seldom took a meal. And when, 
on Sundays, Anna went with her parents to church, 
in the faded red skirt, neat white body, and black 
bodice, which had been her mother’s wedding- 
dress, she heard the boys whisper amongst them- 
’eelves about her beauty and sweetness, and cast- 
ing her eyes down with timid blushes she did not 
perceive the jeering smiles of the other girls who, 
though not as pretty, were proud that they were 
licher and better dressed than the school-teacher’s 
daughter. 

But Death, in his inexorable manner, had dis- 
turbed this modest happiness. In a year he took 
the schoolmaster DetzloJff and his wife from the 
little house which, to any one else, would have ap- 
peared a pitiful hut, but which, to them, seemed a 
paradise. In one year Anna became an orphan ; 
she was entirely alone in the world, and, after she 
had given to her dear departed ones the tribute 
of her sorrows and tears, she had to arouse her- 
self and create a new future. After death only, 
the villagers became aware of the great worth 
of the departed, they now admitted to the full 
the school-teacher’s merits, and were anxious to 
pay to the daughter the debt owing to the 
father. As he had died partly from starvation, 
sorrow, and work, they wished to prove them- 
selves generous to his daughter, and preserve her 
from the want and misery which had caused the 
death of her parents. 

But Anna Sophia would be dependent on no one. 
To those who came in the name of the villagers 
to notify her that she would receive from them a 
monthly allowance, she showed her able hands, 
her brown, muscular arms, and, raising her spark- 
ling eyes proudly to the new school-teacher, she 
said : 

“ From these alone will I 


shall give me food and clothing ; on them alone 
will I be dependent.” She then went to seek 
work. The rich burgher of the village would 
gladly have taken so smart and industrious a girl 
into his house and paid her handsomely for her 
services. But Anna Sophia declared proudly 
that, though she was willing to work, she would 
be no slave ; that she would sell her hands, but 
not her freedom. 

Another house had been built and furnished for 
the school-teacher, because there was danger of 
the old one, in which the Detzlofif family had lived, 
falling to pieces. 

Anna- Sophia, by the sale of some of the furni- 
ture, had bought the old, dilapidated hut for her- 
self. And there, in her hours of leisure, she lived 
over the happy past. There she felt that she was 
still with her pai-ents, and not alone and orphaned. 
In the morning, before leaving her home to go at 
her daily work, she entered the little garden at 
the back of the hut, where in the arbor, laden with 
dark-red blossoms, were the three chairs her father 
had woven in his idle moments, and the roughly- 
hewn deal table made by his axe. She took her 
seat for a moment upon the chair standing in the 
centre, and laid one hand upon the one to either 
side of her. Thus she had sat in the past, with 
her hands clasped in those of her parents. The 
Rhine flowed on as melodiously as before in the 
dim distance, the trees were as green, the flowers 
and blossoms as sweet, the sky as blue. There 
was no change ; all around her was as in former 
days, except these empty chairs. But Anna had 
only to close her eyes to see the beloved forms of 
her departed parents, to feel the pressure of their 
hands, and to hear them addressing her, in tones 
which love alone could have uttered, love alone 
understood. Then saying aloud, “Good-morning, 
mother ! Good-morning, father ! ” she rose, with 
closed eyes, from her seat, and hastened from 
the arbor with the pleasant thought that she was 
followed by the loving gaze of her parents. She 
did not turn once, for then she would have seen 
that the arbor was empty, and she wished to pre- 
serve the sweet delusion to be the brighter and 
happier at her day’s work. When, during the 
day, she saw the burgher’s wife surrounded by her 
blooming daughters, she would say to herself: “I 
also have a father and mother at home, and they 
await me ! ” Then, when her day’s work was fin- 
ished, she hastened with a flying step to her home, 
whose solemn stillness resounded for her with the 
dear-loved voices of the past. Opening the bed- 
room of her parents, she cried : “ Good-night, 
mother! Good-night, father I ” Then sbe climbed 
up to her little attic, which had been her father’s 


receive help; they 


93 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


favorite room, and which, when she was with him, 
he had called a little spot of Eden. There stood 
tiis writing-table, and above it the book-case, which 
held her most precious treasures, her father’s li- 
brary. From the window the Rhine could be 
seen meandering along the smooth green meadows, 
finally losing itself between the distant hills. 

Her father had left her this blessed little spet, 
and hither she fled when her heavy day’s work 
was over. There of an evening she stood, gazing 
thoughtfully out into the darkening twilight, and 
there daily she greeted the rising sun, repeating 
aloud her morning prayer. Then with eager 
hands she took from the book-case one of the large 
folios. From these books Anna Sophia drew all 
ber knowledge. And when, during the long win- 
ter evenings, the village girls were busy spinning, 
she would tell them the stories she had read, no 
hand was idle, no eye drooping. She was looked 
upon as the guardian angel of the village ; she 
knew some remedy, some alleviation for every ill- 
ness, every pain. In a sick-room, she was all 
that a nurse should be, kind, loving, patient, and 
gentle. She was beloved by all, and all the vil- 
lage boys sought to gain her hand. For a long 
time she would listen to none of them, and flew in 
terror from those who broached the subject. 

How the youngest son of the old shepherd Busch- 
man had finally won her heart, she did not her- 
self know. It is true, he was the handsomest, 
best-made boy in the village, but it was not for 
this that she loved him ; for she had known him 
long ago, and had been perfectly indifferent to 
him, until within the last few weeks. Why was 
it ? Because he loved her so dearly, and had told 
her he would die if she did not listen to him. 
Many others had done and said the same thing, 
but it had never moved her sensibilities, nor had 
their threats terrified her. AVhat, then, had won 
her cold, proud heart ? 

The old shepherd had been the occasion of 
their frequently meeting each other. For some 
weeks she had been in the habit, when her day’s 
work was over, of reading to him the daily paper, 
which the good-hearted burgher always sent to the 
old man, who had six sons in the king’s array ; 
he had given iiis country six soldiers. Kneeling 
by his side upon the meadow, Anna Sophia would 
first read to him, and then talk over the events of 
the war, and prophesy many a glorious victory. 
And then, Charles Hei\ry, who worked on the 
same farm with Anna, joined them, speaking en- 
thusiastically of the great, heroic king. In their 
inspired love for their great sovereign, their hearts 
had first met ; he seemed to her a hero, because 
ue had six brothers in Frederick’s army ; she saw 
1 


lauiels upon his brow, won by his brothers upon 
the battle-field. She loved him for his brothers 
sake, and she was proud of being the bride of hiro 
of whom it was said, when he passed : “ It is the 
old man s dearest child— God preserve him to hia 
father, whose only prop he is ! ” The old shepherd 
was thinking of all this, as he sat in the midst of 
..diis flock upon the green meadow, gazing tow'ard 
the corn-field in which Anna Sophia and his sou 
were at work. 

“ God be praised ! ” murmured the old man ; 
“ that is the last sheaf ; Anna will soon be with 
me.” 

At last, the happy moment had come. The old 
shepherd folded his hands, and a silent prayer 
arose from his heart for his absent sons. He 
then rose from his lowly seat, and whistled to his 
faithful Phylax to follow. The flock arrived at 
the village, and were driven by the dog into the 
sheep-pen, from which was heard the tremulous 
bleating of the lambs, who were rejoicing over 
their dams’ arrival. Father Buschman waited 
impatiently until the last sheep had entered, and 
then hastened toward the large farm-house to the 
left of the pen. 

Anna Sophia was just leaving the house, paper 
in hand, and advanced, with a cheerful smile, to 
meet him. 

“ Father,” said she, “ I have the paper, and we 
are the first to read it. The good burgher and his 
wife are in the country, and the overseer allowed 
me to take it. But, hear, father, he says he 
glanced over it hastily, and saw something about 
a Prussian victory.” 

The old shepherd’s face sparkled with joy, and 
he sought to draw Anna away with him. 

“ Come, come, my child,” said he, “ to my house, 
where it is still and quiet ; there we will read of 
our king’s victories.” 

But Anna shook her beautiful head. 

“ No, father,” said she, “ it would not be right 
to read the paper alone to-day. The king’s vic- 
tories belong to his people — to each one of hia 
subjects ; and every heart will beat more proudly 
when it hears of them, and thank God that He 
has blessed the weapons of their king. It is not 
for us to keep this joy from our men and women. 
Charles Henry, with the overseer’s permission, 
has already assembled the villagers upon the open 
space under the beech-trees. See ! all are hast- 
ening with their work. Come, father, we mus* 
read to our neighbors and friends our king’s vic- 
tories. A victory belongs to the whole village, 
but should there ever be news of a lost battle, 
then, father, we will read it to ourselves.” 

“ God forbid that this should come to pass ! ’ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Raid tbe old man, following Anna to tbe place of 
general meeting. 


CHAPTER II. 

NEWS OP BATTLK. 

The inhabitants of tbe village had already as- 
sembled on tbe square, under tbe great linden ; 
and as old Buscbman now approached, support- 
ed by Anna Sophia’s arm, they were joyfully 
greeted. 

Anna waved the paper like a white flag in the 
air, and, hastening the old man forward impa- 
tiently, she exclaimed ; 

“ Our king has won a battle ! ” 

Shouts of triumph were the result. 

Did he whip the French, or the Austrians ? ” 
asked one of the peasants, as he drew close tc 
Anna, and tried to seize the paper. 

Anna drew it back hastily. 

“ The steward sent it to me, to read to the com- 
munity, and I shall do so.” 

“ Tell us, Anna,” said another, “ has he beaten 
the Russians or the cunning Saxons ? I wish he 
could trample them all under foot.” 

“ He will, if he has not yet done so,” cried old 
Buscbman. “ Children, our king will conquer all 
his enemies ; he is a hero, and has only brave fel- 
lows to fight for him. Just think of the thirty 
noble boys that our village alone gave him ! ” 

“ Read, Anna, read!” cried the curious crowd. 
And Anna, ready to please them, walked under 
the linden, and stepped upon the wooden bench 
that surrounded the tree. 

Father Busehman placed himself at her feet, 
and several old men and women followed his ex- 
ample. The young people gathered around in 
groups, and gazed respectfully at the youthful 
girl, whose bright, beautiful face glowed as if 
lighted by the evening sun. The little boys, who 
had followed their parents from curiosity, were 
amusing themselves in turning somersets. 

Anna now raised her voice and began to read 
in a bright tone. It was a brilliant and inspiring 
account of the battle of Losovitz, and Anna read 
it in breathless haste and burning cheeks. As she 
read how the Prussians were at first defeated by 
the powerful army of the Austrians under General 
Brown, whose terrific artillery sent death and ruin 
Into the Prussian ranks, the women sobbed softly, 
and the men could hardly suppress their sighs. 
They breathed more freely when they heard that 
the king, adopting a new expedient, advanced a 
part of his cavalry into the centre of his weak- 


ened infantry, and thus turned the tide of battle 
Their courage failed on hearing that this advam 
tage was soon lost ; the enemy still advanced in 
unbroken columns, and almost forced the Pru^ 
slans to retreat. The left wing of infantry, com- 
manded by the Duke of Bevem, which had fired 
unceasingly, had exhausted their ammunition, 
while the Austrian General Wied, who deftn led 
the post of Losovitz, kept up a brisk caimona- 
ding. The Prussian warriors pleaded loudly for 
powder and shot. 

Anna stopped reading ; her heart beat loudly ; 
she leaned herhead against the tree and closed her 
eyes in terror. The old people sitting at her feet 
prayed and wept aloud, and from the crowd there 
arose sounds of grief and despair. In their ter- 
ror they had forgotten that it was of a victory 
and not a defeat they were to hear, and that the 
battle must at last have ended to their advan 
tage. 

“ Read on, Anna,” said the old shepherd, after 
a long pause. “ Are we such cowards as not to 
be able even to hear an account of this murder- 
ous battle in which our sons were brave enough 
to fight ? ” 

“Read on, read on ! ” was heard here and 
there. 

Anna unclosed her eyes and raised the paper. 
Breathless stillness reigned anew. Anna read : 

“ In this fearful moment the Duke of Bevem 
felt that a decisive step must be taken, and 
springing in front of his troops with drawn sword, 
he cried ; ‘ Boys, you have no more ammuni- 
tion ! Do not be discouraged ! Fight with your 
bayonets ! ’ These words, spoken by a brave and 
beloved leader, gave heart to all. They closed 
their ranks, and inspired by the example of their 
officer, attacked the enemy boldly. In vain Baron 
Stahremberg hastened forward with his six bat- 
talions — ^uselessly Baron Wied tried to defend the 
house of Losovitz in which his grenadiers had ta- 
ken refuge. Nothing could withstand the Prus- 
sians. Like a raging hurricane they fell upon the 
enemy, who were forced to give way to them. A 
part of the Austrian force sprang into the Elbe, 
and tried to save their lives by swimming. Lo- 
sovitz was fired, and all its defenders fled. The 
Prussians had gained a complete victory.” * 

Anna Sophia could read no further. The de- 
light of all was intense — wives embraced their 
husbands with tears of joy — old men thanked 
God aloud — and the boys, who had ceased their 
play and been listening attentively, made bolder 
and higher somersets and shouted more lustily. 

* “ Characteristics of the Seven Tears’ War,” vol. U 
p. 6a 


FREDERTCX THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Anna Sophia alone said nothing. Her tall, slender, 
but full form was leaning against the tree — an in- 
spired smile was on her lip, and her eyes, raised 
to heaven, beamed with holy fire. She stood as 
’f m a dream, and at first did not hear old Busch- 
man ask her to read on. When he repeated his 
request, she was startled, and turned her glance 
slowly down from heaven upon the joyful crowd 
that surrounded her. 

“ What do you wish, father ? ” she asked. 

The old shepherd arose, and, taking his cap from 
his gray head, said solemnly, “ You have read us 
of the victory, Anna Sophia ; now read us of those 
who gave their lives for it. Tell us of the dead.” 

“Yes, read us a list of the dead!” cried the 
othors, uncovering their heads respectfully. 

Anna sought for the list, and read slowly the 
names of the fallen. Their faces brightened more 
and more ; none belonging to them Avere dead. 
Suddenly Anna paused, and uttered a low cry ; 
then looked at Father Buschman with a terrified 
expression. Perhaps the old man understood her, 
for he trembled a little, and his head fell upon his 
breast ; but he raised it proudly again. Looking 
almost commandingly at Anna, he said : 

“ Read on, my daughter.” 

But Anna could not read. The paper trembled 
m her hand, and her face was pale as death. 

“Read on,” repeated the old man — “ read on ; 
I, your father, command you to read ! ” 

Anna sighed deeply. “I Avill obey,” she said, 
and casting a glance of inexpressible sorrow at 
the old man, two new names fell from her lips 
and tears to consecrate them. “Anton Busch- 
man, Frederick Buschman,” and then taking ad- 
vantage of the breathless stillness, she added: 
“The two brothers were the first to attack the 
enemy — they died the death of heroes ! ” She 
ceased. The paper dropped from her trembling 
hands and fell at the old man’s feet. 

The weeping eyes of the crowd were turned up- 
on old Buschman. As if crushed by the storm, 
he had staggered to the bench; he bowed his 
head upon his breast that no one might see the 
expression of his face; his trembling hands 
clasped on his knees, made a touching picture of 
eilent sorrow. 

His son Henry, who had been standing with 
the others, stepped softly to him, and kneeling 
iown, put his arms around the old man’s neck 
and spoke to him tenderly. 

The old man started up with terror — his glance 
turned from his son to the crowd, and met every- 
where sympathizing and troubled faces. “ Well,” 
he asked, in a hard, rough voice, “ why do you 
veep ? Did you not hear that my sons died the 


death of heroes ? Have they not fallen for their 
country and their king? It would become us to 
weep if they were cowards and fled in battle. 
But Anna Sophia told us they died the death of 
heroes. Therefore, let us think of them with 
love and pride. ‘ Blessed are the dead, for thev 
see God I ’” 

He sank upon his knees and murmured low 
prayers for the repose of the dead, and now he 
wept for the first time. At his side knelt his son 
and Anna Sophia ; and the crowd, overcome by 
emotion and sympathy, followed their example, 
and with bended knees murmured the pious pray- 
ers of the Church for the dead. 

The solemn stillness was broken by the beating 
of drums and the tramping of horses. A compa- 
ny of infantry, headed by the drummer and fifer, 
marched up the street and approached the villa- 
gers, who, rising from their knees, gazed anxiously 
at the troops. 

“ They are Prussians,” said the mayor, who was 
amongst the crowd. 

“ They are Prussians,” repeated the crowd, with 
brightening faces. 

Headed by the mayor, they went forward to 
meet and conduct them to the middle of the 
square, where they halted. The mayor then ap- 
proached the officer and asked him what he de- 
sired. 

The officer, after making the drummer a sign, 
who beat the roll powerfully, drew out a roll 
of paper and unfolded it. The villagers pushed 
forward and waited with breathless attention. 
Close to the officer stood the old shepherd, next 
to him his son and Anna Sophia, who was star- 
ing, pale and trembling, at the officer, who now 
began to read. 

This paper commanded the unmarried men of 
the village to place themselves under the king’s 
flag, and to take their places in the ranks of those 
who fought for their country. Harvest was at an 
end, and the king could now demand the fighting 
men of villages and cities to join him and share 
with him his dangers and his victories. The offi- 
cer then commanded the mayor to give him early 
the next morning a list of the unmarried men in 
the village, that he might call them out and con- 
duct them to Cleve for further orders. 

A hollow murmur ran through the crowd when 
the officer had finished. The joyful and inspired 
emotion they had just felt gave way to discontent 
and gloom. All had been ready to celebrate the 
victory, but found it far from desirable to enter 
the ranks. 

The old shepherd looked angrily at the despair- 
ing crowd, and an expression of pious peace spread 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


over his venerable countenance. Turning to the 
officer, he s lid, in a loud voice : 

“ I had six sons in the array ; two fell in the 
battle of Losovitz, and ray poor old heart still 
weeps for the dead ; but it is also content that the 
king calls for another sacridee. I have one other 
son ; he is unmarried, has no one to take care of, 
neither wife nor child nor his old father, for, thank 
God, I still have strength to support myself. Go, 
then, my son Charles Henry, the king calls you ; and 
if it must be so, lie down like your brothers in a 
heroic grave.” 

He ceased and laid his hand, as if with a bless- 
ing, upon his son’s head ; but Henry did not par- 
take of his father’s enthusiasm. His face was 
pale as death, and bis powerful frame trembled as 
if with fever. 

Anna Sophia saw it ; her beaming face paled, 
and her eye sank down with shame. 

The officer, who had noticed the dejection of 
the people, wished to give them time to recover. 

“ Leave every thing alone until to-morrow,” he 
said. “ To-morrow, sir mayor, you will hand me 
the list, and I am sure that the unmarried boys 
will obey their king’s call with Joy. Now, sir 
mayor, I beg you to conduct me to the court- 
house, where I will pass the night, and see that 
my soldiers find good quarters there, and in the 
village.” 

He nodded kindly to the people, and accompa- 
nied by the mayor, moved onward. The crowd 
followed them silently, and the gay village boys 
danced gleefully around the fine procession. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE CERTIFICATE OF ENLISTMENT. 

Anna Sophia returned to her solitary home in 
deep meditation, and not even in the stillness of 
her room could she regain her accustomed serenity 
and cheerfulness. Her thoughts were far away ; 
for the first time her room appeared to her gloomy 
and deserted. The memories of the past did not 
now speak to her, and when she threw herself 
upon her bed, it was without having bid her par- 
ents good-night. 

But even then she could find no rest. Strange 
visions were wafted before her waking eyes, won- 
derful dreams took hold of her senses. She saw 
her victorious king standing before her, his 
sparkling eyes beckoning her to follow him. Then 
she saw herself in the front of an army, the flut- 
tering banner .n her hand, the glittering shield on 


her breast, followed* by many brave warriors, who 
were all gazing proudly upon her. And again she 
saw herself. But now she was all alone — alone by 
the side of an open grave, with a gaping wound in 
her breast, raising her weary eyes upward and mur 
muring, with pale lips : “ How sweet to die for one’s 
country ! ” Then the brothers of her betrothed 
raised themselves slowly from among the dead, 
and signed to her to follow them. She seemed to 
hear them saying : “ Revenge our death, our 
brother is faint-hearted ! ” 

At this thought, she raised herself upon her 
couch. 

“ He is a coward,” murmured she ; “ I saw him 
turn pale and tremble, and I felt as if a sword had 
entered my heart and destroyed all my love for 
him. Yes, he is a coward, and instead of rejoicing 
at the thought of a battle, he trembles.” 

She covered her face with her hands, as if to 
hide from the night the burning blush of shame 
that mounted to her brow. Thus she sat for 
hours motionless, as if listening to the voices whis- 
pering to her from within, until the first gleam of 
morning, the first ray of sun entered the open 
window to arouse her from her waking dreams. 

She sprang from her bed, and dressed herself 
with trembling eagerness. The sun had arisen, 
and Charles Henry was no doubt already in the 
woods, at the place she had appointed to meet him 
yesterday morning. When bidding him good-by, 
she had whispered to him to meet her there in 
the morning at sunrise ; she did not then know 
why she had appointed this meeting. She well 
knew it was not the longing to pass an undis- 
turbed hour with her lover that had actuated her. 
Anna had no such wish ; her heart was too pure, 
her love too cold. She had only felt that she 
would have something to say to him ; she knew 
not what herself. 

But now she well knew what she had to say; 
it was all clear, and therefore she was happy and 
cheerful. It seemed to her as if her soul had 
taken flight, and as if there was a lark within her 
singing songs of joy ; and with these feelings she 
hastened down the road into the woods. 

At the appointed place stood Charles Henry, 
and as his betrothed approached him, so proud, so 
smiling, sparkling with beauty and youth, it ap- 
peared to him that he had never seen her so ex- 
quisitely beautiful; to her, as he advanced smil* 
ingly to meet her, he had never seemed so small, 
so devoid of attractions. 

When they met, they looked at each other in 
amazement — ^there was a change in both. 

“ Anna Sophia,” said Charles Henry at las^ 
sadly, “you have something against me!” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


97 


“ Yes,” said she, “ I have something against 
you, otherwise I would not have appointed this 
meeting here, where we can be heard by no one. 
Were this that I have to tell you something good, 
something pleasant, all the world might- stand by 
and hear it ; but as it is something painful, it must 
be heard by you alone.” » 

She seated herself silently upon the ground, 
signing to Charles Henry to follow her example. 

“ It was here,” said Anna, hastily, “ that you 
first told me of your love.” 

“Yes, it was here, Anna,” repeated he, “and 
you then told me that my love was returned, and 
that you would be my wife when we had saved 
enough to commence housekeeping. But still I 
have always felt that you were not kind to me, 
not as the other girls in the village are to their 
lovers. You have never permitted me to come 
under your window at night ; • I have never been 
allowed to take you in my arms and kiss you 
tenderly, as the other boys do their sweethearts ; 
and never, no never, have you given me a kiss 
unasked ; and, after all my entreaties, you kissed 
me only in the presence of my old father and 
his dog.” 

“ It is not in my nature to be very tender,” said 
Anna, shrugging her shoulders. “ I read in one 
of my books lately a fairy tale, in which there 
was a young girl, of whom it was said that a bad 
fairy had bound her heart in iron, to prevent its 
full play ; the girl was constantly bewailing this 
fatality, saying, ‘ I can only like, but never love.’ 
Perhaps it is thus with me, but I do not weep 
over it, like the foolish girl in the book.” 

“And was this what you had to tell me?” 
asked Charles Henry, mockingly. 

She gave him a look that sent the jeering smile 
from his lip. 

“ No, Charles Henry,” said she, “ this is not 
what I have to tell you.” 

“ Well, what is it then, Anna, for this wounds 
me ? ” said he, impatiently. 

“ Perhaps the other will do so also,” said she, 
sadly. “ But it must come out, I cannot suppress' 
it. Hear, Charles Henry, what I have to say, and 
if it is not true, forgive me. I fear you do not go 
willingly into the army, and that your heart does 
not beat with joy at the thought of becoming a 
soldier.” 

“ You are right,” said Charles Henry, laughing, 
“ I do not go willingly ; and how should it be 
otherwise ? it is a wild, disorderly life, and it strikes 
me it cannot be right for men who, our pastor says, 
should love each other like brothers, to vie in cut- 
ting off each other’s limbs, and to fire upon each 
other without mercy or pity, as if one were the 


butcher, the other the poor ox, who only resists 
because he does not wish to give up his life ; and 
in this case all would be the butchers, and none 
the oxen, therefore each one gives his stroke 
bravely to preserve his own life.” 

“ It would be sad if it were as you say,” said 
Anna, shaking her head, “ but it is not so. The 
true soldier does not think of his life ; he thinks of 
his country, for which he will gladly shed his 
blood — of his king, to whom he has sworn to be 
true — and of the glory which he will gain for him- 
self!” 

Charles Henry looked in amazement upon Anna 
Sophia’s agitated countenance. 

“ How do you know all this ? ” said he. “ Who 
has told you that these are soldiers’ thoughts ? ” 

“ I have read of it in my books, Charles Henry ; 
in one of them there is the history of a man 
whose name was Leonidas. He defended, with 
three hundred of his soldiers, against many thou- 
sands of his enemy, a narrow passway. He well 
knew that he could not conquer ; his soldiers also 
knew it, but they preferred death rather than the 
humiliation of laying down their weapons and 
praying for mercy. And every man of them died 
joyfully, giving up his life for his country.” 

“Well, I must say they were fools!” cried 
Charles Henry, excitedly; “if I had been there, 
I would not have done so— I would have sued for 
pardon.” 

“Yes,” said Anna Sophia, thoughtfully — “yes, 
I think you would have done as you say ; and I 
have been wondering all through the past night 
whether you would willingly and joyfully go to 
battle ? ” 

“ I ? God forefend ; I wiU not go joyfully— I 
will not go at all ! This morning I intend going 
to our pastor to receive from him a certificate, 
showing that I cannot join the array, as I have a 
decrepit old father to support, who would die with- 
out me.” 

“ Charles Henry, your father is not decrepit, nor 
very old, nor would he starve if you were not 
here, for he can support himself.” 

“ But he may, at any moment, become unable 
to help himself, and then he would need me; I 
would have no rest day or night when far away, 
but would be thinking of my poor old father, 
lying sick and helpless in his hut, with no one 
near to give him a piece of bread or a cup of 
water.” 

“ Let not this trouble you, Charles Henry,” said 
Anna, solemnly. “ I swear to you that 1 will love 
him and care for him as a daughter. He shall 
want for nothing; and when he can work ijo 
longer, I am strong and healthy enough to work 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


for both of us. Go with a peaceful mind, I will 
be here in your place.” 

“ No, no I ” cried Charles Henry, turning pale ; 
“ I will not join the army. I cannot, I will not 
be separated from you, Anna. You have sworn 
to be my wife, and I will beseech the pastor to 
join us to-day; then they cannot take me away 
from here, for I will have a father and a wife to 
take care of.” 

“Not for me, Charles Henry, for I will not 
marry yet. Have we saved enough to commence 
housekeeping ? Is this a time to marry and build 
a nest, when war, misery, and ruin are raging 
throughout the country ? No, no ! Charles Henry, 
we cannot marry now.” 

“ Because you do not wish it, Anna. But it shall 
be, for I have your promise, and you must keep 
it. Ah, Anna Sophia, you do not know what a 
longing I have to call you my wife ! ” 

“But I have no such longing,” said she, drily ; 
“ no desire whatever to marry ; and I will tell you, 
that though you wish to marry to-day, it is not 
out of love for me, but to save yourself.” 

His eyes sunk before the large, searching ones 
fixed upon him. 

“ To save myself, and from what, Anna So- 
phia ? ” 

“From being a soldier, Charles Henry! For 
last evening, I read upon your countenance that 
you were devoid of courage.” 

“You read that? ” 

“Yes, Charles Henry, fear was stamped upon 
your brow.” 

“ Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “ you have 
read aright. I have no courage, I fear for myself. 
I am not accustomed to stand still, while some 
one is pointing his gun at me, and to cry, ‘Long 
live the king ! ’ when the cannon-balls are flying 
around me ; to attack men who have done me no 
harm, and to whom I wish to do none. When I 
think upon the possibihty of my being compelled 
to do this, I tremble, and my heart ceases to beat. 
Do not require it of me, Anna, for if I have to go, 
I will fly at the first fight, and come back here. 
They may then shoot me as a deserter, if they 
choose ; I prefer to die rather than to kill any one 
else.” 

Anna Sophia sprang from her seat with a cry 
of horror. 

“ I thought so,” said she, in a low voice ; and, 
crossing her arms upon her breast, she walked to 
and fro, thoughtfully. 

Charles Henry looked at her in amazement, but 
had not the courage to speak to her ; for she was 
so completely changed, that he was almost afraid 
of her. There was something so cold and proud 


about her to-day, something aristocratic in he* 
beauty. He thought to himself, “ It is thus that 
a queen would look when dressed as a peasant.” 

Anna Sophia stood still before him at last, and 
gave him a tender, almost pitiful glance. 

“ Charles Henry,” said she, “ you shall not join 
the army; I will not suffer it.” 

He sprang from his seat with a cry of joy. 

“You will then marry me, Anna Sophia?” 
said he, exultingly. “ You will become my wife, 
so as to keep me here ? You love me too much 
to let me go 1 ” He tried to embrace her, but sha 
waved him off. 

“No,” said she, “I will not marry you, but, 
still, you must not join the army ; for if you be- 
came a deserter, it would break your father’s 
heart, and it would be a disgrace, not only for me, 
but for the whole village. Think well over what 
you have said. Perhaps you are mistaken in 
yourself, and only dislike joining the army on your 
poor father’s account. Question your conscience 
and your heart, and remember, Charles Henry, 
that God will hear your answer. Do you truly 
believe that you are wanting in courage — ^that you 
would fly from the battle-field ? ” 

“ As truly as there is a God above us, I believe 
it, Anna Sophia. It is not belief, it is certainty. 
It is not in my nature to be brave ; I was not 
brought up to it, and am therefore without it^ I 
am an apt farmer, but would be a bad soldier.” 

Anna Sophia sighed deeply, and covered her 
face with her hands. Thus she stood for some 
time in front of her betrothed, and he saw the 
large tears, stealing through her fingers, fall upon 
the grass, to be transformed there by the sun into 
sparkhng jewels. 

“ Why do you weep, Anna Sophia ? ” asked he, 
gently. “ What has so suddenly made you sad ? ” 

Her hands fell slowly and wearily from her 
face. “ I am not weeping now,” said she ; “it is 
past — ^I have shed my last tear. Now we must 
settle upon what is to be done, for you cannot be 
a soldier.” 

“But they will force me,” said he, “for I am 
tall, strong, and healthy — just the build for a sol- 
dier.” 

Anna Sophia raised herself proudly and stood 
beside him. “ I am as tall as you,” said she. 

“ It is true,” replied Charles Henry, laughing, 
“we are of the same height. We can scarcely 
fail to have tall, good-looking children some of 
these days I ” 

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and looked 
at him in a strange manner. “ I am as strong and us 
healthy as you,” said she , “ my sight is as sharp, 
my hand as sure. Were I Charles Henrv Busch 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


99 


roan, I would be a good soldier, for I have cour- 
age — I would not tremble at the carmon-badls.” 

“ But, fortunately, you are not a man,” said 
Charles Henry, laughing. “ You are the beauti- 
ful Anna Sophia, who is this day to become my 
wife to save me from being a soldier.” 

“No, Charles Henry; the war must be at a^ 
end, and Charles Henry Buschman must have re- 
turned a brave soldier, before I can marry him.” 

“ You mean,” said he, with trembling lips — 
“ you mean I must be a soldier ? ” 

“ As you have said, they will not let you off. 
You are a strong, healthy youth — ^you are unmar- 
ried, and have^no one to support, for your father 
can take care of himself. Why, then, as the king 
is in need of soldiers, should they pass you by ? ” 
“It is too true,” murmured Charles Henry, de- 
spondently. After a slight pause, he said : “ But I 
will not be a soldier — I cannot ! For it is true I 

am a coward — ^I have not a particle of courage ! 
That is bom with one, it cannot be acquired ; I 
have it not, and cannot therefore be a soldier.” 

“ Nor shall you become one,” said Anna, with 
determination. 

What can you do ? ” 

“ I will join the army in your stead ! ” 

Charles Henry stared at her. He was on the 
point of laughing, but the sight of her inspired, 
earnest countenance, in which a world of deter- 
mination was expressed, sobered him completely. 

“ I will do as I said, for I have great courage, 
and when I think of a battle my heart beats loud- 
ly, not with fear but with rapturous joy. To me, 
nothing would be more glorious than to die, ban- 
ner in hand, surrounded by the thunder of can- 
non, and to cry out exultingly, as the blood flows 
from my wounds, ‘ Vive le roi ! vive la patrie I ’ ” 
Her form was raised majestically, her countenance 
beamed with inspiration, a daring fire sparkled in 
her eyes — she was so changed in form and ex- 
pression, that Charles Henry drew back from her 
in terror. 

“ I am afraid of you, Anna Sophia,” said he, 
shuddering. “ You are changed — you are not 
like yourself.” 

“ No,” said she ; “ nor am I the same. Yester- 
day I was Anna Sophia Detzloff — from to-day I am 
Charles Henry Buschman. Do not interrupt me 
«^it must be ! You shall not break your father’s 
heart — you shall not bring disgrace upon the vil- 
lage. The king has called you — ^you must obey 
the call. But I will go in your place ; you shall 
remain quietly at home, thrashing your com, cut- 
ting your hay, and taking care of your kind old 
father, while I shall be upon the battle-field light- 
ing in your place.” 


“ Do you then love me well enough to give your 
life for me ? ” cried Charles Henry, with stream- 
ing eyes. 

She shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. ‘‘ 
do not know if it be love,” said she. “ I only 
feel that it must be done — there is no other out- 
let but this to help us all. Let us speak no more 
about it— -only tell me that you accept it,” 

“ It is impossible, Anna Sophia.” 

“ Only accept it, and all will be right.” 

“ I cannot. It would be an everlasting shame 
to me.” 

She pressed her teeth tightly together — her 
eyes gleamed with anger. “ Hear me out,” said 
she. “ Go, or stay — whichever you do — I do not 
remain here ! I must away and seek my fortune. 
I have never been happy, as yet — ^upon the bat- 
tle-field I may be. I have nothing to lose, and 
can therefore win all. Well, say ! Am I to be a 
soldier in your stead ? ” 

“ If you really wish it, I must yield,” said he, 
sadly. “ You say you have nothing to lose, but I, 
I have you, and I cannot, will not lose you. And 
as you would be angry with and leave me if I 
said ‘No,’ I prefer saying ‘Yes.’” 

Anna Sophia gave a cry of delight, and, for the 
first time, gave Charles Henry a willing kiss. 
“ Many, many thanks, Charles Henry,” said she. 
“ Now we will all be happy.” 

Charles Henry sighed. He could not bring him- 
self to trust in Anna’s prophecy. 

“ And now,” said she, eagerly, “ how shall we 
go about it ? ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

FAREWELL TO THE VILLAGE. 

In the course of the day, Charles Henry accom- 
panied the other boys to the village, where an ofli- 
cer was to call out the names of those who were 
drafted. As his name was called out, he did not 
change countenance — ^he remained as gay and 
cheerful as before, while the other boys were gaz- 
ing sadly, thoughtfully before them. Then the of- 
ficer handed each of them a ticket upon which 
their names were printed, and ordered them to go 
immediately to the nearest city, Cleve, and re- 
ceive their uniforms. Charles Henry requested a 
day’s leave, as he had various preparations to 
make for his father, to whom he wished to will 
the little property he had inherited from his 
mother. The officer granted him one day. Charles 
Henry left the house gayly, but instead of turning 
his steps toward the little hut inhabited by hia 


100 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


father, he took the path leading to the old school- 
house, where his bride lived. 

She stood at her door waiting for him. “ Well,” 
said she, hastily, “ is all right ? ” 

“ Yes,” said- he, sadly, “ I am drafted.” 

She grasped the printed ticket from his hand 
and hid it in her bosom. “ Now,” said she, “ you 
have but to bring me a decent suit of clothes.” 

“ My Sunday suit, Anna,” said he, smiling. “ It 
IS new ; I intended to be married in it.” 

“ I shall not hurt it,” said she. “ There is a mer- 
chant at Cleve, whom I know to be good and hon- 
est — I will leave the clothes with him, and next 
Sunday you can walk to the city for them.” 

“ You will not even keep them to remember me 
by?” 

“ It is impossible for me ever to forget you, 
Charles Henry, for I shall bear your name.” 

“From now on, throughout your whole life, 
you shall bear it, Anna. For when you return, 
you will remember your promise, and marry me. 
You will not forget me when far away ? ” 

“ How do I know I shall return ? ” said she. “A 
soldier’s life is in constant danger. There can be 
no talk of marriage until this war is over. But 
it is now time we were asleep, Charles Henry. 
You and I have many things to do to-morrow ; we 
must arrange our household affairs — you for the 
sake of appearances, and I in good earnest. 
Good-night, then, Charles Henry.” 

“ Will you not kiss me on this our last night, 
Anna Sophia ? ” said he, sadly. 

“ A soldier kisses no man,” said she, with a 
weary smile. “ He might embrace a friend, as 
his life ebbed out upon the battle-field, but none 
other, Charles Henry. Good-night.” 

She entered and bolted the do ir after her, then 
lighting a candle she hastened to her attic-room. 
Seating herself at her father’s table, she spread a 
large sheet of foolscap before her and commenced 
writing. She was making her will with a firm, un- 
shaken hand. She began by taking leave of the 
villagers, and implored them to forgive her for 
causing them sorrow; but that life in the old 
hut, without her parents, had become burdensome 
to her, and as her betrothed was now going away, 
she could endure it no longer. She then divided 
her few possessions, leaving to every friend some 
slight remembrance, such as ribbons, a prayer- 
book, or a handkerchief. Her clothes she divided 
among the village wives. But her house, with all 
its contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the 
refjuest that he would live in it, at least in sum- 
mer. 

When she had finished, she threw herself upon 
her bed to rest from the many fatigues and heart- 


aches of the day. In her dreams her parents ap- 
peared to her — they beckoned, kissed, and blessed 
her. Strengthened by this dream, she sprang joy 
fully at daybreak from her couch. She felt now I 
assured that what she was about to do was right, ' 
for otherwise her parents would not have ap- 
peared to her. She now' continued the prepara- 
tions for her journey cheerfully. She packed all 
her linen clothes into a small bundle, and then 
scoured and dusted her little house carefully. 
Dressing herself with more than her usual care, 
and putting her testament in her pocket, she left 
the house. 

Anna took the road leading to the parsonage ; 
she wished to go to confession to her old pastor 
for the last time. He had known her during the 
whole of her short life; had baptized her, and 
with him she had taken her first communion. 

She had confessed to him her most secret thoughts, 
and with loving smile, he absolved what she 
deenjed her sins. He would not break the seal 
of confession, and she therefore opened her heart 
to him without fear. 

The old pastor was deeply moved, and laying 
his hand upon her head he w'ept. ‘When she had 
bid him a long and loving adieu, and had wiped 
the tears from her eyes, she left the parsonage and 
hastened to the woods, where Father Buschman 
was tending his sheep. As soon as the old shep- 
herd saw her, he beckoned to her his welcome. 

“ I did not see you throughout the whole of 
yesterday, Anna Sophia,” said he, “ and ray heart 
was heavy within me ; there was something w-ant- 
ing to my happiness.” 

“ I will remain with you to-day to make up for 
yesterday’s absence,” said she, seating herself be- 
side him and kissing him tenderly. “ I could not 
work to-day, for my heart aches ; I will rest my- 
self with you.” 

“ Your heart aches because Charles Henry must 
leave us,” said the old shepherd. “You would 
prefer his remaining at home, and not being a sol- 
dier ? ” 

“ No, I would not prefer this, father,” said she, 
earnestly ; “ would you ? ” 

The old man looked thoughtful for some time, 
then said : 

“ It will be a great sorrow to me, Anna Sophia, 
for he is the last remaining light of my youth, and 
when he goes all will be dark and gloomy for me. 

It does me good to see his bright, handsome face ; 
to hear his gay morning and evening song ; and 
when you two are sitting beside me hand in hand 
upon the old bench at the front of our little hut. 
my youth comes back to me. I see myself sitting 
on the same bench with mv dear old woman — it 


I was our favorite seat when we were young. 
I When Charles Henry leaves me, I not only lose 
him, but my whole past life seems to vanish 
away.” 

“ You would, therefore, prefer he should re- 
main at home ? ” said Anna, anxiously. 

“ If it were possible,” said he, “ but it is not. 
His king has called him, he must obey.” 

“But he may, perhaps, be allowed to stay, 
father, if you will declare that you are too old, too 
weak to support yourself, and wish the only prop 
of your old age to remain with you, the authori- 
■ ties at Cleve may, perhaps, grant your request.” 

The old shepherd shook his head slowly and 
^^ thoughtfully, and said : 

“No, we will not make the attempt; it would 
be deception, and could bring us no honor. I am 
not too weak to earn my own living, and it would 
be a disgrace to Charles Henry if I bought him 
off from his duty. The world might then think 
he was a coward, and had not courage enough to 
fight.” 

“ Do you think it a disgrace for a man to be 
wanting in courage ? ” said Anna Sophia, gazing 
at him as if her life depended upon his answer. 

“ I think so,” said he, calmly j “ it is as bad for 
a man to be without courage as for a woman to be 
without virtue.” 

Anna Sophia raised her dark, glowing eyes to 
heaven with an expression of deep thankfulness. 
Then giving way to her emotion, she threw her 
arms around the old. shepherd, and, leaning her 
head upon his shoulder, she wept bitterly. He did 
not disturb her, but pressed her tenderly to his 
heart, and whispered occasionally a few loving, 
consoling words. He believed he understood her 
sorrow ; he thought he knew the source of these 
tears. She was weeping because all hope of pre- 
venting her betrothed from being a soldier was 
now gone, 

“Weep no more, my child,” said he, at last; 
“ your eyes will be red ; it will sadden Charles 
Henry, and make it harder for him to say good- 
by. See, there he comes to join us — do not weep, 
my child.” 

Anna raised her head and dried her eyes 
hastily. 

“ I am not weeping, father,” said she. “ I en- 
treat you do not tell Charles Henry that I have 
been crying— do not, if you love me. I will prom- 
ise not to be sad again.” 

“ I will be silent, but you must keep your word 
and be cheerful, so as not to sadden the poor 
. boy.” 

“ I will.” 

Aima Sophia kept her word. She gaie Charles 


joking and laughing with the old man, evening 
came upon them, and as it cast its shadows about, 
Charles Henry became more and more silent and 
sad. 

It was now time to drive home the fold ; the 
sun had set, and Phylax had collected his little 
army. 

The old shepherd arose. “ And now, ray chil- 
dren,” said he, “ take leave of one another. It is 
the last sunset you will see together for many a 
long day. Swear to each other here, in the pres- 
ence ot God and of his beautiful world, that you 
will be true to each other, that your love shall 
never change.” 

Charles Henry looked timidly, beseechingly at 
Anna Sophia, but she would not encounter his 
gaze. 

“We have said all that we had to say,” said 
she, quietly, “we will therefore not make our 
parting harder by repeating it.” 

“ It will make parting much easier to me,” cried 
Charles Henry, “ if you will swear to be true, and 
always to love me. Though many years may pass, 
Anna Sophia, before we meet again, I will never 
cease to love you, never cease to think of you.” 

“ This will I also do, Charles Henry,” said Anna, 
solemnly. “ My thoughts will be with you daily, 
hourly; your name will be constantly upon my 
lips ! ” 

Charles Henry turned pale. He understood the 
ambiguous meaning of this oath, and it cut him to 
the heart. 

“And now, good-night, Anna Sophia,” said the 
old shepherd; “to-morrow evening, when your 
work is done, I will await you here. We will 
have to love and console each other. Good-night 
once more ! ” 

“ Good-night, dear father,” whispered she, in a 
voice choked with tears, as she pressed a burning 
kiss on his brow. 

The old man took her in his arms and embraced 
her tenderly, then whispered ; 

“ To-morrow we will weep together, J^nna So« 
phia.” 

Anna tore herself from his arms. 

“ Good-night, father ! ” — and then turning to 
Charles Henry, she said : “ When do you leave 
for Cleve?” 

“ To-'night, at ten,” said he; “ I prefer going at 
night ; it is much hotter in the day, and I must 
be at Cleve at eight in the morning. I will 
be at your door to-night, to take a last look at 
you.” 

“It is all right,” said she, dryly, turning from 
him and hastening home. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. jq! 

Henry a bright, cheery welcome. While she was 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMIl.Y. 


Night had come ; the village night-watch had 
announced the tenth hour; no light gleamed 
throtigh the windows— the busy noise and bustle 
of day had given place to deep quiet. The whole 
village was at rest, every eye was closed. No one 
saw Charles Henry as he passed, with a bundle 
under his arm, and took the path leading to the 
old school-house— no one but the moon, that was 
gleaming brightly above, and was illuminating 
the solitary wanderer’s path. 

For the first time he found Anna Sophia’s door 
open— he had no need to knock. He entered un- 
disturbed with his bundle, which contained the 
suit of clothes Anna had desired. 

Half an hour later the door was opened, and 
two tall, slenderly-built young men left the house. 
The moon saw it all ; she saw that the man with 
the hat on, and with the bundle on his back, was 
none other than Anna Sophia Detzlofij daughter 
of the old school-teacher. She saw that the one 
who was following her, whose countenance was so 
ghastly pale — not because the moon was shining 
upon it, but because he was so sad, so truly 
wretched — that this other was Charles Henry 
Buschman, who was coward enough to let his 
bride go to battle in his stead ! The moon saw 
them shake hands for the last time and bid each 
other farewell. 

“ Let me go a little bit of the way with you, 
Anna Sophia,” said Charles Henry; “it is so dark, 
so still, and soon you will go through the woods. 
It is best I should be with you, for it is so fear- 
fidly gloomy. Let me accompany you, Anna So. 
phia.” 

“ I have no fear of the woods,” said she, gen- 
tly ; “ the stars above wdll watch over and guard 
me, the moon will shed her light upon my path, it 
will not be dark. I must go my way through life 
alone — ^I must have no fear of any thing, not even 
of death. Leave me now, and be careful that you 
are seen by no one during the whole of to-morrow 
in my house. No one will go there to-morrow, for 
I have left word in the village that I am going on 
a visit to my aunt at Cleve. I have prepared 
your meals for you ; the table is set, and above, 
in my room, you will find books to read. You can 
stand it for one day, to-morrow evening you will 
be released. Farewell, Charles Henry ! ” 

“ Do not go, Anna Sophia,” said he, weeping 
and trembling ; “ I will go. I will force my heart 
to be courageous ! You must stay here.” 

“ It is too late,” said Anna ; “ nor could you do 
it, Charles Henry. You are afraid of the dark 
woods, and what comes beyond is much more 
fearful We have taken leave of each other, the 
worst is past. Kiss youi father for me, and when 


at times you are sitting upon the old bench, re 
mind him of Anna Sophia.” 

“ I will obey you,” whispered he. 

But Anna was not listening to him ; she had 
turned from him, and was hastening down the 
road. 

The moon saw it all ! She saw the tears steal 
slowly from Anna Sophia’s eyes, and fall un- 
known to herself upon her cheek, as she turned 
her back upon her old home and hastened for- 
ward to a life of danger, privation, and want. 
She saw Charles Henry leaning upon the door 
of the old school-house, staring after Anna with a 
trembling heart until the last glimpse of her was 
lost in the distant woods. He then entered the 
school-house and fastened the door behind him. 
His heart was heavy and sorrowful, he was 
ashamed of himself ; he was sorry for what he had 
done, but had not the strength to change it ; and 
as he wept over Anna Sophia’s departure, he was 
inwardly rejoiced that he himself was to remain 
at home. 

On the morning of the second day after Anna’s 
departure, there was a great stir in the village , 
there w'ere two astounding reports to excite the 
community. Charles Henry Buschman had re- 
turned from Cleve ; they had told him he could 
be spared for a while. The second report was that 
Anna Sophia had not returned from her visit. 
They waited for several days, and as she did not 
come, Charles Henry went to the distant village 
where her aunt lived. But he returned with sad 
news. Anna Sophia was not there, her aunt had 
not seen her. 

What had become of her? Where was she? 
No one could clear up the mystery. Many spoke 
of suicide ; she had drowned herself in the large 
lake to the left of the village they said, because 
her betrothed had to leave her. The old pastor 
would not listen to this ; but when the aunt came 
to take possession of her niece’s worldly goods, he 
had to bring forward the will Anna had given him, 
in which she had willed her all to Father.Buschman. 
And now no one doubted that Anna had laid hands 
upon herself. The mystery remained unsolved. 
Every one pitied and sympathized with Charles 
Henry, who had lost all his former cheerfulness 
since the death of his bride ! 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PRISONER. 

Two years had passed since Frederick von 
Trenck entered the fortress of Magdeburg. Twc 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


103 


years ! What is that to those ^yho live, work, 
strive, and fight the battle of life ? A short space 
of time, dashing on with flying feet, and leaving 
nothing for remembrance but a few important 
moments. 

Two years ! What is that to the prisoiier ? A 
gray, impenetrable eternity, in which the bittef 
waters of the past fall drop by drop upon all the 
functions of life, and hollow out a grave for the 
being without existence, who no longer has the 
courage to call himself a man. Two years of 
anxious waiting, of vain hopes, of ever-renewing 
self-deception, of labor without result. 

This was Trench’s existence, since the day the 
doors of the citadel of Magdeburg closed upon 
him as a prisoner. He had had many bitter dis- 
appointments, much secret suffering; he had 
learned to know human nature in all its wicked- 
ness and insignificance, its love of money and cor- 
ruption, but also in its greatness and exaltation, 
and its constancy and kindness. 

Amongst the commandants and officers of the 
fortress whose duty it was to guard Trenck, there 
were many hard and cruel hearts, which exulted 
in his tortures, and who, knowing the king’s per- 
sonal enmity to him, thought to recommend them- 
selves by practising the most refined cruelties 
upon the defenceless prisoner. But he had also 
found warm human souls, who pitied his misfor- 
tunes, and who sought, by every possible means, 
to ameliorate his sad fate. And, after all, never 
had the night of his imprisonment been utterly 
dark and impenetrable. The star of hope, of love, 
of constancy, had glimmered from afar. This star, 
which had thrown its silver veil over his most 
beautiful and sacred remembrances, over his young 
life of liberty and love, this star was Amelia. She 
had never ceased to think of him, to care for him, 
to labor for his release; she had always found 
means to supply him with help, wdth gold, with 
active friends. But, alas ! all this had only served 
to add to his misfortunes, to narrow the bounda- 
ries of his prison, arrd increase the weight of his 
chains. 

Treachery and seeming accident had, up to this 
time, made vain every attempt at escape, and de- 
stroyed in one moment the sad and exhausting 
labors of many long months. The first and seem- 
ingly most promising attempt at flight had mis- 
carried, through the treason of the faithless Baron 
Weingarten, who had offered to communicate be- 
tween Trenck and the princess. 

For six long months Trenck had worked with 
ceaseless and incomparable energy at a subterra- 
nean path which would lead him to freedom ; all 
was prepared, all complete. The faithful grena- 


dier, Gefhart, who had been won over by the 
princess, had given him the necessary instruments, 
and through the bars of his prison had conveyed to 
him such food as would strengthen him for his 
giant task. 

Nothing was now wanting but gold, to enable 
Trenck, when he had escaped, to hire a little boai, 
which would place him on the other side of the 
Elbe — gold, to enable him to make a rapid flight. 

Gefhart had undertaken to deliver Trenck’s let- 
ter to the princess, asking for this money. This 
letter, written with his own blood upon a 
piece of linen, had been forwarded through Gef* 
hart’s mistress, the Jewess Rebecca, to Weingar- 
ten. He delivered it to the princess, and re- 
ceived, through Pollnitz, two thousand thalers, 
which he did not hand over to Rebecca, but re 
tained for himself, and betrayed to the king 
Trenck’s intended flight. 

This was but a short time before Weingarten’s 
own flight ; and while he was enjoying the fruit of 
this base fraud in security and freedom, poor 
Trenck was forced to descend still lower in the 
citadel, and take possession of that frightful 
prison which, by special command of the king, 
had been built and prepared for him, in the lowest 
casemates of the fortress. 

The king was greatly exasperated at these 
never-ending attempts of Trenck to escape ; his 
courage and endurance made him an interesting 
and admired martyr to the whole garrison at 
Magdeburg. 

Frederick wished to give to this garrison, and 
to all his soldiers, a terrible example of the re- 
lentless severity with which insubordination should 
be punished, to prove to them that mortal daring 
and mortal energy were vain to escape the aven- 
ging hand of royal justice. 

Trenck, who, in the beginning, had only been 
condemned to arrest in Glatz for six months, had, 
by his constant attempts at escape, and the mad 
and eloquent expression of his rage, brought upon 
himself the sentence of eternal imprisonment, in 
a subterranean cell, which, by express command 
of the king, was so prepared, that neither guards 
nor soldiers were necessary to his detention. A 
jailer only was needed, to lock the four doors of 
the corridor which led to Trenck’s cell. It was 
as little dangerous to guard this poor prisoner as 
to approach the lion bound by chains and hemmed 
in by iron bars. 

Trenck was indeed manacled like a wild beast. 
A chain clanked upon his feet, an iron girdle was 
around his waist, to which hung a heavy chain, 
fastened to a thick iron bar built in the wall; 
manacles were made fast to each end of an iron 


104 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


bar, to which his hands were bound. The most 
cruel wild beast would not have been so tortured ; 
some one would have had pity on him, and merci- 
fully ended his life. But this creature, thus tor- 
tured, groaning and clanking his heavy chains — 
this creature was a man, therefore there was no 
pity. It would have been considered a crime to 
put an end to his life ; but slowly, day by day, to 
murder him, was only justice. 

The king had made it the personal duty of the 
commandant, Bruckhausen, to guard Trenck. He 
declared, that if he allowed Trenck to escape, he 
should not only lose his place and rank, but take 
Trenck’s place in his fearful cell. This was a 
frightful menace to the ambitious and harsh com- 
mandant, Bruckhausen, and, of course, led him to 
take the severest precautions. It was he, there- 
fore, who had bound Trenck, and, whenever he 
visited the poor prisoner in his cell, he rejoiced in 
the artistic construction of his chains, and looked 
proudly upon his work. He saw with delight 
that Trenck was scarcely able to drag his heavy 
chains two feet to the right or left, or to raise the 
tin cup to his parched lips, with his hands thus 
fastened to an iron bar ; and as often as he left 
the cell, he exclaimed, with an expression of mali- 
cious joy : 

“ I have tamed him forever ! he will not escape 
me! ” 

But Trenck was not tamed ; his courage was 
not broken. In this crushed and wasted form 
dwelt a strong soul, a bounding heart; he had 
been bound in chains thought to be indissoluble. 
Trenck alone did not believe this ; he trusted still 
in the magic power of his will, in his good star, 
which had not yet been quenched in darkness. 

In the wall to which the chain was fastened, 
his name was built, in red tiles; a gravestone 
marked the spot upon which his feet moved, upon 
which a death’s head and the name of Trenck 
was engraved. Under this stone there was a 
vault, and when one looked at the moist walls, 
from which the water constantly trickled, and at 
the dark cell, which for six months had not been 
cheered by one ray of light, they might well sup- 
pose that the gravestone would soon be lifted, 
and the vault opened to receive the poor prisoner, 
upon whose grave no other tears would flow. 
These dark walls were, as it appeared, softer and 
more pitiful than the hearts of men. 

Trenck was not subdued; the death’s head and 
his name upon the gravestone did not terrify him ! 
It was nothing more to him than a constant re- 
minder to collect his courage' and his strength, 
and to oppose to this daily menace of death a 
strong conviction of life and liberty. 


If his prison were dark, and warmed by no raj 
of sunshine, he leaned his head against the wall, 
closed his eyes, and his vivid imagination and 
glowing fancy was the slave of his will, and 
painted his past life in magic pictures. 

The prisoner, clad as a convict, with his hands 
and feet chained, became at once the child of for- 
tune and love; the exalted favorite of princes, the 
admired cavalier, the envied courtier, and the 
darling of lovely women. 

When hunger drove him to eat the coarse bread 
which was his only nourishmeut, and to satisfy 
his thirst with the muddy water in the tin pitcher 
at his side, he thought of the meals, worthy of 
Lucullus, of which he had partaken, at the Rus- 
sian court, by the side of the all-powerful Russian 
minister Bestuchef; he remembered the fabulous 
pomp which surrounded him, and the profound 
reverence which was shown him, as the acknowd 
edged favorite of the prime minister of the em-. 
press. 

When no one whispered one word of consola- 
tion or of sympathy, for all trembled at the cease- 
less watchfulness of the commandant — when the 
rude silent jailer came daily and placed his bread 
and water before him and left him without word 
or greeting — then Trenck recalled the sacred, con- 
secrated hours in which love had whispered sweet 
names and tender words. This love still lived — 
it watched over and shone down upon him — it was 
a star of hope. Why should Trenck despair, 
when love lived and lived only for him ? No, he 
would not die — ^he would never be buried under 
this gravestone. Beyond these thick, damp walls 
lay the world — the living, active, blooming world. 
It was only necessary to break these chains, to 
open the five heavy doors which conflned him to 
his dark prison, and life, liberty, the world, 
honor, love, belonged to him ! 

“Is not my will stronger than chains and 
bolts ? ” he said. “ Has not the spirit wungs by 
which she ean take flight, mocking at prisons and 
at torture ? ” 

His spirit was free, for he believed in freedom : 
when his chains clanked around him, it seemed to 
him as if they whispered of speedy liberty — as 
if they exhorted him in soft, harmonious tones, to 
cast them off and become a free and happy man. 

At last there came a day when he could no 
longer resist these alluring voices. If he could 
break these chains the flrst step was taken, and 
only the doors remained to be opened. By close 
observation, he had discovered that the inner 
door of his prison was of wood. The faithful 
Gefhart had managed to inform him that the 
other doors were also of wood He had also coi> 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


105 


reyed to him a small, sharp knife, the most pre- 
cious of all eartlily treasures, for with this he 
hoped to obtain his freedom. 

“ But the chains ! ” First must the chains be 
broken— first must his right hand be free ! And 
It was free. Although the blood was burstino- 
from the nails, Trenck forced his hand through 
the manacle. Freedom greeted him with her first 
rapturous smile. Alas, the handcuff upon the 
left hand was too narrow to be removed in this 
way. With a piece of his chain he broke off a frag- 
ment of stone which he used as a file, and in this 
way he liberated his left hand. The iron ring 
around his waist was fastened only by a hook to 
the chain attached to the wall. Trenck placed his 
feet against the wall, and bending forward with 
all his strength, succeeded in straightening the 
hook so far as to remove it from the ring. And 
now there only remained the heavy wooden chain 
fastened to his feet, and also made fast to the 
wall. By a powerful effort he broke two of the 
inks of this chain. 

He was free — free at least to stand erect and 
walk around his miserable prison. With a feel- 
ing of inexpressible joy he raised himself to his 
full height — it enraptured him to move his arms, 
so long and painfully confined — ^he extended them 
widely and powerfully, as if he wished to clasp 
the whole outside world to his heart. 

Could the commandant Bruckhausen have cast 
one glance into this horrible, noiseless cell, he 
would have trembled with rage and apprehension. 
The unchained giant stood wdth glad smiles, and 
flaming eyes, and outstretched arms, as if adjur- 
ing the spirits of the under-world to come to his 
assistance. But the commandant lay in careless 
security upon his soft, white couch; his eyes were 
closed ; they could not pierce the dark cell where 
a fellow-man, with loudly-beating heart, but silent 
lips, called rapturously to the fair goddess Liber- 
ty, and hastened to clasp her in his arms. 

Stepping forward, he sought the door of his 
prison, and kneeling before it, he took out his 
knife. He tried to cut out a small piece and to 
ascertain the thickness of the wall ; this was short 
work — ^the door opened inside, and it was easy to 
cut around and remove the lock. It was made of 
simple oak boards. Once convinced of this, Trenck 
prudently sought his mattress in order to obtain 
rest and strength. It was impossible to commence 
his labor then. The night was far spent, and 
every morning at eight o’clock the jailer came to 
inspect him and bring his bread and water. His 
visit must be over before he could begin his work 
—he must possess his soul in patience. What 
were a few hours’ waiting to him who had waited 


long, dreary years-?— a fleeting moment, scarcely 
sufficient to accustom him to his new happiness, 
to enable him to collect his thoughts and bear 
quietly the rapturous conviction of approaching 
freedom. 

“ Yes, I will be free ; this is the last night ot 
my imprisonment.” But while waiting in this 
dreary prison he could enjoy one pleasure long 
denied him — he could stretch his limbs upon his 
bed without being martyred and crushed by his 
bonds — ^without hearing the clank of chains. 
With what gladness he now stretched himself upon 
his poor couch ! — ^how grateful he was to God for 
this great happiness ! — how sweet his sleep ! — 
how glorious his dreams ! 

Trenck awaked in the early morning, revived 
and strengthened. It was time to prepare for the 
daily visitation — to replace his chains, and take 
possession of his gravestone. His eyes accus- 
tomed to the darkness soon discovered the broken 
link of the c’nain, which he hid in his mattress. 
With a piece of his hair-band he fastened the 
chain to his feet, hung the second chain to the 
ring upon his waist, and now it only remained to 
place his hands in the manacles fastened to the 
iron bar. He had filed the handcuff from his left 
hand and that was easy to resume, but it was im- 
possible to force his right hand through the ring ; 
he had succeeded in removing it by a mighty ef- 
fort the evening before, but it was consequently 
greatly swollen. He took again his little piece of 
stone and tried to file it apart, but every effort 
was in vain. Nearer and nearer came the hour 
of visitation, and if his right hand were free when 
the jailer came, all would be discovered. It 
seemed to him as if he heard already the bolt of 
the first door. With a last, frightful effort, he 
forced his hand in the manacle ; his fingers cracked 
as if the bones were broken ; it was scarcely pos- 
sible for him to suppress a shriek of anguish. 
But the danger was even at the door, and the bless- 
ing of freedom was not too dearly bought even 
by this anguish ; he bore it with heroic fortitude, 
and though his whole figure trembled with pain, 
he conquered himself. lie leaned back breathless- 
ly and almost unconsciously against the wall ; and 
now the bolt really moved, and the jailer, followed 
by two officers, Entered. 

The visitation began. In this small cell, which 
held nothing but a mattress, a seat built in the 
wall, and a small table, there was but little to ex- 
amine. A fleeting glance at Trenck’s chains, 
which were rattling around him, and the search 
was over, and the jailer and officers left the prison. 
Trenck listened in breathless silence till he heard 
the bolt of the fifth door rattling, and now life 


106 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


and movement were in his form and features. It 
was time to work. But alas ! it was impossible. 
The swollen, blood-red, throbbing hand could not 
possibly be withdrawn from the handcuff. He 
must control himself — must wait and be patient. 
He resolved to do this with a brave heart, in the 
full conviction that he would attain his liberty. 

At last, after three days, the swelling disap- 
peared, and he found he could withdraw his hand 
without difficulty. The visit was no sooner over, 
than his chains fell off. For the last time ! God 
grant that for the last time he had heard them 
clank ! 

A herculean work was before him, but Freedom 
was without and awaiting him, and he panted to 
embrace her. Seizing his little pocket-knife, he 
stepped to the door and commenced his labor. 
The first door was not difficult, it opened from 
within. In half an hour the work was done, and 
Trenck advanced and extended his hands before 
him till they encountered another obstacle. This 
was the second door. But here was indeed a 
weary task. The door opened on the outside and a 
heavy cross-bar besides the lock secured it. It was 
necessary to cut entirely through the door above 
the bar, and spring over it. Trenck did not de- 
spair — ^bravely, unwearily, he went to work — the 
perspiration fell from his brow and mingled with 
the blood which trickled from his lacerated hands. 
Trenck did not regard it ; he felt no pain, no ex- 
haustion. Freedom stood before the frowning 
citadel, and awaited his coming. At last it was 
achieved ; with trembling hands he lifted the up- 
per part of the door from the hinges and sprang 
into the outer room. 

Here light and sunshine greeted him. Weary 
months had gone by since he had seen the sun — 
the soft light of heaven on the fresh green of 
earth — and now all this was his once more. There 
was a small window in this corridor, and not too 
high for him to look abroad. He turned his eyes, 
filled with tears of the purest joy, upon the cloud- 
less heavens ; he followed with longing eyes the 
flight of the doves, who moved like a black cloud 
across the sky and disappeared on the horizon. 
He inhaled with long-drawn breath the fresh, glad 
air, which appeared to him laden with the fra- 
grance of all the flowers of the world. He gave 
himself up for a few moments to this first raptur- 
ous enjoyment, then conquered himself and exam- 
ined his surroundings with a thoughtful, searching 
eye. 

He saw that his prison was built against the 
first wall of the fortress, and was exactly opposite 
an entrance, before which stood a high palisade ; 
this he must climb before he could reach the 


outer wall. But the night was long, ind he saw 
that the guard patrolling upon the wall disappeared 
from time to time for more than five minutes ; he 
must therefore have some distance to walk before 
he returned to the same spot. While his back 
was turned, must Trenck climb the palisade and 
wall. 

Trenck sprang back upon the floor with a glad 
and happy heart. What he had seen o^ the free, 
outer world had given him neAv life. With cheer- 
ful resolution he stepped to the third door. This 
was constructed like the first, and gave him but 
little trouble — it was soon opened, and Trenck 
passed on the other side. 

The sun went down, and the twilight obscured 
his view, as this was completed. And now his 
strength was exhausted, and his swollen and bleed- 
ing hands, from which the flesh hung in shreds, 
refused their service. With inexpressible despair 
he looked at the fourth door, which opened from 
the outside, and it was again necessary to cut 
through the whole breadth of the door in order 
to advance. 

Worn out and trembling, he seated himself 
near the door and leaned his aching head against 
the cool wood. He sat thus a long time, till he 
felt that his blood was flowing more calmly, and 
the wild, quick beating of his pulse had subsi- 
ded — till the pain in his hands and limbs was 
quieted, and he had won new strength. He then 
rose from the floor, took his knife, and recom- 
menced his work. He moved more slowly than 
before, but his work progressed. It could scarce- 
ly be midnight, and half the door was cut through. 
The moon shed her peerless rays through the lit- 
tle window and lighted his work, and showed him 
what remained to be done. In two hours he would 
finish, and then remained only the fifth door which 
opened on the wall, and which Gefhart assured 
him was not difficult. In three hours the work 
would be done — ^in three hours he might stand 
without, in the fresh, free air of heaven, himself 
a free and happy man. 

With renewed courage and renewed strength, 
after a short rest, he went again to work. He 
thrust his knife into the opening and pressed 
powerfully agaipst the wood. Suddenly his hand 
seemed paralyzed — on the other side of the door 
he heard a light clang, and with a hollow cry of 
woe, Trenck sank upon the floor. The blade of 
the knife was broken and had fallen on the other 
side. Now he was lost ! There was no longer 
hope of escape ! He rushed to the window ; 
would it not be possible to escape in that way I 
No, no ! It was not possible to pass through 
this small opening. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Trenck sank upon his knees before the window 
and stared into the heavens. His pallid lips mur- 
mured low words. Were they prayers? — were 
they curses ? — or was it the death-rattle of dead 
hopes and dying liberty ? At last he rose from 
his knees ; his face, which had been that of a 
corpse, now assumed an expression of firm re- 
solve. Staggering and creeping along by the wall, 
he returned to his prison, which he had left so 
short a time before full of happy hopes. He 
reached his bed and laid down upon it, holding 
the broken knife in his hand. Not to sleep, not 
to rest, but to die! He could think of no other 
hope — no other way than this. “ Yes, I will die ! ” 
His life’s courage, his life’s energy, was exhausted. 
He had closed his account with the world. Slowly 
he raised his hand aloft with the broken knife, 
and collecting all his strength for one last, decisive 
blow, he bowed and cut the vein of his left foot, 
then raised his head with a smile of triumph, and 
stretching out his left arm he forced the stump of 
his knife deep into the large vein of his elbow. 
The deed was done! He felt the warm blood 
flowing from his veins — he felt that with it also 
was sw'eeping by the miserable remnant of his 
buried existence. His thoughts wandered, and a 
happy insensibility overpowered him, and now his 
blessed spirit floated chainless and free beyond 
this drear prison. The necessities of this poor 
life and it? tortures were overcome. 

But what was that? Who called his name 
lightly from without, and made the air of this liv- 
ing grave tremble with unwonted tones ? 

When this call was repeated the second time, 
Trenck felt a light trembling in his whole frame. 
The whisper of his name had called back his fleet- 
ing spirit. The godlike dream of release was 
at an end ; Trenck lived again, a suffering, de- 
fenceless man. For the third time he heard his 
name called — ^for the third time a voice, as if from 
heaven, rang, “ Trenck ! Trenck ! ” 

Trenck gathered all his little strength, and re- 
plied : 

“ Who calls me ? ” 

“ It is I,” said the faithful Gefhart ; “ have I not 
sworn to bring you help ? I have crept over the wall 
only to say to you that I think of you — that you 
must not despair — that help is nigh, even at the 
door. An unknown friend has sent you a greeting 
by me; he has given me a roll of gold to be use- 
ful in your flight. Come near, I will throw it to 
you through the window.” 

“ It is too late, Gefhart, all is too late ! I lie 
bathed in my blood ; to-morrow they will find me 
dead ! ” 

“ But why die ? ” cried the fresh, strong voice 


lO'i 

of Gefhart; “why wish for death, now when es* 
cape is possible ? Here there are no guards, and 
I will soon find a way to furnish you with tools. 
Try only to break your prison — for the rest I will 
remain responsible.” 

“ Alas, I tried to-night and I failed ! ” said 
Trenck. A few tears stole from his eyes and 
rolled slowly over his hollow cheeks. 

“You will succeed better another time, Baron 
Trenck ; whenever I am on guard here I will seek 
an opportunity to speak with you, and we will ar- 
range all. Do not despair. I must go, the sun is 
rising, and I may be seen. Do not despair ! God 
will help you — ^trust fully in me.” * 

The voice had long since died away, but Trenck 
listened still for those tones, which seemed like 
the greeting of one of God’s angels ; they illumi- 
nated his prison and gave strength to his soul. 
No, no, now he would not die ! He felt his cour- 
age revive. He would defy fate, and oppose its 
stern decrees by the mighty power of his will. 


CHAPTER Ai. 

THE PRISON BARRICADE. 

No, he would not die ! With trembling hands 
he tore his coarse shirt into strips, and bound 
with it his bleeding veins. When he had thus 
closed the portals upon death, he seated himself 
to meditate upon the means of avoiding still se- 
verer punishment. He soon arose from his bed, 
much strengthened by the short rest he had had. 
With an iron bar that he had forced from his bed 
he hammered into the wall until the atones, around 
which the mortar had become loosened owing tc 
the dampness of the cell, fell at his feet. He piled 
them together in the centre of his cell, and then 
hastened to barricade the second door he had at- 
tempted to force. The lower part of it was still 
held on by the lock ; over the opening at the top 
he passed the chains several times that he had 
forced from his limbs, forming a sort of trellis- 
work, which rendered entrance from without im- 
possible. 

When all his preparations were made, when he 
was ready for the contest, he seated himself upon 
his strange barricade, and there, wearied out by 
suffering and anxiety, he fell into a sweet sleep. 
He was awakened by the sound of many loud 
voices. Through the iron lattice of the second 
door he saw the wondering, temfied countenances 


* “ Frederick von Trenck’s Important Memoirs.” 


108 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


of ihe city guard, who were endeavoring to un- 
loose the chains. With one bound Trenck was 
beside his door, balancing in his right hand a large 
stone, and in the left his broken knife. He cried 
out, in a furious voice : 

“ Back ! back ! — let no one dare to enter here. 
My stones shall have good aim ; I will kill any 
one w^ho ventures to enter this room. Major, tell 
his excellency, the commandant, that I will re- 
main no longer in chains. I wish him to have me 
shot down at once ! I will thank him for my 
death, but I will curse him if he forces me to be- 
come a murderer. For I swear, before God, I will 
stone any one who seeks to overpower me. I 
will die — yes, die ! ” 

It was a fearful sight — this man, thin, wan, 
naked, and bleeding, who seemed to have risen 
from the grave to revenge the sufferings of his 
'’fe. His countenance was ghastly pale, his hair 
lying in matted locks on his neck ; and the long 
beard, covering the low'er part of his face, and fall- 
ing almost to his waist, gave him a wdld, insane 
look, which was heightened by the fearful bright- 
ness of his eyes. 

With terror and pity they gazed at the poor 
unfortunate one whom despair had driven to this 
extremity ; wdio remained deaf to all their repre- 
sentations, all their entreaties, still swearing that 
he wmuld kill any one who approached him. It 
was in vain that the officers besought him in the 
most tender manner to submit — that the prison 
chaplain came and implored him, in the name of 
God, to give up this useless resistance. God’s 
name had no effect whatever upon him. What 
was God to him — to him on whom no one had 
pity, neither God nor man ; he whom they treated 
like a wuld beast, and fastened in a cage ? It was 
in vain that the commandant ordered the guard 
to storm the fortified door. Trenck received them 
with stones, and sent the two foremost ones reel- 
ing to the floor, causing the others to fall back in 
dismay. 

Trenck raised his hand with a shout of exulta- 
tion, armed with another stone, and fixing his 
wild, triumphant glance upon the commandant, he 
cried : 

“ You see it is useless to endeavor to take me 
while living. Order the guards to fire ! Let me 
die ! ” 

The commandant lacked the power to do as 
Trenck requested, however willing he may have 
been to grant his request. Instead of continuing 
his threats, he withdrew into another chamber, 
signing to the major to follow him. 

Trenck still stood with uplifted arm when the 
maior returned. And now, as the stern, much- 


feared commandant had left, no one withheld thf 
tender sympathy that was almost breaking the 
hearts of the lookers-on. Trenck saw it written 
upon every countenance, and he to whom a look 
and word of pity had been so long unknown, teh: 
deeply touched. His expression became milder^ 
and as the major, whom he had known in the 
other prison, commenced to speak to him in gen- 
tle, loving tones, and implored him not to cause 
his ruin, for all the punishment would fall upon 
his head, as, through his negligence, Trenck had 
been allowed to retain his knife — as he finished, 
Trenck’s arm fell to his side, and tears streamed 
from his eyes. 

“No one,” said he, gently — “ no one shall be- 
come unhappy through me, for misery is a fearful 
thing. I will make no further resistance, if you^f 
will swear to me that no heavy chains shall be puf 
upon me — ^that I shall suffer no unworthy punish 
ment.” 

The major promised him, in the commandant’s 
name, that if he ceased to resist, no further notice 
would be taken of the affair. 

“ Then,” whispered Trenck, with a bitter smile, 

“ I must suffer anew — suffer forever.” 

He approached the door and drew off the 
chains. 

“ Now, guards,” said he, “ the door can be 
opened. The wild beast has become tame.” 

Then, with a low moan, he sank fainting upon 
the floor. He was lifted up and laid upon his 
bed. Tears were in every eye, but Trenck didi ^ 
not see them ; he did not hear their low, whis- 
pered words of sympathy and friendship. Death, 
from whom Trenck had once more been torn, 
had sent her twin sister, insensibility, to cause 
him to forget his sufferings for a while. 


CHAPTER YII. 

THE BATTLE OF COLLIN 

Lost ! — the battle was lost ! This was the crj' 
of woe throughout the Prussian camp — this was 
the fearful cry that palsied the hands of those who 
could not endure defeat. 

The Prussians who had defeated the enemy at 
Losovitz and Prague, were condemned to yield 
the palm of victory at Collin to their enemy’s com 
mander, Marshal Daun. They had fought bravely, 
desperately for this victory; and when all was 
over, death would have been preferable to defeat. 

The Prussians were beaten, though their king, 
Ziethen, and Moritz von Dessau — all of them he- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IIIS FAMIL1I . 


roes — were in the field. At the first thought of the 
possibility of losing the battle, there was a fearful 
panic throughout the army. 

“ We are lost ! lost ! ” — and this cry caused 
them to throw down their arms and fly, as if fol- 
lowed by a thousand furies ; as victory was impos- 
sible, they wished at least to save their lives. 

It was in vain that the officers implored them to 
rally again and fall upon the enemy. They did 
not heed. In vain that the king himself rode 
among them, pointing with his sword to the en- 
emy, and crying : 

“Forward! forward, boys! Would you live 
® forever ? Death comes to all ! ” 

They looked at him stubbornly ; they feared not 
now his piercing, eagle glance, his royal counte- 
nance. They looked and said : 

“We have worked hard enough to-day for eight- 
pence,” and then continued their flight. 

But the king could not yet be brought to believe 
the truth. He still trusted in the possibility of 
victory. He clung with desperation to this hope ; 
he let his voice be heard — that voice that gener- 
ally had such power over his soldiers ; he called 
them to him, and pointed out to them the enemy’s 
battery ; he ordered the band to play a martial 
air to inspire the men. This call brought a few 
faithful soldiers around him — only forty warriors 
were ready to follow their king. 

“ Forw'ard ! we will take the battery ! ” cried 
he, as he pressed on, regardless of the shower of 
the enemy’s balls. 

What was this to him ? what had he to do with 
death — ^lie whose only thought was for the honor 
and glory of his army ? If he succeeded in tak- 
ing this battery, it would encourage his despond- 
ing soldiers. They would once more believe in the 
star of their king, and assemble bravely around 
him. This it was that gave hope to the king. 

Without once looking back, he pressed onward 
to the battery — w'hen suddenly, amid the clatter 
of trumpets and the roar of cannon, this fearful 
question reached him : 

“ Sire, would you take the battery alone ? ” 

The king reined in his horse and looked behind 
him. Yes, he was alone; no one was with him 
but his adjutant. Major von Grant, who had asked 
this question. 

A deep groan escaped the king ; his head fell 
upon his breast, and he gave himself up to the 
bitterness of despair. 

A cannon-ball fell beside him— he did not heed 
It; he was too utterly wretched. Another ball 
struck his horse, causing it to prance with pain 
and terror. 

Major Grant grasped the king’s bridle. 

8 


lOf 

“ Sire,” said he, “ are you determined to b( 
shot ? If so, let me know it, and with your majes 
ty’s permission I will withdraw.” 

The king raised his head, and looked at the dar 
ing adjutant with a bitter smile. 

“We will both withdraw,” said he, gently, ad- 
vancing toward the generals who had been seek- 
ing him throughout the battle-field. He greeted 
them with a silent bow, and passed without a 
word. Whither he was now going, none of 
the generals knew, but they followed him in si- 
lence. 

The king rode up the slight eminence from 
which, on that morning, his array had fallen like a 
glittering avalanche upon the enemy. This ava- 
lanche was now transformed into a stream of 
blood, and corpse upon corpse covered the ground. 
He reined in his horse and gazed at the Austrian 
army, who were now withdrawing to their caiap, 
midst shoutings and rejoicings, to re.'-t after the-r 
glorious victory. Then, turning hi; ho^se, 1 o 
looked at the remains of his little flv'i*;, 

hither and thither in the disorder of defeat '* 
deep sigh escaped him. Throwing hi- head t,-. ;!,* 
proudly, he called Prince Moritz von )e«s n and 
the Duke of Bevem to his side. 

“ Sirs,” said he, firmly ; “ the fate of to-day la 
decided. All that now remains for uf do, f to 
deprive the enemy of the advantages of this vic- 
tory. Collect our scattered regiments, and lead 
the army through the defile of Plain j, b . - k to 
Nimburg. There we will decide what is best to 
do. I go on before you, and wish no one to ac- 
company me.” 

He turned his horse, rode slowly down the hill, 
then took the road leading to Nimburg. Lost in 
deep thought, he continued his way. He was fol- 
lowed by his faithful body-guard, who, at a sign 
from Prince von Dessau, had hastened after him. 
A few flying officers and sergeants joined him. 
These were the followers of Prussia’s hero-king ; 
but they were suddenly scattered. A soldier gal- 
loped up to them, and stated that he had just en- 
countered a regiment of the enemy’s hussars, who 
were pursuing them. There was a cry of terror 
throughout the guards, and then, as if witlj one 
accord, putting spurs to their horses, they fled in 
wild disorder. 

The king continued his way, slowly and' quietly — 
slowly and quietly a few of his guard follbwed 
him. In funereal silence they passed through 
the defile of Plainan, and reached at last Nimburg, 
the king’s appointed place of meeting. 

The king now reined in his horse, and, looking 
back, he became aware of his followers. Beckon 
ing to his adjutant, he ordered him to get quar 


110 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


iers for the soldiers, and then to inform the gen- 
erals that he awaited them. 

“ Where ? ” asked the astonished adjutant. 

“ Here ! ” said the king, pointing to a fallen 
pump, a few steps from where he stood. 

He dismounted, and, when the adjutant had dis- 
ap-peared, he threw himself upon the old pump, 
and rested his head upon his cane. Thus he re- 
mained a long while, thinking painfully of the 
occurrences of the past day. He remembered 
that he had appointed the site of to-day’s 'battle, 
without listening to the warnings of his experi- 
enced generals, and that Moritz von Dessau had 
implored him to put his army in another position, 
before attacking the enemy. He remembered the 
prince saying to him — “It would be impossible for 
an attack from this point to succeed,” and his en- 
treating him to draw back and change his position. 
He remembered, also, his riding up to the prince, 
with his naked sword, and inquiring, in a threat- 
ening tone, “ whether he meant to obey or not ? ” 
And Prince Moritz von Dessau had obeyed ; his 
prophecy had been fulfilled — ^the battle was lost. 

“Ah,” whispered the king, “how poor, how 
weak is man ! The happiness of an hour intoxi- 
cates him, and he defies his coming fate; he 
should know that happiness is a fleeting guest, but 
that misfortune is the constant companion of 
man. I have allowed myself to be deceived by 
fortune, and she has turned against me. For- 
tune is a woman, and I am not gallant. The 
fickle goddess watches carefully, and makes good 
use of my faults. It was a great fault to dare, 
with twenty-three battalions of infantry, to attack 
an army of sixty thousand men, half of whom are 
cavalry. Ah ! my great ancestor, Frederick Wil- 
liam, what have you to say of your poor nephew, 
who, with his little host, is fighting against Rus- 
sia, Austria, a large part of Germany, and a hun- 
dred thousand French troops? Will you assist 
me ? Will you be ray guardian angel, praying for 
me above ? Yes, yes ! you will assist me if I 
assist myself, and do not give way to my faults. 
Had I been killed in to-day’s battle, I would now 
be in a safe haven, beyond the reach of storms. 
But now I must swim still farther into the stormy 
sea, until at last I find in the grave that rest and 
peace which I shall never attain in this world. 
This is a consoling thought; it shall rouse me 
again to life. I am glad I did not die to-day. I 
can still repair my fault. All the responsibility 
will be thrown on me ; it will be said, the battle 
would have been won, but for Frederick’s obsti- 
nacy. But let this be ! It is a necessary conse- 
quence that a warrior should suffer for the faults 
jf his followers Through me this battle was lost. 


and in history it will go down thus to future gen- 
erations. But many a victory shall still be r&. 
corded, and as the defeat was owing to me, so 
shall the victory also come through me alone. I 
alone will bear upon my shoulders Prussia’s hoa ir, 
Prussia’s glory. It lies now, with me, bleeding on 
the ground. It shall be lifted and sustained by 
me alone ! ” And raising his burning eyes heav- 
enward, he seemed to see these future victories 
branded upon the skies. Gradually the inspira- 
tion left his countenance, giving place to deep 
thought. He had delivered his funeral oration to 
the lost battle, and now gave his thought t(f his 
future victories. He drew lines and figures upon 
the sand with his cane. It may have been a 
drawing of the last or a sketch of the next battle. 

The king was so absorbed in this occupation, 
that he did not perceive his generals, who, having 
reached Nimburg with the wreck of the army, 
hastened to the place of appointment, and were 
now assembled at a respectful distance from hi-n. 

Frederick continued to sketch. The generals 
gazed at him in silence, anxiously awaiting the 
moment when he would arouse hirhself. He sud- 
denly looked up, and did not seem surprised to 
see them ; lifting his hat slightly, he greeted them, 
and rose from his lowly seat. jr 

“It is well, sirs, that you are here,” said ha? 
“ We must now make our preparations for th.o ' 
future; for our enemies, having beaten us once,® 
will think us no longer capable of resisting them, 
and will fall upon us with renewed courage. We 
will convince them, gentlemen, that though wt 
are stricken to the ground for a moment, we are 
not crushed, not dead. We will convince them 
that we still live to tear from them the laurels 
they have taken from us this day. Prince von 
Dessau, hasten immediately to our army at Prague, 

I command the Prince of Prussia to raise the siege 
there at once. He shall call all his generals to- 
gether, and hold council with them as to the most 
suitable mode of retreat. He shall determine with 
them how the siege can best be raised ; to avoid, 
as far as possible, the appearance of flying from 
their enemy. With gay music they should leave 
their posts ; they should not all leave together, but 
in groups, so as to mislead the enemy. In small 
companies should also the retreat through Bohe- 
mia to Lausitz be made, for it would be difficult 
for a large army to pass this mountainous district ; 
but they should remain as near together as possi- 
ble, choosing the widest, most convenient roads. 
These are the orders you are to deliver my brother 
the Prince of Prussia, and his generals. I give 
to the prince the command of this portion of my 
army, and require of him to hasten to Lausitz. I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 


will join him in Bautzen. And then, gentlemen, 
will seek an occasion to repay our enemies for 
their civilities of to-day.” 

The generals had listened to him with breath- 
less attention ; and as he now dismissed them, 
with a glorious smile upon his lips, they repeat- 
ed unanimously his last words, “We will repay 
our enemies for their civilities.” 

As if inspired by this shout, the soldiers, lying 
about the market-place, at a slight distance from 
the king, broke into a loud hurrah, and shouted, 
“Long live our king ! ” 

The king turned slowly toward them, but when 
he saw all that remained of his noble army, he 
became pale, and pressed his lips tightly together, 
as if to suppress a cry of horror. Then advan- 
cing, followed by his generals, to where his weary, 
wounded soldiers were lying, he said : 

“ Children, is this all that is left of you ? ” 

“ Yes, father, we are the last,” said an old gray- 
neaded officer, standing before the king. “ There 
were many thousands of us, now there are two 
hundred and fifty.” 

“ Two hundred and fifty ! ” repeated the king, 
with a bitter smile. 

“ And it was not our fault,” continued the old 
officer, “that we did not faU with the rest. We 
fought as bravely as they; but Death did not want 
us. Perhaps he thought it best to leave a few of 
us, to guard our king. We all think so ! Some 
were left to repay those abominable Saxons for 
their to-day’s work.” 

“ And why alone the Saxons ? ” asked the king. 

“ Because it was those infamous Saxon troops 
that hewed down our regiment. They fell upon 
us like devils, and striking their cursed swords 
into us, cried out, ‘ This is for Striegau ! ’ ” 

“ Ah ! you see,” cried the king, “ that while 
beating you, they could but think of the many 
times you had conquered them.” 

“They shall think of this again, father,” said 
another soldier, raising himself with great pain 
from the ground. “ Wait until our wounds have 
healed, and we will repay them with interest.” 

“ You are wounded, Henry ? ” said the king. 

“ Yes, your majesty, in the arm.” 

“ And old Klaus ? ” 

“Is dead!” 

“And Fritz Verder ? ” 

“Dead 1 He lies with the others upon the bat- 
tle-field. There are seven hundred and fifty of us 
in heaven, and only two hundred and fifty on 
earth. But those above, as well as below, still 
cry — ‘ Long live our king ! ’ ” 

“ Long live our king,” cried they all, rising. 

The king made no reply ; his eye passed from 


111 

one to the other pale, exhausted countenance, and 
an inexpressible sorrow overcame aim. 

“Dead!” murmured he, “my faithful guards 
dead.! seven hundred and fifty of my choice men 
have fallen.” And overpowered by his emotion, 
the king did not force back the tears welling to 
his eyes. They stole softly down his cheek, and 
Frederick was not ashamed. He did not blush, 
because his warriors had seen him weep. 

“ Children,” cried the old officer, after a pause, 
and wiping the tears from his weary eyes, “ from 
now on it will be glorious to die ; for when we are 
dead, our king weeps for us.” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE INIMICAL BROTHERS. 

“ The king comes ! The king is entering Baut- 
zen-! ” 

This announcement brought pale terror to the 
hearts of the Prince of Prussia and his generals. 
They who had heretofore sprang joyfully to meet 
the call of their king, now trembled at his glance. 
They must now present to him the sad and de- 
spoiled remnant of that great army which, under 
the command of the Prince Augustus William of 
Prussia, had made the retreat from Lausitz. 

It had, indeed, been the most fearful retreat 
ever attempted by the Prussian troops. It had 
cost them more than the bloodiest battle, and they 
had suffered more from hardships during the last 
few days than ever before during a whole cam- 
paign. They had marched over narrow, stony, 
rugged mountain-paths, between hills and horrible 
abysses, sometimes climbing upward, sometimes 
descending. Thousands died from exhaustion; 
thousands pressed backward, crushed by those 
in the front ; thousands, forced onward by those 
in the rear, had stumbled and fallen into fathom- 
less caverns, which lay at the foot of these moun- 
tain passes, yawning like open graves. If a wheel 
broke, the wagon was burned ; there was no time 
for repairs, and if left in the path, it interrupted 
the passage of the flying army. At last, in order 
to facilitate the flight, the provision-wagons were 
burned, and the bread divided amongst the sol- 
diers ; the equipages and pontoon-wagons were 
also burned. Exhausted by their unusual exer 
tions, beside themselves from pain and unheard- 
of suffering the whole army was seized with a 
death-panic. 

The soldiers had lost not only all faith in their 
good fortune, but all faith in their leaders. Thou 


112 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


sands deserted ; thousands fled to escape death, 
vvhich seemed to mock at and beckon to them 
from every pointed rock and every dark cavern.* 

While one part of the army deserted or di^d of 
hunger or exhaustion, another part fought with an 
intrenched enemy, for three long days, in the nar- 
row pass of Gabel, under the command of General 
von Puttkammer. They fought like heroes, but 
were at last obliged to surrender, with two thou- 
sand men and seven cannon. Utterly broken by 
these losses, dead and dying from starvation and 
weariness, the army drew off toward Zittau. 

There was but one thought which sustained the 
wearied, and lent strength to the starving. In 
Zittau were immense magazines of grain. In Zit- 
tau, the rich Saxon city, which throughout all 
Saxony was called the gold-mine, they dared hope 
for rest and opportunity to recover. 

Before this unhappy army reached Zittau, Duke 
Charles of Lothringen was in advance of them. 
With wanton cruelty he reduced the industrious, 
open city to ashes, destroyed the Prussian maga- 
zines, and, with his army, trampled upon the 
ruins and the corpses of this unfortified town. The 
Prussians had now lost their last hope. They en- 
camped by Lodau, and after a short rest, advanced 
to Bautzen, which city the king had appointed for 
the reunion of the two army corps. And now, 
one day after the arrival of this miserable rem- 
nant of an army, the king entered the camp of 
Bautzen. 

The unhappy moment was at hand ; they must 
now meet the stern eye of the king. These were 
bold, heroic generals — the Prince of Prussia, 
Von Bevern, Von Wurtemberg, Von Dessau, 
Winterfeldt, Goltz, Ziethen, Krokow, and Schmet- 
tau. Bravely, triumphantly had they fought in 
all previous battles, but now, amidst defeat and 
disaster, they must meet the eye of the king. 
This was more dangerous to them than the most 
deadly battle, and they shrank appalled before 
this fearful encounter. 

Silently, and frowning darkly, the generals 
mounted their horses, and rode down the high- 
way — the Prince of Prussia in advance, and by 
his side the Duke of Wurtemberg. And now, in 
front of them, in an open space, they saw the 
king. He was on his horse, and looked sternly 
toward them. The Prince of Prussia trembled, 
and, involuntarily checking his horse, he stooped 
with a weary smile toward the duke. 

“ I have a feeling,” said he, in low tones, “ as 
if ray fate was advancing threateningly, in the 
form of my brother. It glowers upon me with a 
glance which announces that I am condemned to 


death. Look, duke ! my sentence is written in 
the raging eye of the king.” 

“ The king’s wrath will not fall upon you alone,” 
whispered the duke, “ but upon us all. This is a 
wild tempest, which threatens us all in the same 
moment with destruction.” 

“ A tempest ? yes ! the thunder rolls over all, 
but the stroke of lightning falls only upon one ; 
and I — I am the one,” said the prince, solemnly ; 
“I am the sacrificial offering chosen by the king, 
with which he will seek to propitiate the frowning 
gods of destiny,” 

“ God forbid ! ” said the duke, sadly. “ The 
king will be just ! He will see that these fright- 
ful misfortunes were unavoidable ; that we are in- 
nocent. He will listen to our explanations; he — ” 

“ I tell you,” said Augustus William, “ he will 
demand a subject for his scorn. I shall be this 
sacrifice! Well, so let it be; I am willing to be 
offered up for my fatherland ! Let us go onward, 
duke.” He drew his bridle and they rode forward. 

The king remained immovable in the same spot, 
his proud head erect, and his icy glance fixed 
steadily upon them. 

As they drew nearer, and could no longer 
doubt that he recognized them, the king raoved 
slowly round, and turned his back upon them. 
They were greatly embarrassed — undecided what 
to do ; they looked to the prince, in the hope 
that he would advance and announce himself to 
the king, and compel him to notice them. Prince 
Augustus William did not advance ; he stood firm 
and immovable, as if moulded in brass. No 
muscle of his face moved, but his pale and tightly- 
compressed lips slightly trembled. The generals 
followed his example. Silently, immovably they 
stood behind him, their eyes fixed upon the king, 
who remained still with his back turned to them. 

There was a long and painful pause ; not a word 
was spoken. Those who were arranging the tents 
for the king’s troops were moving actively about, 
and now they drew near with their measuring-line, 
exactly to the spot upon which the king stood. 
He was forced to take another position ; he turned 
his horse, and stood exactly in front of his gen- 
erals. His countenance was not calm and cold, it 
flashed with rage. The Prince of Prussia had the 
courage to brave his anger, and, drawing near, he 
bowed profoundly. 

The king did not answer his greeting, and, in- 
deed, appeared not to see him. A black cloud 
was on his brow, and it became still blacker as 
the other generals dared to approach and salute 
him. Suddenly, in that tone of voice he was ac- 
customed to use only upon the field of battle, the 
king called out : 


♦ Warner’s “Campaigns of Frederick the Great.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FAMILY. 


113 


“ Goltz, come here ! ” 

The general advanced from the circle, with a 
firm military bearing, and approached the king. 

“ Goltz,” said he, loudly, and looking as if he 
wished to crush the unhappy general — “ Goltz, tell 
my brother and the other generals that if I did 
justice, I would take off their heads — Winterfeldt 
only excepted.” 

A murmur of discontent was heard amongst the 
generals, and every eye was fixed angrily upon 
•Winterfeldt. He turned deadly pale, and looked 
down, as if ashamed of the exception the king had 
made, and dared not gaze upon those whose guilt 
he shared, and whose punishment he escaped. 

The king fixed his eye so piercingly upon the 
raurmurers, that they felt his glance upon them, 
without daring to meet it. Only the Prince of 
Prussia drew still nearer to the king. 

“Sire,” said he, in a calm voice, “my duty de- 
mands that I should give your majesty a list of 
the army. Will you be graciously pleased to ac- 
cept it from me ? ” He took the paper from his 
pocket, and handed it to the king, who snatched 
it from him hastily, and turned bis back again 
upon them. 

“ Withdraw, messieurs,” said he, “ your presence 
oppresses me; you remind me of the disgraceful 
defeat my army has suffered, through the guilt of 
its leaders.” 

“Sire,” said the Duke of Bevern, “will your 
majesty listen to our justification ? ” 

“Justification!” cried the king, with flashing 
eyes — “if this unparalleled disgrace which you 
have all brought upon my army could be justified, 
I might pity ; but I must curse you. Go, sir duke, 
I will not look upon you.” And springing with 
youthful activity from his horse, he entered his 
tent. 

The generals were alone. They looked upon 
each other’s deathlike faces with suppressed 
scorn upon their trembling lips, and tears of rage 
in their eyes. 

“ Shall we bear this shame silently ? ” said one. 

“ Shall we allow ourselves to be scolded like 
schoolboys ? ” said another. “ Shall we suffer 
foul accusations to be brought against us, and no 
opportunity granted for justification ? ” 

As the murmur of the generals became louder, 
the Prince of Prussia, who had been standing 
aside in deep thought, came forward. An expres- 
sion of calm resolve was written upon his noble 
features. 

“ No, gentlemen, you shall not suffer this. I 
undertake to justify you to the king,” 

* The king’s own words. — “ Characteristics of the 
Seven Years’ War.” 


“ Do not attempt it, prince,” said the Duke of 
Wurtemberg; “at least, not in this hour. The 
king will crush you in his rage 1” 

Prince Augustus William cast his eyes to 
heaven, saying, “ I am in the hands of God. I 
would rather die by the king’s rage than to endure 
his contempt. The king made me commander-in- 
chief of this army corps, and accuses me of fail- 
ure in duty ! He shall hear my defence. As a 
Hohenzollern, as a general, as his brother, I de- 
mand the right to make my report.” He ad- 
vanced hastily toward the king’s tent, but the 
Duke of Bevern held him back. 

“ Will your royal highness allow me to accom- 
pany you ? ” said he. “ The king’s scorn fell upon 
me personally, and I also demand a hearing.” 

“ No one shall accompany me,” said the prince, 
solemnly. “ None but God shall be witness to 
what we have to say. Wait for me, therefore, 
gentlemen. I shall soon return.” He bowed and 
entered the king’s tent. 

“ Announce me to his majesty,” he said to the 
guard, who returned immediately and opened the 
inner door of the tent. 

The prince entered with a firm step and head 
erect — the door closed behind him — the two 
brothers were alone. 

The king sat upon a camp-stool by a little ta- 
ble covered with papers. He held in his hand the 
paper which the prince had given him, and ap- 
peared to be reading it eagerly. The prince stood 
for some time silently at the door; at last, weary 
of waiting, he entered the tent and stepped di- 
rectly before the king. 

King Frederick arose and fixed his great eyes 
scornfully upon his brother. “ I gave you an ar- 
my corps of thirty-six thousand men, and you 
bring me back sixteen thousand! Where have 
you left my soldiers ? ” 

“ They lie in the ni^rrow pass of Gabel — in the 
chasms of the Erz mountains — they have died of 
hunger and thirst, and they have deserted,” said 
Prince Augustus, solemnly. 

“ And you dare to tell me this ? ” said the 
king. 

“ I dare to tell you what fate has brought upon 
us.” 

“ Fate ? ” cried the king, shrugging his shoul- 
ders. “ Fate is ever the excuse for the crimes 
and follies of man. Your obstinacy and your dis- 
obedience are what you call fate. Prince Augus- 
tus William of Prussia, how did you dare to act 
contrary to my instructions, and to conduct this 
retreat through the mountains, and not by the 
highways ? ” 

“Your majesty gave me no instructions,” said 


114 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


the prince, eagerly. “ Your majesty commanded 
me to take counsel of my generals in every move- 
ment, and I did so. I should not have retreated 
through the mountains had they not aavised it in 
consideration of the near approach of the enemy. 
But I do not say this to excuse myself, or to ac- 
cuse them, but to prove to my brother the king 
that it was unjust to place me under the guardian- 
ship and direction of his generals — unjust to 
place a mentor by my side who is my enemy — 
who hates me and seeks my destruction ! ” 

“ Do you dare to reproach me ? ” said the king. 
In a thundering voice. 

“ In this hour I dare all,” said the prince, stead- 
ily. “ This is a decisive hour between you and 
me, my brother. It is a strife of intellect, of 
spirit ; and although I know I am too weak to con- 
quer, I will at least fall with honor — ^with my 
sword in my hand ! I shall fall, but you shall not 
consider me a cowardly mute who does not dare 
to defend himself. I know that I have been slan- 
dered to you ; I know that those whom you hon- 
or with your friendship are spies upon my every 
word and look, and report to your majesty what 
they hear and what they do not hear — what is 
true and what is not true. I know I have been 
robbed of my brother’s love, but I will not con- 
sent to the loss of his respect and consideration. 
Sire, Winterfeldt wrote to you ; I know that he 
did so. If he wrote that I was obstinate and 
self-willed, and alone answerable for the disasters 
of the army,* I call God to witness that he slan- 
dered me. Your majesty speaks of instructions. 
I received none. I would remind you that I en- 
treated you in vain to give me partial instructions 
— that I wrote down your majesty’s verbally ex- 
pressed opinions, and implored you to add to them 
your approval, or written remarks and explana- 
tions. -j- Your majesty returned the paper without 
signature or remark. I alone should bear the re- 
sponsibility, and if this sad retreat should end disas- 
trously, the whole world might say, ‘ This was the 
work of the Prince of Prussia ! ’ Look you, my 
brother, I know, I feel this. The lost battle of 
Collin demanded ati offering, and I was predes- 
tined for the sacrifice.” 

The king uttered a cry of rage, and advanced 
against the prince with outstretched arm, but sud- 
denly recovered his self-control, folded his arms, 
and stared coldly at the prince. 

“ I have listened quietly to you, hoping always 
I might possibly find in your words a glimmer of 
excuse for jour blasphemous deeds. I find none. 

♦ W ai-ner’s “ Cuinpaigns of Frederick the Great.” 

t “ Eeceuil des Lettres du Eoi de Prusse et du Prince 
de I*rjsse.” 


Have you finished, or have j ou still something tc 
say ? ” 

“ I have this to say, sire : I demand that my 
conduct be investigated.” 

“ Woe to you if I do this — woe to you if I listen 
to your bold, insane demand ! ” Stepping before 
the prince, and fixing his eye upon him, he said : 

“ You have acted not like a Prussian, not like a 
general of Prussian troops, but like an enemy- 
like an ally of Austria and of France, who sought 
'only for means to destroy the Prussian army and ’ 
put an end to this war. I know that it never had 
your approval, because directed against your be- 
loved France.” 

“ Ah, my brother, you distrust me ! ” cried the 
prince, fiercely. 

“Yes, I distrust you,” said the king, eagerly-— 
“ I distrust you, and you merit it ! You have 
just said that this was an important hour be- 
tween us. Well, then, it shall be so. I accept 
this stiife of words which you have the audacity 
to offer me. This was not cautiously, not wisely 
done, on your part. You yourself have armed 
me — my weapons are sharp. I have suffered much 
during my whole life because of you, my brother. 
This began even in the days of our childhood, 
and will, as it appears, follow me to the grave. 
You were the favorite of my father, and I remem- 
ber well that he one day proposed to me to relin- 
quish the throne in your favor. I withstood him. 
I did not pay for this opposition with my life, but 
with my life’s happiness. I will not account this 
against you ; perhaps you were innocent ; but it 
appears to me you have not forgotten our father’.? 
wish — that you look upon me as a usurper, who 
has robbed you of your throne. You act as if 
you had the right to measure and criticise all 
my undertakings, and to make yourself a judge 
over me. I undertook this war with the convic- 
tion of my right and my royal duty. You dared 
to protest against it. You dared, in the presence 
of my generals, to speak of your claims and the 
claims of your children! Oh, sir, you were al- 
ready thinking of the time when j’ou would lay 
my head in the vault and walk over my dead 
body to a throne! In that hour you stood no 
longer by my side as my subject, as my brother, 
as my friend, but as an ambitious prince royal, 
who hates his king who keeps him from his crown, 
and who is hated of the king because he reminds 
him of his death ! And during no moment since 
then could you have denied this hatred.” 

“ Oh, my brother ! ” said the prince, painfully, 
“ your own hatred has blinded you and made you 
unjust. I have always loved and admired you, 
even when I did not approve of yourundei’takii.gs.’' 





THE INTERVIEW IN FREDERICK’S TENT AFTER THE DEFEAT 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


115 


“ And yet it was you, you alone,” said the king, 
hastily, “ who dared, after the fatal disaster of 
Collin, to utter loud cries of grief and despair. 
When my courier brought to you and the gener- 
als and the army the mournful news of the lost 
battle of Collin, in place of strengthening and en- 
couraging my warriors — consoling and inspiring 
them with confidence in their royal leader — you 
dared, in the presence of all my generals, to cry 
and whimper, not over destiny, not over the in- 
constancy of fortune, but over the conduct of your 
brother and your king. In place of justifying me 
to my silent and cast-down generals, you ac- 
cused me boldly, and made my misfortune my 
crime.” * 

“ It is true,” murmured the prince, “ distress 
and grief overcame me and robbed me of my 
reason.” 

“ Even because you were so wise and bold a 
warrior,” said the king, with a cold smile, “ I 
wished to give you an opportunity to prove your 
genius to my whole people, whose sovereign you 
will one day be. Because you wept and clamored 
before my generals over my faults as a leader, I 
wished you to prove to them that you were capa- 
ble of commanding and bringing good out of evil. 

I trusted you with my third army corps — I ex- 
pected it to retreat safely and surely under your 
command, after I had almost led it to destruction 
in a bloody, disastrous battle. I gave you the op- 
portunity to make yourself a god in the eyes of 
my soldiers, a glorious model to my generals. 
What use have you made of these advantages ? 
You bring me crippled, hungry, desperate sol- 
diers ! You bring me generals covered with shame, 
and blushing over their guilt. If I should deal 
with them as they deserve, I would give them over 
to a court-martial and they would be condemned.” 

“ And still I am not conscious of any fault,” 
said the prince. “ I dare to say fate was against 
me, and that I am wholly innocent.” 

“ And I repeat to you your conduct has been 
that of an ally of France, who wished destruction 
to the Prussians, and to close this hated war ! ” 

“ If that were so, I would be a traitor ! ” said 
the prince. 

“And who will dare say that you are not!” 
cried the king. “ Who will say that he who, while 
I was engaged in w^ar with France, exchanged the 
most tender letters wdth the former French ambas- 
sador Valori, and complained to this Frenchman 
of the obstinacy of his brother, who is also his 
king ? Who will say that this man is not a trai- 
tor? Was it not known to you, my brother, 
xhen you wrote to Valori, that the French had al. 

• Retzow’s “ Charaotoristics of Frederick.” 


ready invaded my W estphalian p\'ovinccs ? It was 
known to you — and yet you dared to write to a 
Frenchman that you were convinced of the decline 
of my kingdom. And yet you dared to bring 
charges against me, and to say : ‘ Ge seront mci 
enfants qui seront Us victimes des f antes passees.' 
Did you not know that it was the Marquise de 
Pompadour who gave occasion for this war? Yoa 
knew' it, and yet you commissioned Valori to en* 
treat the marquise to have her portrait painted for 
you ! Now, sir, I ask you, in all candor, if these 
are not the acts of a traitor ? ” 

The prince made a passionate exclamation, and 
laid his hand upon his sword. 

“ You dare to dishonor me, sire 1 ” 

“ I dare it I I dare to tell you the truth,” said 
the king, solemnly. “ Take your hand from your 
sword — ^the truth is an enemy that you cannot 
contend against with weapons, but with deeds, 
and your conduct testifies against you.” 

The prince breathed heavily, and turned deadly 
pale. 

“The contest is over. Your majesty fights 
against me with weapons which I do not possess, 
and would not dare use, and against which I can- 
not defend myself. You open my private letters, 
and from the hainnless confidences of friendship 
you make a traitor of me. To call me a tr.%itor, 
is to degrade me. I am dishonored ; and with a 
dishonored culprit your majesty cannot contend. 
I will therefore withdraw. No one will see the 
wounds you have inflicted — which have . pierced 
my heart ; but, I tell you, my brother, I will die 
of these wounds.” 

“ And in heaven, I suppose, yeu will accuse me 
as your murderer ? ” said the king, ironically. 

“ No ! in heaven I will pray for my fatherland,” 
said Prince Augustus William, mildly. He bow'cd 
respectfully, turned, and left the room. 

Without stood the generals, maintaining a 
solemn silence. When they saw the prince ap- 
pear at the door of king’s tent, so pale, so suffer- 
ing, a prophetic w'arning filled every breast. It 
seemed to them that a dying man approached 
them, and with inexpressible sorrow held out his 
hand for a last farewell. 

“ It is passed I The battle is ended ! ” 

At this moment the adjutant of the king left 
the tent, and approached the generals, who stood 
near the prince. 

“ His majesty commands you to see that the 
soldiers of the third army corps are kept, as far 
as it is possible, entirely separated from the rest 
of the army. You will immediately convey thfi 
order to the king’s army, that all intercourse bo 
tween them and the third army corps is forbidden 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


tl6 

4S this corps seems to have lost all courage and 
all honorable feeling.” * 

“ The king’s commands shall be obeyed,” said 
the generals, coldly. 

The prince was completely overcome by this 
last blow, and leaned for a moment upon the arm 
of the Duke of Wurtemberg; he soon recovered 
himself, and turning to General Schultz, he said : 

“ Go and bring me, from the king, the watch- 
word of the third army corps.” 

General Schultz withdrew, but returned quickly 
from the king’s tent, with a dark frown upon his 
face. 

“ Well,” said the prince, “ have you the watch- 
word ? ” 

“ No, your royal highness ! The king says, that 
for cowards and fugitives he has no watchword, 
and he commanded me to go to the devil.” 

A murmur of rage was heard amongst the gen- 
erals. The prince let his glance wander from one 
to the other of these dark faces. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ the tempest will soon 
be over, and the sun will shine again for you ; I 
am the only cloud now round about you, and I 
will withdraw.” 

“ What ! will you desert us ? ” said the generals, 
sadly. 

“ Do I not belong to the third army corps ? ” 
said the prince, with a painful smile. “ It may 
be that the king will command his soldiers to 
have no intercourse with the commander of the 
third army corps, and you ca^n understand that I 
prefer to anticipate him.” 

“Will your highness allow me to accompany 
you ? ” said the Duke of Bevern. “ I also will 
not allow myself to be despised and railed at with- 
out any opportunity accorded me of explanation.” 

The prince shook his head. 

“You must remain, general ; the army cannot 
spare its brave leaders. I, however — I must go. 
I will be the peace-offering for you all. I am 
sure this will content my brother the king.” 

“ Allow me, at least, to accompany your royal 
highness,” said General Schmettau. “ The king 
commanded me, through his adjufcJnt, to with- 
draw, and never dare to present myself before 
his eyes again. I also must leave the array.” 

The prince gave him his hand. 

“ You are, then, a welcome companion. Let us 
ride on to Bautzen, where we can refresh our- 
selves, and then go on to Dresden.” 

“ Will you really leave us ? ” said the Duke of 
Wurtemberg, sadly. 

“Would you have me wait for still further deg- 

♦ Knstrin. “ Characteristics from the Life of Frederick 
the Great.’’ 


radation ? ” said the prince. “ No, it is enough- 
more than I can bear. — My horse ! General, let us 
mount.” 

The two horses were brought forward. The 
generals placed themselves in front, to take leave 
of their former commander-in-chief, with all mili- 
tary honor. 

Prince Augustus rode slowly on. Everywhere 
he met sad faces and eyes filled with tears. 
Tears indeed were in his own eyes, but he would 
not weep — ^not now ; there was time enough for 
tears. He could weep during the sad remainder 
of his life. He forced his voice to be firm, and, 
waving his sword to the generals, as a last greet- 
ing, he said : 

“ I hope no one of you will hold me for a cow- 
ard. I am forced by the king to leave the army,” 
He turned his horse, and, followed by Schmettau, 
with head erect, he moved slowly off. 

“Now, by Heaven,” cried Ziethen, “he shall 
not leave the camp in this contemptible way ! I 
will give him a suitable guard. Let the king 
rage ; I can stand it ! ” He nodded to an officer. 
“Listen, Von Wendt, take half a company for a 
guard, and follow immediately behind the prince,- 
to Bautzen.” 

A few moments later, an officer sprang along 
the highway to Bautzen, accompanied by his hus- 
sars ; they soon overtook the prince, who greeted 
them kindly. 

“ Schmettau,” said he, “ Death avoided me so 
long as I was on the battle-field, now I bear him 
along with me ; and thus must it be, till the pale 
king of terrors carries me to another world.” He 
turned his eyes away from the Prussian camp, and 
rode slowly to Bautzen. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE LETTERS. 

A FEW hours later a courier rode into the camp. 
He came from Bautzen, and had a letter from the 
Prince of Prussia to his royal brother. The king 
was still in his tent, busily engaged in looking ovec 
the army list. He took his brother’s letter, and, 
opening it with evident anger, read : 

“ Your majesty’s commands, and the incidents 
of our last meeting, have taught me that I have 
lost my honor and my reputation. As I have 
nothing to reproach myself with, this causes me 
much sorrow, but no humiliation. I am convinced 
that I was not actuated by obstinacy, and that I 
did not follow the advice of incompetent men. 


FEEDER rCK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


All the generals in the third army corps com- 
manded by me, will testify to this. I consider it 
necessary to request your majesty to have my con- 
duct investigated. Your majesty would thereby 
do me a kindness. I have, therefore, no right to 
count upon it. My health is much impaired since 
the war. I have withdrawn to Bautzen for its 
restoration, and have requested the Duke of Be- 
vern to give you all the information relative to the 
army. In spite of my unhappiness, my daily 
prayer is, and shall be, that every undertaking of 
your majesty shall be crowned with glory. 

“ Your unhappy brother, 

“ Augustus William.” 

The king read this letter several times ; then 
taking up his pen, he wrote hastily : 

“ My Dear Brother : Your improper conduct 
has greatly disturbed my equanimity. Not my 
enemies, but your want of principle, has caused 
all these disasters. My generals are not to be ex- 
cused. They have either given you bad advice, 
or have agreed too readily to your foolish plans. 
The one is as bad as the other. Your ears are 
accustomed to flattery, my brother. Daun did not 
flatter you, and you now see the consequences. 
But little hope remains. I shall commence the 
attack — if we do not conquer, we shall die to- 
gether. I do not bewail the loss of your heart, 
but rather your utter incapacity and want of 
judgment. I tell you this plainly, for with one 
who has perhaps but a few days to live, there is 
no use of deception. I wish you more happiness 
than has fallen to my lot, and hope that your mis- 
fortunes and disappointments may teach you to 
act with more wisdom and judgment where mat- 
ters of importance are concerned. Many of the 
painful events I now look forward to, I ascribe to 
you. You and your children will suffer from their 
results much more than myself. Be assured that 
I have always loved you, and will continue to do 
HO until my death. Your brother, 

“ Frederick.” 

When the king had finished his letter, he read 
it over. “ I cannot take back one word I have 
said,” murmured he, softly. “Were he not my 
brother, he should be court-martialled. But his- 
tory shall not have to relate more than one such 
occurrence of a Hohenzollern. Enough family 
dramas and tragedies have occurred in my reign 
to furnish scandalous material for future genera- 
tions ; I will not add to them. My brother can 
withdraw quietly from these scenes — he can pray 
while we fight — ^he can cultivate the peaceful 
arts while we are upon the battle-field, offering 
up bloody sacrifices to Mars. Perhaps we will 
succeed in gaining an honorable peace for Prus- 


in 

I sia, and then Augustus William may be a better 
king than I have been. Prussia still clings to me 
— she needs me.” 

He sealed the letter, then calling his valet, or- 
dered him to send it off* immediately. As he dis- 
appeared, the king’s countenance became once 
more clouded and disturbed. “ Life makes a man 
very poor,” said he, softly ; “ the longer he lives, 
the more solitary he becomes. How rich I was 
when I began life — how rich when I mounted the 
throne ! Possessing many friends, sisters, broth- 
ers, and many charming illusions. The world be- 
longed to me then, with aU its joy, all ics glory. 
And now ? Where are these friends ? Lost to 
me, either by death or inconstancy ! Where are 
my brothers, sisters ? Their hearts have turned 
from me — their love has gro^vn cold ! Where are 
my joyous illusions ? Scattered to the winds ! 
Alas, I am now undeceived, and if the whole world 
seemed at one time to belong to me, that little 
spot of earth, paid for with blood and anguish, is 
no longer mine. Every illusion but one has been 
torn from my heart — the thirst for glory still re- 
mains. I have bid adieu to love, to happiness, 
but I still believe in fame, and must at least have 
one laurel-wreath upon my coffin. May death 
then strike me at his will — the sooner the better, 
before my heart has become perfectly hardened 1 
And I feel that time is not far distant.” 

The curtain of his tent was at this moment 
drawn back, and his secretary, Le Catt, whose ac- 
quaintance he had made during his visit to Am- 
sterdam, entered with several letters in his hand. 
The king advanced eagerly to meet him. 

“ Well, Le Catt,” said he, “ has the courier coma 
from Berlin ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, he has come,” said Le Catt, sighing, 
“ but I fear he brings no good news.” 

“ No good news ? Has the enemy forced his 
way so far ? ” 

“ An enemy has, sire ; but not the one your 
majesty is thinking of ! ” 

“•How know you what enemy I mean ? ” said 
the king, impatiently. “Is it the Russians, or the 
French ? ” 

“None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the 
mourning which now reigns in Berlin and will soon 
reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy 
of your majesty but by Providence.” 

The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. 

“ I understand,” said he. “ Some one of my fam- 
ily has died ; is it not so ? ” 

“Yes, sire; your — ” 

“ Be still ! ” said the king, sternly. “ I do not 
yet wish to know— I have not the strength to beai 
it — wait a while.” 


118 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up 
and dov/n his tent several times, laboring hard for 
breath. He stood still, and leaning against the 
window, said : “ Now, Le Catt, I can endure any 
thing ; speak — who is it ? ” 

“ Sire, it is her majesty.” 

“ My wife ? ” interrupted the king. 

“No, sire; her majesty — ” 

“ My mother ! ” cried the king, in a heart-bro- 
ken voice. “ My mother ! ” 

He stood thus for a while, with his hands before 
his face, his form bowed down and trembling like 
an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped through 
his hands and fell slowly to the ground — groans 
of agony were wrung from him. 

Le Catt could stand it no longer ; he approached 
the king and ventured to say a few consoling 
words. 

“ Do not seek to comfort me,” said the king ; 
“ you do not know what inexpressible pain this 
loss has caused me.” 

“ Yes, sire, I well know,” said Le Catt, “ for 
the queen-mother was the noblest, most gracious 
princess that ever lived. I can therefore under- 
stand your sorrow.” 

“ No, you cannot,” said the king, raising his 
pale, tearful countenance. “You carry your sor- 
row upon your lips — I upon my heart. The queen 
was the best of women, and my whole land may 
well mourn for her. It will not be forced grief, 
for every one who had the happiness to approach 
loved and admired her for her many virtues — for 
her great kindness. And I feel, I know, that sor- 
row for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death. 
She was too noble a princess, too tender a mother, 
to outlive Prussia’s destruction and her son’s mis- 
fortune.” 

“ But your majesty knows that the queen was 
suffering from an incurable disease.” 

“ It is true I know it,” said the king, sinking 
slowly upon his camp-stool. “I feared that I 
might never see her again, and still this news 
comes totally unexpected.” 

“ Your majesty will overcome this great grief 
as a philosopher, a hero.” 

“ Ah, my friend,” said the king, sadly, “ philos- 
ophy is a solace in past and future sufferings, but 
Is utterly powerless for present grief ; I feel my 
heart and strength fail. For the last two years I 
have resembled a tottering wall. Family misfor- 
tune, secret pain, public sorrow, continual disap- 
pointment, these have been my nourishment. 
What is there wanting to make of me another 
Job ? If I wish to survive these distressing cir- 
cumstances, I must become a stoic. For I cannot 
bring the philosophy of Epicurus to bear upon 


my great sorrows. And still,” added the king, the 
dejected look disappearing from his countenance, 
and giving place to one of energy and determina- 
tion, “still, I will not be overcome. Were all the 
elements to combine against me, I will not fall be- 
neath them.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried Le Catt, “ once more is my king 
the hero, who will not only overcome his grief, but 
also his enemies.” 

“ God grant that you are a true prophet ! ” cried 
the king, earnestly. “ This is a great era ; the 
next few months will be decisive for Prussia ; I 
will restore her or die beneath her ruins ! ” 

“ You will restore ! ” cried Le Catt, with enthu- 
siasm. 

“ And when I have made Prussia great,” said 
the king, relapsing into his former gloom, “my 
mother will not be here to rejoice with me. Each 
one of my home-returning soldiers will have some 
one — a mother, a sweetheart — to meet them with 
tears of joy, to greet them tenderly. I shall be 
alone.” 

“ Your people will advance, gladly, to meet you ; 
they will greet you with tears of joy.” 

“ Ah, yes,” cried the king, with a bitter smile, 
“ they will advance to meet me joyfully ; but, were 
I to die the same day, they would cry : ‘ Le roi 
est mort — vive le roil’’ and would greet my suc- 
cessor with equal delight. There is nothing per- 
sonal in the love of a people to its sovereign ; 
they love not in me the man, but the king. But 
my mother loved not the king the warrior ; she 
loved her son with her whole heart, and God knows 
he had but that one heart to trust in. Leave 
me, Le Catt. Seek not to console me. Soon the 
king will gain the mastery. Now I am but the 
son, who wishes to be alone with the mother. 
Go.” Fearing he had wounded Le Catt, he pressed 
his hand tenderly. 

Le Catt raised it to his lips and covered it with 
kisses and tears. The king withdrew it gently, 
and signed to him to leave the room. 

Now he was alone — alone with his pain, with 
his grief — alone with his mother. And, truly, 
during this hour he was but the loving son ; his 
every thought was of his mother ; he conversed 
with her, he wept over her ; but, as his sorrow 
became more subdued, he took his flute from the 
table, the one constant companion of his life. As 
the soft, sweet tones were wafted through the 
tent, he seemed to hear his mother whispering 
words of love to him, to feel her hallowed kiss 
upon his brow. And now he was king once more. 
As he heard without the sound of trumpets, the 
beating of drums, the loud shouts and hurrahs of 
his soldiers, a new fire burned in his eyes, he laid 


119 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


I his flute aside, and listened for a time to the joy- 
I JUS shouts ; then raising his right hand, he said : 
“ Farewell, mother ; you died out of despair for 
my defeat at Collin, but I swear to you I will re- 
venge your death and my defeat tenfold upon my 
enemies when I stand before them again in battle 
I an’ay. Hear me, spirit of my mother, and give 
^ lo your son your blessing ! ” 



IN THK CASTLE AT DRESDEN. 

The Queen Maria Josephine of Poland, Princess 
elect of Saxony, paced her room violently ; and 
with deep emotion and painful anxiety she lis- 
tened to every noise which interrupted the still- 
ness that surrounded her. 

“ If he should be discovered,” she murmured 
softly, “ should this letter be found, all is betrayed, 
and I am lost.” 

She shuddered, and even the paint could not 
conceal her suddeii pallor. She soon raised her- 
self proudly erect, and her eyes resumed their 
usual calm expression. 

“ Bah ! lost,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, 
“ who will dare to seize a queen and condemn her 
for fighting for her honor and her country ? Only 
the insolent and arrogant Margrave of Brandenburg 
could have the temerity to insult a queen and a 
a woman in my person, and he, thank God, is 
crushed and will never be able to rally. But 
where is Schonberg,” she said, uneasily ; “ if he 
does not come to-day, all is lost — all ! ” 

Loud voices in the antechamber interrupted her ; 
she listened in breathless expectation. “ It is he,” 
she murmured, “it is Schonberg; the officer on 
guard forbids his entrance. What insults I en- 
dure ! I am treated as a prisoner' in my own cas- 
tle ; I am even denied thtf right of seeing my own 
servants.” 

She ceased, and listened again ; the voices be- 
came louder and more violent. “ He is, appar- 
ently, speaking so loudly to attract my attention,” 
she said ; “ I will go to his relief.” She crossed 
the chamber hastily, and opened the door leading 
into the anteroom. 

“ What means this noise ? ” she said, angrily ; 
“ how dare you be guilty of such unseemly con- 
duct ? ” 

Silence followed this question. The two gentle- 
men, who had' just exchanged such angry words, 
were dumb, approached the queen, and bowed 
profoundly. 


“ I beg your majesty’s forgiveness,” said the 
Prussian officer, “ my commander ordered me this 
morning to admit no one until he had seen yom 
highness himself.” 

“I wished to announce to your majesty,” said 
Schonberg, “ that I had returned from my estate, 
and desired the favor of being again received into 
your service ; this gentleman refused to allow me 
to enter.” 

The queen turned upon the officer with an ex- 
pression of contempt. “ Am I a prisoner, sir, 
allowed to see no one but my jailer ? ” 

“ Your majesty favors me with a question I am un- 
able to answer,” said the officer ; “ I am a soldier ; 
and must obey the command of those above me. 
I know not whether your majesty is a prisoner.” 

The queen reddened ; she felt that, in the excite- 
ment of passion, she had forgotten her rank and 
dignity. 

“ It is true,” she said, “ it is not for you to an- 
swer this question. I must demand a reply from 
your king. You are but a machine, moved by 
foreign power. I think you will not dare to keep 
my servants from me ; ” and, without allowing the 
confused officer time to answer, she turned to the 
chamberlain, Baron von Schonberg. “I am de- 
lighted to receive you again ; you shall resume 
your service immediately, as you desire it ; follow 
me to my room, I have an important letter to dic- 
tate to you.” 

She stepped over the sill of the door, and gave 
the chamberlain a sign to follow her ; as he ap- 
proached the door, however, the officer stepped be- 
fore him. 

“ Forgive me,” he said, in a pleading tone ; “ I 
have strict orders to admit only those who usually 
surround the queen ; do you understand, sir, to 
admit no one to her majesty this morning ? I can 
make no exceptions.” 

“ I belong to those who usually surround her 
majesty,” said the chamberlain; “I have had an 
eight days’ leave of absence; that cannot make 
an exception against me.” 

“ Baron von Schonberg, did I not order you to 
resume your service, and to follow me ? ” said the 
queen ; “ why do you not enter ? ” 

“ Your majesty sees that I am prevented.” 

“ Mercy, your highness, mercy,” pleaded the offi- 
cer, “ I know I am seemingly wanting in rever- 
ence toward the holy person of the queen, but I 
cannot act otherwise.” 

Maria Josephine looked proud and command- 
ing; her eyes flashed angrily, and, with a loud 
voice, she exclaimed : 

“I command you to allow my servant to entei 
do you hear? I command it as a sovereign I” 


120 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The officer stepped back. 

“ Go in, sir, I have not the courage to with- 
stand this command.” 

For a ijpoment the queen’s pale face crimsoned 
with jo^, but she suppressed her emotion imme- 
diately, and motioned the chamberlain, with proud 
dignity, to follow. 

Schonberg passed the officer, and entered the 
room 

“ At last,” sighed Maria Josephine, as the door 
closed b^'hind him — “ at last this torture is at an 
end, and I breathe again. Speak, baron — your 
news ! ” Exhausted, she fell upon the sofa, and 
gazed breathlessly at the chamberlain. 

“Before speaking, with your majesty’s permis- 
sion, I will see if we are entirely alone — ^if no one 
is listening.” 

He stepped softly around the room, and searched 
behind the curtains and furniture ; then went to 
the door, and looked through the key-hole, to see 
if any one was without. He saw the officer sit- 
ting motionless, at the other end of the anteroom. 
Satisfied with this, he was about to open the other 
door, but the queen called him back. 

“ That is unnecessary ; no one can be concealed 
there. Now let me hear quickly what you have 
to say.” 

“I have many things to tell you,” said the 
chamberlain, triumphantly. “All our underta- 
kings have been most successful. We may hope 
they will be crowned with the most desirable re- 
sults.” 

“ Praise to God and the holy saints ! ” murmured 
the queen. “ Speak, speak ! tell me all ! ” 

“ After I left your majesty, eight days ago, I 
went first to my estate, which, as your highness 
knows, lies near Bautzen, and in the immediate 
neighborhood of the King of Prussia’s camp. 
Disguised as a peasant, with my little flock of 
sheep, I entered the Prussian camp unchallenged. 
I wish your majesty could have had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing what I saw. Your royal heart 
would have been gladdened at the sight of those 
starved, exhausted, and desperate troops which 
Prince Augustus William led back from Zittau to 
his august * brother, the great Frederick. You 
would have acknowledged with delight that such 
discouraged, demoralized troops could no longer 
withstand the splendid and victorious army of 
the confederates. The battle of Collin dug their 
graves, and the pass of Gabel made their coffins.” 

“And the Saxon dragoons decided the battle 
of Collin ? ” said the queen, with sparkling eyes. 
“ Go on ! tell me more. Did you speak with the 
king’s chamberlain, Anderson ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, and I found him faithful. 


I gave him the diamond ring which your majesty 
was so gracious as to send him. He was delighted 
with this costly present, and swore he would let 
no opportunity pass of serving you. I told him 
how he might safely write to me. He will inform 
us of all that takes place in the Prussian camp, 
and of all the important movements of the king,” 

“ You are convinced of his integrity ? ” said the 
queen. 

“ Entirely convinced ; he loves money, and 
serves us for his own interests. He will be ready 
for any act, if we balance it with gold.” 

The eyes of the queen sparkled, and her coun- 
tenance had a threatening and passionate expres- 
sion ; her Spanish blood was moved, and rushed 
in fever streams to her heart 

“ Is he ready for any act ? ” she repeated. 

“ Perhaps we could make a decisive trial of his 
willingness ; but of that, later-— continue.” 

“ I learned from Anderson, that King Frederick 
intends to force the confederates to another bat 
tie. When I left the camp, the king had dis 
tributed rations to his army, and was to leave the 
next morning, to encounter Daun and Radasdy.” 

The queen laughed mockingly. 

“ He then thirsts for a second Collin. As his 
grave is open and his coffin made, he wishes to 
get the Austrian grave-diggers to bury him. Well, 
we will not deny him this last service of love.” 

“ After leaving the Prussian camp,” continued 
the chamberlain, “ I threw off my disguisej and 
hastened with post-horses to where Daun anL. 
Radasdy were quartered.” H 

“ And you saw them ? ” < 

“ I saw them ; I was fortunate enough to be 
able to deliver your majesty’s letters to General 
Radasdy, and I can now give your highness the 
general’s answer, and some other important pa- 
pers.” He drew a small eiid from his bosom, out 
of which he took a penknife ; then taking his hat, 
ripped off the gold galloon, cut the rim, and drew 
a paper from betw'een the fur and the inner lining, 
which he handed to the queen, wdth a profound 
bow. 

While the queen was occupied breaking the 
seal and reading the letter, the chamberlain was 
busily engaged in restoring his hat to its former 
proportions. The queen’s pale face brightened 
more and more as she read ; with joy and triumph 
she glanced from the paper at the chamberlain, 
and said, with a brilliant smile : 

“You are really a messenger of peace; a time 
will come when I can better reward your faithful 
services than by words. I beg you to open that 
door, and call Father Guarini.” 

The chamberlain obeyed her command, and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


121 


Father Guarini er cered. He greeted Schonberg 
^vith a gracious nod, then fixed his dark and pier- 
cing eyes upon the queen, who arose humbly to 
•eceive him. 

“ I hope, venerable father, that you have heard 
the news, brought by our faithful baron ? ” said 
the queen, in a soft voice. 

“ I have heard ! ” replied the Jesuit father, sol- 
emnly ; “ I have heard that God has delivered 
these heretics into our hands. We are the chosen 
people to free the world of these blasphemous ad- 
versaries of the Church.” 

I “ What is your meaning ? ” asked the queen, 
with apparent surprise. 

Father Guarini looked at her significantly; a 
cm el smile played upon his thin, colorless lips. 

“ My daughter, we understand each other 
fully,” said he, in a soft, low voice ; “ soul speaks 
to soul in such a crisis as this. When the baron 
handed you this letter, when he told you that the 
chamberlain of the King of Prussia was faithful 
to our holy cause, ready for any act you might 
approve, a door separated us; I could not look 
upon your countenance, and yet, my daughter, I 
read the secret thoughts of your heart. I saw 
your eyes sparkle, your lips smile, and understood 
your holy purpose.” 

The queen trembled, and stepped shudderingly 
back. 

“ Holy father,” she murmured, “ have compas- 
sion with a sinful thought, which I suppressed 
quickly, and which I will never listen to again.” 

“ Why do you call it a sinful thought ? ” said 
the priest, with a diabolical smile. “ All weapons 
are blessed and made holy by God, when employed 
against heretics. Tlie poison of the hemlock .and 
the opium-plant is part of God’s holy creation. 
He made them as weapons for the just against 
the unjust, and, when used for pious purposes, 
they are sanctified means of grace. Be not 
ashamed of your great thought, my daughter ; ij 
Anderson is faithful, as the chamberlain asserts, 
with God’s help we will soon be able to bring 
this war to a close, and crush this unbelieving 
horde.” 

‘'Still, I pray you still, my father,” murmured 
the queen ; “ my whole soul shudders at this fright- 
ful suggestion ; let us not speak of this again, let 
us forget it.” 

“ Let us not speak of it, but let us not forget it,” 
inuimured the priest, with a malicious smile. 

ITie queen said hastily : “ Father, such fearful 
weapons are not necessary for the destruction of 
Dur enemies. Frederick of Prussia can never ral- 
y — he stands alone, has not a single ally in Ger- 
many. This is the important news brought me by 


the baron, which I now communicate to you. Wo 
have succeeded in a great enterprise ; a mighty 
work has been completed by us and our allies in 
the cloister of Zeven. This has been achieved by 
our ambassador, the pious Duke of Lynar, and we 
will triumph in a glittering and bloodless victory. 
Every German prince who has heretofore stood by 
the traitor and heretic, Frederick of Prussia, has, 
at the command and menace of the emperor, fallen 
off from him, and dare no longer lend him help or 
influence. The men of Hesse, of Brunswick, of 
Gotha, who were allied to Prussia, and who were 
just from fighting with the Hanoverians against 
Soubise and Richelieu, have laid down their arms 
and returned home. They have solemnly bound 
themselves in the convention of the cloister of 
Zeven never again to bear arms for the heretical 
and rebellious King of Prussia, who is excommu- 
nicated by the German emperor and the holy Pope 
at Rome. The contest between the Hanoverians 
and our French ally is ended, and a cessation of 
hostilities determined upon. Unconditional peace 
is indeed indefinitely declared. The Hanoverians 
remain inactive on the Elbe ; the Duke of Cumber- 
land, leader of the English troops, has returned to 
London,* and his adversary, the Duke de Riche- 
lieu, to Paris. The French troops now in Gen- 
many, under the command of the Prince Soubise, 
have no other enemy to attack than Frederick, the 
natural enemy of us all. The King of Prussia, 
who stands alone, has no other ally.” 

“ No ally but himself,” interrupted a loud, pow- 
erful voice. 

The queen turned and saw General von Fink, 
the Prussian commander of Dresden. He had 
opened the door noisel^esly, and had heard the 
queen’s last words. 

Maria Josephine paled with anger, and stepping 
forward to meet him, with head erect, she looked 
as if she would trample him under foot, 

“ Sir,” she said, scarcely able to control her pas- 
sion, and at the same time trembling with terror, 
“ who gave you permission to enter this room ? ” 

“ My sovereign, the King of Prussia,” said the 
general, placing himself before her with stiff mili- 
tary courtesy. “ I come not from idle curiosity, 
but on important business, and your majesty must 
pardon me if yoi^find it disagreeable.” 

He made a sign toward the door, and imme- 


* When the Duke of Cumberland returned to London, 
after the convention at the cloister of Zeven, his father, 
whose favorite ho had been up to this time, received him 
with great coldness, and said before all his ministers.* 
“ Here is my son who has ruined mo and disgraced himself.” 
The duke had to resign all his honors, and died a few yean 
later, despised by the whole nation. 


122 


FREDEKICK THE GRE^T AND HIS FAMILY. 


diately an officer and four soldiers appeared at the 
threshold. The commander pointed to the cham- 
berlain, Yon Schonberg, who, pale and trembling, 
endeavored to conceal himself behind the wide 
dress of the queen. 

“ Arrest that man, and take him off!” said the 
general. 

Schonberg uttered a cry of alarm, and disap- 
peared behind the satin robe of the queen. 

“ What, sir ! you dare to force yourself into my 
room, and to arrest my servant ? ” cried the queen, 
angrily. 

The general shrugged his shoulders. 

“We are living in perilous times, and every man 
must defend himself from his enemies. ’Tis true 
your chamberlain sold some good sheep to our 
army, but it appears to have been a fraudulent 
transaction ; for this reason, I arrest him, and send 
him to Berlin for trial. There it will be difficult 
for him to carry on his correspondence with the 
traitorous chamberlain of the king.” 

The general ceased speaking, and gazing at the 
pale, disturbed group before him, enjoyed their 
horror and consternation for a moment. 

The queen was greatly embarrassed, and pressed 
her lips firmly together to suppress a cry of terror. 
By her side stood Father Guarini, whose face had 
assumed a livid pallor, and whose dark eyes were 
fixed in bitter hatred upon the general. Behind 
the queen the terrified face of the chamberlain 
was seen, his insignificant figure being entirely 
concealed by the queen’s robes. 

“Baron von Schonberg,’’ said General Fink, “I 
order you to come forward and to submit to your 
arrest. Out of respect to her majesty the queen, 
you will be quiet. I should be unfortunately 
forced to act with violence if you do not yield 
without a struggle.” 

The chamberlain advanced with dignity, bowing 
profoundly to the queen. He said, in a trembling 
voice : 

“ I must beg your majesty graciously to dis- 
miss me from your service. I must obey this 
gentleman, who, as it appears, is master in the 
castle.” 

The queen was for a moment speechless ; her 
voice was lost, and her eyes were tilled with tears. 
She said, after a long pause ; 

“ Will you rob me of my faithful servant ? You 
dragged Baroness Briihl and Countess Ogliva to 
Warsaw, and now you will deprive me of the ser- 
vices of this tried and constant friend.” 

“ I obey the commands of my king,” said the 
general, “ and I believe your majesty must see the 
justice of this arrest. Had the baron been cap- 
tured in camp, he would have been shot at once 


as a spy. I arrest him here and send him to Ber 
lin, that he may defend himself against the charge 
of being a traitor.” 

The queen breathed heaidly, she had regained 
her composure ; turning to the chamberlain sh( 
said, in a voice softer and kinder than had evei 
been heard from her before : . . . 

“ Go, my friend, and when your loyalty is called 
treason by our enemies, do not forget that you; 
queen is thinking of you with gratitude, and pray 
ing for you to our heavenly Father.” 

She offered the chamberlain her small, white 
hand ; he sank upon his knees, and covered it with 
his tears and kisses. 

“ Go, my son,” said Father Guarini, laying his 
hand upon Schonberg’s head — “ go ; the Lord has 
chosen you as a blessed martyr for our just and 
holy cause. The Lord will be with you, and the 
holy mother Church will pray for you.” 

“ I go, my father — may it be granted me to die 
for my queen ! ” 

Turning to the general, he delivered up his 
sword rather tragically, and declared himself ready 
to depart. 

The commandant signed to the officer, 

“ Conduct this gentleman to the carriage, and 
send him with a sufficient guard to Berlin.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TE DEUM. 

The queen looked sadly after the chamberlain ; 
when he had disappeared, she turned to the gen- 
eral. 

“ I now hope,” said she, “ that you have ful- 
filled your orders, and that I will be permitted to 
have my apartments to myself.” 

.“I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said the gen- 
eral, bowing respectfully, “ but as yet I have ful- 
filled but the smallest portion of my master’s com- 
mands.” 

“ How ? is there still some one here whom you 
wish to arrest ? ” said the queen. 

“No, noble lady, but some one I wish to 
warn ! ” 

“ You are, without doubt, speaking of me, gen- 
eral ? ” said the priest, quietly. 

“ Yes, sir, of you. I wish to warn you not to 
occupy your pious thoughts with that very worldly 
thing called politics, and to request you to instruct 
the members of your Church in religion, in Chris- 
tian love and kindness, and not to lure them tc 
murder and treachery 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


123 


The priest shrugged his shoulders ; a contempt- 
aous smile played about his small, thin lips. 

“ The Avords ‘ religion and Christian love ’ sound 
Btrangely in the mouth of a Prussian warrior. I 
decline receiving any advice from you. I have no 
fear of you or of your superiors ! I am subject 
only to God and the Pope ! ” 

“ That may be in your own country, but not in 
the King of Prussia’s,” answered General Fink, 
quietly. “There every one is subject to the law; 
no title, no clerical gown protects the criminal. 
Two days ago, a spy was discovered in the Prus- 
sian camp, who was a priest ; he was hung like 
any other spy, although at the last moment, hop- 
ing to save his life, he exclaimed that he was a 
friend of Father Guarini, the court confessor. His 
majesty the King of Prussia commissioned me to 
impart to you the death of your friend.” 

“ From my heart I thank you for so doing,” 
said the priest. “ I shall have masses read for 
my friend, of whom you have made a martyr.” 

The queen gazed at him with sparkling eyes. 
“ Oh, my father,” said she, “ I thank you for your 
noble example ; it shall enable me, in spite of 
threats and insults, not to deny the holy cause 
and the friends who have suffered for it. And 
now, general, I hope your commissions are ful- 
filled, and that you will take your leave.” 

“ I hope your majesty will believe that I would 
not venture to remain, were I not compelled by 
the commands of my king. I have to request your 
majesty to listen vt^hile I read aloud some letters, 
some historical documents, which may possibly 
interest your highness.” 

“ You can read,” said the queen. “ As my ears 
do not belong to the King of Prussia, it lies with 
me to listen or not, as I please.” She sank gently 
upon the divan, signing to the priest to remain 
beside her. 

“ I flatter myself that I will have your majesty’s 
attention,” said the general, withdrawing to the 
nearest window and opening a package of letters. 
“ The first relates to an extremely amusing occur- 
rence, which my master, knowing that France was 
your ally, imagined would interest you. Your 
highness is aware that Prince Soubise is a brave 
soldier. This is Madame Pompadour’s opinion ; 
it must, therefore, be true. About a week ago 
this brave prince determined to rest for a while 
from his heroic deeds, and gave the same privilege 
to a large portion of his army. The general, 
accompanied by his staff and eight thousand sol- 
diers, then entered that lovely little spot, called 
Gotha, to visit the talented and princely duke 
and duchess. He and his staff were received 
by them with great honor ; magnificent prepa- 


rations were forthwith made foi a splendid 
dinner to Avelcome the prince who, happily, was 
not only fond of laurels, but also of good eating. 
Dinner was served, the French generals had fiii' 
ished their toilets. Prince Soubise had given the 
duchess his arm to lead her to her seat, when aloud 
cry of terror was heard from without, ‘ The Prus- 
sians are at the gates ! ’ Prince Soubise dropped 
the arm of the duchess ; through the Paris rouge, 
so artistically put on, the paleness, which now 
covei’ed his face, could not be seen. The doors 
leading to the dining-saloon were thrown open, 
making visible the sparkling glass, the smoking 
dishes, the rare service of gold and silver ; the 
generals of the prince now hastened forward and 
confirmed the wild rumor. Yes ; and rumor, for 
once, was true. General Seidlitz was there with 
fifteen hundred brave cavalrymen. The French 
are noted for their politeness, and it did not fail 
them upon this occasion. Without a word. Prince 
Soubise and his eight thousand men made room 
for General Seidlitz and his fifteen hundred, and 
hastened from the ducal palace. Before the rich 
dishes had time to cool. General Seidlitz and his 
staff were seated at the table, enjoying the mag- 
nificent dinner prepared for the French generals. 
Many prisoners, many spoils were taken afterward. 
Not that Prince Soubise had not taken all his 
soldiers with him, but there was another small 
army by which the French troops are always ac- 
companied. The£'“, the lackeys, valets, cooks, 
hair-dressers, ballet-dancers, actresses, priests, 
etc., etc., were not able to run as fast as the 
French soldiers. The spoils consisted in the 
equipages of the prince and his staff, in which 
were boxes and chests containing precious things, 
their large chests full of delightful perfumes and 
hair-oils, trunks full of wigs, dressing-gowns, and 
parasols. There were several learned parrots 
who had a leaning to politics, and who exclaimed 
continually : ‘ Vive les Frangais ! A has les Prus- 
siemP But the kind-hearted General Seidlitz 
did not wish to deprive the French army of the 
necessities of life ; he therefore sent them their 
valets, cooks, hair-dressers, actresses, priests, etc. 
The perfumes and hair-oils he gave to his own 
soldiers.” 

“I trust you have finished,” said the queen, 
playing listlessly with her fan. 

“ Ah, your majesty has then honored me 1 y 
listening ? ” said General Fink, smiling. 

The queen preserved a dignified silence. 

Tlie general continued reading: “After long 
deliberation. Prince Soubise concluded he had car- 
ried his politeness too far in vacating the ducal 
palace to the Prussians ; he determined, therefore, 


124 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


to go after his perfumes, hair-oils, dressing-gowns, 
wigs, etc., etc., and drive the Prussians from 
Gotha. Piince von Hildburgh^usen joined him 
wdth his troops. Thus the French advanced to 
Gotha, secure and confident of success. But to 
their terror they found before the city not two 
Prussian regiments, as they had expected, but what 
seemed to them the entire Prussian army ar- 
ranged in line of battle, and in such large num- 
bers that for miles around the hills were covered 
with them. This was so unexpected to the French 
generals that they determined to retreat for a 
while, until they had recovered from their sur- 
prise. They withdrew, leaving the field to the 
Prussians. Had they not withdrawn so hastily, 
they would soon have seen that the Prussian army 
consisted only of fifteen hundred, which, thanks 
to General Seidlitz’s strategy, presented a very 
imposing view. Thus Seidlitz gained the day with- 
out firing a shot — not by the troops w^ho were 
present, but by those who were supposed to be 
present.” 

“ I have had enough of this,” said the queen, 
rising. “ I am weary of listening to your witty 
stories. The King of Prussia may triumph for a 
w'hile — he may jest over his lost battles — but the 
hour of his misfortune is at hand. God, who 
is just — who thrusts the arrogant and haughty 
to the ground — will also punish him, and give vic- 
tory to the just cause. The battle of Collin was 
for Frederick the Second the first proof of God’s 
anger, and now w'ith increasing strength His 
mighty arm will be raised against him.” 

“I am aware that these are your majesty’s sen- 
timents,” said the general, smiling ; “ and my 
master is as well informed, I think they were 
stated in almost the same words in letters which 
your majesty wrote to the Austrian general, Na- 
dasky.” 

The queen fell back upon her seat trembling, 
and a deep red suffused her countenance. Even 
Father Guarini showed by the quivering of his 
lip and his sudden paleness, that the conversation 
w^as now taking an agitating turn. 

“ What do you know of my letters to Nadas- 
ky ? ” said the queen, breathlessly. “ Who says 
I have written to him ? ” 

“Your own hand, gracious queen,” answered 
the general. “While the king, my noble sover- 
eign, was in Bemstadt, he was told that General 
Nadasky was at Ostriz, and sent General von 
Werner after him. Nadasky fled, but his baggage 
was captured, and amongst his letters this one 
from your majesty w'as discovered.” And he held 
up the letter in question before the queen, to con- 
vince her of its authenticity. 


Maria Josephine endeavored to tear it from him, 
but the general was too quick for her. 

“ By command of my master, this letter is to be 
returned to you, but upon one condition.” 

“Well, what is it? ” said the queen, faintly. 

“ I am to read to your majesty a few sentences 
from it, selected by the King of Prussia himself.” 

“ And all my letters shall then be returned b 
me?” 

“ All, your majesty.” 

“ You can read,” said the queen, seating her 
self. y' 

General Fink approached the window by wlptih 
he had been standing before, and looked 0}t{ for 
a few moments. Some one, perhaps, had' passed 
with whom he was acquainted, for he bowed sev- 
eral times and raised his hand as if he w'cre beck- 
oning, After this intermission, at which the queen 
and her confessor had looked in amazement, he 
opened the letter and commenced to read. ^ 

It was a demand from Queen Maria Josephine 
to the Austrian general to do all in his power to 
ruin their common enemy. “ If we are energetic,” 
continued the general, reading in a loud voice, “il 
will soon be done. At the battle of Collin, Goq 
laid his mark upon Frederick ; Prussia w'ill have 
no more victories ; her arrogant ruler has sung 
his last Te Deum.^^ 

At this moment the bells of the nearest church 
commenced their solemn chim.es, and from the 
fort behind the castle the thunder of cannon w'as 
heard. The queen rose from her seat and rushed 
to the window^ 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” said she, 
breathlessly. “ Why these bells ? Why this can- 
non ? What — ” 

The renewed thunder of cannon drowned her 
words. Slie threw open the window, and now all 
the church bells w'ere joined in one harmonious 
chant. From beneath the queen’s windows there 
arose a slow, solemn hymn, and as if borne aloft 
by invisible spirits, the w'ords “ Te Deum lauda^ 
mus ” were heard by the queen. Her eye sparkled. 

“ For whom is this Te Deum ? ” said she, breath- 
lessly. 

“ It is for my master,” said General Fink, sol- 
emnly — “for the King of Prussia, who at Ross- 
bach, with twenty thousand men, has gained a vic- 
tory over sixty thousand French soldiers.” 

A cry of rage, and Maria Josephine fell faint 
ing to the floor. 

” ■ ♦ ■■ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


125 


CHAPTER XII. 

CAMP SCENE. 

It ■was a cold "w^inter day, and in the Prussian 
eamp at Newmark every one was occupied ma- 
king fires. 

“ Let us get a great deal of wood,” said a 
sprightly-looking, slender young soldier, to his 
comrades ; “ our limbs must not be stiff to-day. 
I think to-morrow all will go off bravely, and we 
will prepare a strong soup for the Austrians.” 

“ And instead of the noodles, we will send them 
cannon-balls,” said a comrade, standing near him. 
“ But see here, brother, as we are not going to 
fight this evening, I think we should make use of 
the. time and cook a soup for ourselves. When 
we have wood enough for a good fire, we will set 
the kettle over it, and the best of pastimes will 
be ready. Shall we do it, comrades ? Every man 
a groschen, and Charles Henry Buschman to cook 
the noodles.” 

“Yes, Buschman must cook the noodles; no 
one understands it so well as he. Charles Henry 
Buschman ! Where hides the fellow ? He is 
‘ generally sticking to Fritz Kober, and they are 
chatting together as if they were lovers. Busch- 
man ! Charles Henry Buschman ! Where are 
you ? ” 

“ Here I am ! ” cried a bright, fresh voice, and 
a slender youth, belonging to Prince Henry’s regi- 
ment, stepped forward and joined them. “ Who 
calls me ? — what do you w^ant ? ” 

“We want you to cook noodles for us, Busch- 
man ; every man pays a groschen, and eats to his 
I heart’s content. You shall have them for nothing, 
because you prepare them.” 

“ I w'ill have nothing that I don’t pay for,” said 
Charles Henry, proudly ; “ I can pay as well as the 
j rest of you, and perhaps I have more money thau 
all of you ; for while yop are drinking, smoking, 
ji and playing, I put my groschens aside for a rainy 
day.” 

“Yes, that is true ; Buschman is the most or- 
derly, the most industrious of us all,” said Fritz 
Kober, as he nodded lovingly to his young friend. 
“ He does not drink, or smoke, or play ; and, I 
can tell you, he sews like a woman. He mended 
a shirt for me to-day. A ball had passed through 
it at Rossbach, making a hole in the left sleeve. 

I tell you, the shirt looks as if a clever woman 
had mended it.” 

“Well, it is a pity he isn’t one,” said one of 
the soldiers, with a merry laugh ; “ perhaps you 
bare a sister at home, Henry, whom you could 
give to Kober.” 


“ No, comrade,” said Charles Heniy, sadly; “ I 
have neither father, mother, sister, nor brother. I 
am alone in the world, and have no other friend 
but my comrade, Fritz Kober. Will you not give 
him to me, comrades ? Will you tease him be- 
cause he is the friend of a poor, young fellow, 
against whom you have nothing to say except 
that he is just seventeen years old, and has no 
beard, and his voice a little thin, not able to make 
as much noise as yourself? Promise me that you 
will not laugh at Fritz again because he is kind 
to, and loves a poor, forsaken boy. If you tease 
him, he will become desperate and run off from 
me, and then, when I fall in battle, he will not 
close my eyes as he has promised to do.” 

“ I will never run away from you, darling 
brother,” said Fritz Kober. “ We two shall stay 
together in camp and in battle. You have won 
me with your soft, black eyes ; they remind me 
of those of my good, faithful Phylax.” 

“ Well, well, Fritz shall do as he pleases,” said 
one of the boys ; “ but enough with our chatting, 
let us seek the wood for our fire.” 

“Wood, wood, let us seek wood,” cried all, 
gaylv, and the happy troop separated on all sides. 
Only Charles Henry remained to prepare the fire. 
With busy haste he took the kettle, which the sol- 
diers had dragged near, ran to the neighboring 
market and bought a groschen worth of lard to 
make the noodles savory, then hastened back to 
cut the bacon and mix it with the noodles. Some 
of the soldiers returned empty-handed — no wood 
was to be found ; the soldiers, who had searched 
before them, had taken it all. 

“ It would be horrible not to have noodles this 
evening,” said Fritz Kober, furiously. “ Who 
knows but they may be the last we shall eat in 
this world ? The balls may take our heads off to- 
morrow, and we never could eat Charles Henry’s 
noodles again.” 

“ What you can do to-day never put off until' 
to-morrow,” cried one of the soldiers. “ We must 
eat noodles to-day, and we must have wood, even 
if we have to steal it from the devil’s kitchen.” 
And, as he turned around, his eye fell upon a little 
hut w^hich stood on the other side of the camp. 
“ Boys,” he cried, gleefully, “ do you see that 
hut ? ” 

“ Certainly ; that hut is the king’s quarters.”' 

“ I am willing the king should occupy the hut ; 
but it is covered with wood, and he does not need 
that. Come, boys, we will have wood to cook out 
noodles.” 

With a hurrah they started forward to the old 
forsaken shepherd’s hut in which the king had 
taken refuge. They climbed the roof as nimbly 


9 


126 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


IS cats, and now the old boards cra/’/ked and 
groaned and flew in every direction, and were re- 
ceived with shouts of joy by the surrounding sol- 
diers. Suddenly a guard officer stepped from the 
hut, and saw with horror its destruction ; he or- 
dered the soldiers to lay the boards as they had 
found them, and to go off at once. The soldiers 
mocked at him, and continued at their work 
quietly. 

“We are going to eat noodles,” they said, 
“common noodles, of meal and lard, that we may 
have the courage to swallow iron noodles to-mor- 
row. To cook noodles, we need wood. We find 
it here, and we shall take it.” 

“ What ! ” cried the officer, “ I forbid it, and 
you refuse to obey ? — Sentinels, forward ! ” 

The four guards, who, until now, had walked 
quietly to and fro before the hut, placed themselves 
at the door and shouldered arms. 

“ Fire at the first one who dares to touch an- 
other piece of wood,” commanded the officer. 
But the wanton soldieis paid no attention to this 
c rder ; they regarded it as as an empty threat. 

“ Fire,” cried one, laughing, “ fire is just what 
we want — without fire, no noodles ; and to make 
fire we must have wood.” 

“ Whew ! I have a big splinter in my finger,” 
cried another soldier, who was on the roof, and 
had just broken off a plank ; “ I must draw it 
out and put it back, musn’t I, lieutenant ? ” 

At this question the gay group broke into a 
loud laugh ; but it was interrupted by the angry 
words of the officer. 

Suddenly a mild voice asked : “ What is the 
matter ? ” At the first sound of this voice the 
soldiers seemed dismayed ; they stopped their 
work, and their merry faces became earnest and 
thoughtful. Stiff and motionless they remained 
on the roof awaiting their punishment ; they knew 
that voice only too well, they had heard it in the 
thunder of battle. The king repeated his ques- 
tion. The officer approached him. 

“ Sire, these dragoons are tearing the roof from 
your majesty’s quarters, all my threats are use- 
less ; therefore I ordered the sentinels forward.” 

“ What do you want with the sentinels ? ” asked 
the king. 

“ To fire amongst them, if they do not desist.” 

“ Have you tried kindness ? ” said the king, 
sternly ; “ do you think, on the day before a 
battle, I have soldiers to spare, and you may 
shoot them down because of a piece of wood? ” 

The officer murmured a few confused words ; 
but the king paid no attention to him ; he looked 
up at the soldiers sitting stiff and motionless upon 
the roof. 


“ Listen, dragoons,” said the king ; “ if you 
take off my roof, the snow will fall in my bed tO' 
night, and you do not wish that, do you ? ” 

“ No, we do not wish it, sire,” said Fritz Kober, 
ashamed, slipping softly from the roof; the others 
followed his example, and prepared to be off, giv- 
ing melancholy glances at the wood lying on the 
ground. The king looked thoughtfully after them, 
and murmured, softly, “ Poor fellows, I have de- 
prived them of a pleasure. — Halloo, dragoons,” 
he cried aloud, “ listen ! ” 

The soldiers looked back, frightened and trem- 
bling. 

“ TeU me,” said the king, “ what use were you 
going to make of the wood ? ” 

'* Cook noodles, sire,” said Fritz Kober ; “ Hen- 
ry Buschman promised to cook noodles for us, and 
the bacon is already cut ; but we have no wood.” 

“Well, if the bacon is cut,” said tke king, 
smiling, “ and if Henry Buschman has promised 
to make the noodles, he must certainly keep his 
word ; take the wood away with you.” 

“ Hurrah ! long life to our king and to our 
good Fritz Kober,” cried the soldiers, and, col- 
lecting the wood, they hastened away. 

The king stepped back, silently, into the small, 
low room of the hut. Alone, there once more I 
the smile disappeared, and his countenance bcy | 
came sad and anxious. He confessed to himself ■ji 
what he had never admitted to friend or con- 
fidant, that it was a daring and most dangerous 
undertaking to meet the Atistrian army of seventy 
thousand with his thirty-three thousand men. 

“ And should I fail,” said the king, thoughtfully, j| 
“ and lead these brave troops to their death with- 
out benefit to my country — should they die an 
unknown death — should we be conquered, instead 
of conquering ! Oh, the fortune of battles lies in 
the hands of Providence; the wisest disposition 
of troops, the most acute calculations are brought 
to naught by seeming accident. Should I expose 
my army to the fearful odds, should I hazard so 
many lives to gratify my ambition and my pride t 
My generals say it will be wiser not to attack, but 
to wait and be attacked. Oh, Winterfeldt, Win- 
terfeldt, were you but here, you would not advise 
this, not you ! Why have you been taken from 
me, my friend ? Why have you left me alone 
among my enemies ? I can find, perhaps, re- 
sources against my enemies, but I will never find 
another Winterfeldt.” ^ 

The king leaned his head upon his breast, and 
tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“ How solitary, how joyless life is ! how rich 1 


* The king’s own words. — Retzow, vol. 1., p. 220. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY 


127 


vas once in friends, how poor I am now ! and who 
knows how much poorer I may be to-morrow at 
this hour — who knows if I shall have a place to 
lay my head ? — I may be a fugitive, without home 
or country. Yerily, I have the destiny of Mithri- 
dates — I want only two sons and a Monima. 

^ Well,” continued he, with .a soft smile, “ it is still 
something to stand alone — ^misfortunes only strike 
home. But do I stand alone ? have I not an en- 
tire people looking to me and expecting me to do 
my duty ? Have I not brave soldiers, who call 
me father, looking death courageously in the face 
and hazarding their lives for me ? No, I am not 
alone — and if Mithridates had two sons, I have thir- 
ty-three thousand. I will go and bid them good- 
evening. I think it will refresh my sad heart to 
hear their cheerful greetings.” 

The king threw on his mantle and left his quar- 
ters, to make, as he was often accustomed to do, a 
tour through the camp. Only the officer on guard 
followed him, at a short distance. 

It was now dark, and fires, which were lighted 
everywhere, gave a little protection against the 
biting cold. It was a beautiful sight — the wide 
plain, with its numberless, blazing, flickering flres, 
surrounded by groups of cheerful soldiers, their 
fresh faces glowing with the light of the flames. 
In the distance the moon rose grand and full, il- 
luminating the scene with its silver rays, and 
blending its pale shimmer with the ruddy flames. 

The king walked briskly through the camp, 
and, when recognized, the soldiers greeted him 
with shouts and loving words. As he approached 
a large Are, over which hung a big kettle, the 
contents of which filled the air with savory odors, 
he heard a brisk voice say : 

“Now, comrades, come and eat, the noodles 
are done ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! here we are,” cried the boys, who 
were standing not far off, chatting merrily. They 
sprang forward joyfully, . to eat the longed-for 
noodles. 

The king, recognizing the soldiers who had un- 
covered his roof, drew near to the tire. 

“ Shall I also come and eat with you ? ” he said, 
good-humoredly. 

The soldiers looked up from the tin plates, in 
which the noodles were swimming. 

“Yes, sire,” said Fritz Kober, jumping up and 
approaching the king ; “ yes, you shall eat with 
ns; here is my spoon and knife, and if you reject 
it, and are only mocking us, I shall be very angry 
Indeed.” 

The king laughed, and turning to the officer 
who had followed him, said, as if to excuse him- 
self 


“I must really eat, or I shall make the man 
furious. — Give me your spoon ; but listen, I can 
tell you, if the noodles are not good, 1 shall be 
angry.” He took the plate and began to eat 

The soldiers all stopped, and looked eagerly at 
the king. When he had swallowed the first bite, 
Fritz Kober could no longer restrain his curiosity. 

“Well, sire,” he said, triumphantly, “what do 
you say to it ? Can’t Buschman prepare better 
noodles than your cleverest cook ? ” 

“Verily,” said the king, smiling, “he never 
cooked such noodles for me, and I must say they 
are good ; but, now I have had enough, and I am 
much obliged to you.” 

He wished to return his plate to Fritz Kober, 
but Fritz shook his head violently. 

“ See here, your majesty, no one gets off from 
us with just a ‘ thank you,’ and you, least of all, 
sire ; every one must pay his part.” 

“Well,” said the king, “how much is my 
share ? ” 

“ It cost each of us three groschen ; the king 
may pay what he pleases.” 

“ Will you credit me, dragoon ? ” said the king, 
who searched his pockets in vain for money. 

“ Oh ! yes, your majesty, I will credit you, but 
only until to-morrow morning, early ; for, if a 
cannon-ball took my head off, I could not dun 
your majesty, and you would be my debtor to all 
eternity.” 

“ It would then be better to settle our accounts 
to-day,” said the king; and nodding to the sol- 
diers, he left them. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE WATCH-FIRE. 

The officer who had accompanied the king, re- 
turned in an hour to the watch-fire of the dra- 
goons, and handed five gold pieces to Fritz Kober, 
which had been sent by the king to pay for his 
portion of the noodles ; then, without giving the 
surprised soldier time to thank him, he withdrew. 

Fritz looked long and thoughtfully at the gold 
pieces, which, in the light of the flickering fire, 
shone beautifully in his hand. 

“ It is very well — ^very well that tne king kept 
his word, and paid me punctually to-night,” said 
he to Charles Henry Buschman, wlm sat neat, and 
with his elbow resting on his knee, watched hij 
friend closely. 

“ And why po, Fritz ? ” said Charles. 

“I will tell you, Charles Henry. If I fill to 


128 


FEEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


morrow, I will have something in my pocket that 
you will inherit from me. I declare, to you, no 
one but you alone shall be my heir ; all that I 
have belongs to you. Thunder and lightning ! I 
am rich ! it is better I should make my testament ; 
I don’t know what may happen to me to-morrow. 
I have neither pen nor paper; well, I will make it 
verbally ! I will wake some of my comrades, and 
they shall witness my last will and testament,” 
He reached over to the sleeping soldiers, who lay 
near him on the ground, but Charles held him 
back. 

“ Let them sleep, friend,” said he, pleadingly ; 
“it is not necessary you should have witnesses. 
God, and the moon, and a thousand stars hear 
what we say to each other; and why speak of 
your will and your fortune, friend ? Do you think 
I would care for that miserable gold, if you were 
no longer by my side ? Do you think I would use 
it for any other purpose than to buy your tomb- 
stone, and write on it in golden letters.” 

“ What ? a tombstone ! ” said Fritz Kober, with 
an astonished look ; “ and why would you place a 
tombstone over a poor, simple, unknown fellow 
like myself, Charles Henry? Many gallant gen- 
erals and officers fall in battle ; the earth drinks 
their blood, and no one knows where they lie. 
And with golden letters, did you say, Charles ? 
Well, lam curious to know what you would place 
upon my tombstone.” 

“I will tell you, Fritz. I will write on your 
tombstone — ‘ Here lies Fritz Kober ; the most 
faithful friend, the best soid, the most honest 
heart; good and simple as a child, brave as a 
hero, constant as a dove, and true as a hound.’ ” 

“ But am I all that ? ” said Fritz, amazed. 

“Yes, you are all that!” said Charles, with a 
trembling voice. “ You have been more than this 
to me, and I will never forget it. I w'as a poor, 
shrinking youth when I came to this camp ; I 
knew nothing — could do nothing. My comrades, 
who soon found me out, mocked and complained 
of me, and played all manner of jokes upon me. 
They ridiculed me, because I had no beard ; they 
mimicked me, because my voice was soft and 
unsteady ; they asserted that I would make a 
miserable soldier, because I grew deadly pale at 
parade. Who was it took pity on me, and op- 
posed themselves to my rude, unfeeling compan- 
ions? Who scolded and threatened to strike 
them, if they did not allow me to go my own way, 
in peace and quiet ? Who was patient with my 
stupidity, and taught me how to go through with 
ray military duties creditably, and how to manage 
ray horse ? You 1 you, dear Fritz ! you alone. You 
were always at my side, when others threatened. 


You were patient as a mother when she teaches 
her dear little boy his letters, and looks kindlt 
upon him, and is good to him, even when he is 
dull and inattentive.” 

“ Well,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “ one 
can do nothing better than to be good to a man 
who deserves it, and who is himself so kind, and 
pure, and brave, that a poor fellow like myself 
feels ashamed, and looks down when the soft eyes 
are fixed upon him. I tell you what, Charles 
Henry, there is a power in your eyes, and they 
have subdued me. I think the angels in heaven 
have just such eyes as yours, and when you look 
upon me so softly and kindly, my heart bounds 
with delight. I have dreamed of your eyes, 
Charles Henry ; I have blushed in my sleep when 
I thought I had uttered a coarse curse, and you 
looked upon me sorrowfully. I know you cannot 
endure cursing, or drink, or even tobacco.” 

“My father was a poor schoolmaster,” said 
Charles Henry ; “we lived quietly together, and 
he could not bear cursing. He used to say, 

‘ When men cursed, it hurt God like the tooth- 
ache.’ He said — ‘ God had not made the corn to 
grow, that men might make brandy, but bread.’ 
We were too poor to buy beer and wine, so we 
drank w'ater, and were content.” 

“Your father was right,” said Fritz, thought- 
fully. “ I believe, myself, corn was not intended 
to make brandy, and I don’t care for it; I will 
give it up altogether. If we live through this 
war, and receive good bounty money, we will buy 
a few acres, and build us a little house, and live 
together, and cultivate our land, and plant corn ; 
and, in the evening, when our work is done, we 
will sit on the bench before the door, and you 
will relate some of your beautiful little stories ; 
and so we will live on together till we are old and 
die.” 

“ But you have forgotten one thing, Fritz.” 

“ What is that, Charles Henry ? ” 

“ You have forgotten that } ou will take a wife 
into your little house, and she will soon cast me 
out.” 

“Let her try it!” cried Fritz, enraged, and 
doubling his fist threateningly. “ Let her try 
only to show the door to Charles Henry, and I 
will shut her out, and she shall never return— 
never ! But,” said he, softly , “ it is not neces- 
sary to think of this ; I will never take a wife. 
We will live together; we need no third person to 
make strife between us.” 

Charles said nothing. He looked smilingly in- 
to the glowing fire, and then at his comrade, with 
an amused but tender expression. 

If Fritz had seen it, his heart would have 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


129 


bounded again, but he was too much occupied 
then with his own thoughts to look up. 

“ Listen, Charles. If nothing comes of our lit- 
tle piece of ground and our house — if my last 
ball comes to-morrow and carries me off — ” 

“ Stop, stop, Fritz ; I will hold my head so that 
the same ball will carry it off ! ” 

“ If you do that, I will be very angry with 
you,” cried Fritz. “ You are too young to die, 
and I will be glad even in my grave to know that 
you are walking on the green earth. In order to 
do well, you must have gold ; therefore you must 
be my heir. If I fall, these beautiful gold pieces 
belong to you ; you shall not put a tombstone 
over me. Buy yourself a few acres, Charles Hen- 
ry, and when your corn grow's and blossoms, that 
shall be my monument.” 

Charles took his hand, and his eyes were filled 
with tears. “ Speak no more of death,” said he, 
softly ; “ it makes my heart heavy, and I shall 
lose my courage in the battle to-morrow when I 
think of all you have said. Ugh 1 how cold it is ! 
My soul feels frosted ! ” 

“ I will go and seek a little more wood,” said 
Fritz, springing up, “ and make a good fire, and 
then you shall be warmed.” 

He hurried off, and Charles remained alone by 
the fire, looking gravely on the glowing coals ; he 
smiled from time to time, and then he breathed 
heavily, as if oppressed by some weighty secret. 
Suddenly he heard a voice behind him. 

“ Ah ! I have found the fire again ! Good-even- 
ing, children.” 

“ Good-evening, sir king. Comrades, wake up ; 
the king is here ! ” 

“ No, no ; let your comrades sleep,” said the 
king, softly. “ The fire will do me good. I found 
the right path to the fire, as I said. Your dra- 
goons have uncovered my quarters, and the cold 
blasts of wind whistle through them and freeze 
the water in my room. I prefer to sit by the fire 
and warm myself.” 

He was about to seat himself on the straw near 
the fire, when a harsh voice called out : 

“ March on !— -every lazy scamp wants a place 
by the fire, but not one of them brings a splinter 
of wood.” 

Fritz Kober was behind them with the w'ood ; 
he had found it with great difficulty, and he was 
angry when he saw a strange soldier in his place 
by the side of Charles Henry. 

The king turned to him quietly. 

“ You are right, my son ! — come on ! I will 
make room for you.” 

“It is the king ! ” exclaimed Fritz, turning as if 
to fly. But the king held him. 


“ Remain where you are, my son ; you brought 
the wood, and you have the best right. I only 
wish to warm myself a little, and I think there is 
room for us all.” 

He seated himself upon the straw, and nodded 
to Fritz Kober to take a seat by him. Fritz trem- 
blingly obeyed, and Charles stirred the fire, which 
flamed up beautifully. 

King Frederick gazed at the flickering flames. 
Cliarles and Fritz sat on each side of him, and 
watched him in respectful silence ; around the 
watch-fire lay the sleeping dragoons. After a long 
pause the king raised his head and looked about 
him. 

“ Well, children, to-morrow will be a hot day, 
and we must strike the Austrians boldly.” 

“Yes, as we struck the French at Rossbach, 
your majesty,” said Fritz. “ Mark me ! it will go 
off bravely, and when we are done with the Aus- 
trians we will march to Constantinople.” 

“ What will we do in Constantinople ? ” said the 
king. 

“Nothing, your majesty, but march therewith 
you, whip the Turks, and take all their gold ! ” 

“ Not quite so fast, my son.” 

“ Why not, sir king ? We have chopped up the 
French army ; to-morrow we will do the same for 
the Austrians; and then, why not whip the 
Turks ? ” 

The king smiled, and said : 

“ Well, well, but first we must give the Aus- 
trians a good drubbing.” 

“And, by my soul, we will do that,” said Fritz, 
eagerly. “Your majesty may believe me — I will 
march with you to the end of the earth, and so 
will my friend Charles Buschman. If we have 
only a little to eat, we will find water everywhere ; 
so lead us where you will ! ” 

The king’s eyes flashed : “ By heaven ! it is a 
pleasure to lead such soldiers to battle ! ” Then 
turning, with a kindly expression, to Fritz Kober, 
he said : “ Can you write ? ” 

“ Not Avell, your majesty ; but Charles Henry 
Buschman can write much better than I. He is a 
scholar.” 

“Is that true?” said the king, gayly, to 
Charles. 

“ He will say ‘ No,’ sir king ; he cannot bear to 
be praised. But the truth remains, the truth even 
when denied — Charles is the bravest and wisest 
soldier in the army, and if there is justice in the 
world he will be made an officer.” 

“ You must get your commission first, Fritz,” 
said Charles, indifferently; “you earned it long 
ago, and if the king only knew all that you did al 
Rossbach, you would have it now.” 


130 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ What did he do ? ” said the king. 

“ Nothing, your majesty,” said Fritz. 

“ Yes, your majesty,” said Charles, zealously ; 
“he hewed right and left until the sparks flew in 
every direction. Our commander had told us the 
disgusting Frenchmen wanted to take our winter 
quarters, and even when Fritz Kober’s sword was 
still whizzing among them, they had the insolence 
to cry out, Quartier ! quartier !"' — then was 
Fritz enraged, and cut them down like corn-stalks, 
and cried out, ‘ Yes, yes ! I will give you quarters, 
but they will be underground ! ’ ” 

“ Only think,” said Fritz, “ they were flying be- 
fore us, and the impudent scamps, when we cap- 
tured them, would still twit us with the winter 
quarters they had intended to rob us of. How 
could I help cutting them to pieces ? ” 

“ But he spared those who cried ‘ Pardon,’ your 
majesty,” said Charles Henry, “he only took them 
prisoners. Nine prisoners did Fritz Kober take at 
Rossbach.” * 

“ I suppose the five prisoners you took were 
men of straw, that you say nothing of them,” 
cried Fritz. 

The king looked well pleased from one to the 
other. 

“ It appears to me you are both brave soldiers, 
and the braver because you do not boast of your 
deeds. Are you always such good friends as to 
seek to do each other kindly service ? ” 

“Your majesty, Charles Henry is my truest 
friend, and if you wish to do me a service, make 
him an officer.” 

“ But he says he will not be made an officer un- 
less you are made one, so there is nothing left for 
me to do but to promote both ! If in the battle 
to-morrow you fight like heroes, you shall both be 
made officers. Now, children, be quiet, let me 
rest a little. I do not want to sleep — cannot you 
tell me some little story, some pretty little fairy 
tale to keep my heavy eyes from closing ? ” 

“ Charles knows many fairy tales, sir king, and 
if you command it he must relate one.” 

“ Oh, yes, your majesty, I know the history of 
a fairy who knew and loved the brave son of a 
king, and when the prince went into battle she 
transformed herself into a sword, that she might 
be always by the side of him she loved.” 

. “ Tell me this pretty story, my son.” 

Charles Henry began to relate. Deep silence 

* The Prussians had been told that the Frenchmen in- 
tended to take possession of their winter quarters, and 
this enraged them greatly. When the French cavalry 
were flying at Rossbach, they used the German word 
guartier^ thinking they would be better understood. The 
Prussians looked upon this as an insolent jest, and gave no 
quarter. — Nicolai's Characteristics and Anecdotes. 


reigned about the camp. Here and there a word 
was spoken in sleep, a loud snore, or the neighing 
of a horse. The fires were burned down, and 
the coals glowed like fire-flies upon the dark 
ground. 

The moon stood over the camp and illuminated 
the strange and parti-colored scene with her soft 
rays, and called out the most wonderful contrasts 
of light and shade. Far, far away, in the dim dis- 
tance, one blood-red point could be seen ; it looked 
like a crimson star in the east. This was thi 
camp-fire of the Austrians. This mighty armj 
was encamped behind Leuthen. The king gazed 
in that direction with eager expectation, and lis- 
tened with painful attention to every distant 
sound. 

The silence of death seemed to reign there ; no 
sound or voice was heard. The king, being con- 
vinced of this, sank back once more upon the'' 
straw, and listened to Charles Henry Buschman^' 

It was indeed a beautiful fairy tale ; so wild and ! 
so fantastic that Fritz listened with eyes extended ' 
and almost breathless to every word. At last, as^^ 
the handsome prince was drawing his last breathy 
the lovely fairy sprang from his sword and brought 
the dead to life with her warm kisses, Fritz was in 
an ecstasy of excitement, and interrupted Charles 
by an outcry of rapture. 

“ This is a true story, sir king ! ” cried he, pas- 
sionately ; “ every word is true, and he who don’t 
believe it is a puppy ! ” 

“Well, well,” said the king, “I believe every < 
word, friend.” 

Charles Henry went on with his fairy tales ; but, 
notwithstanding the wonders he related, sleep at ; 
last overcame his friend ! Fritz’s eyes closed, but ^ 
he murmured in his sleep : 

^ “ It is all true — all true ! ” 

Charles Henry himself, wearied by the exertions •. 
of the last few days, felt his eyelids to be as heavy f 
as lead, his words came slowly, then ceased alto- ' 
gether. 

The king looked at his slumbering soldiers, then 
far away toward the watch-fires of the Austrian v 
camp. 

Silence still reigned. The moon showed dis- 1 
tant objects in the clearest light, and nothing sus t 
picious or alarming could be seen. , 

“ It was false intelligence which was brought to k 
me,” said the king. “ It is not true that the Aus- ^ 
trians are on the march and intend to surprise 
me. They sleep ! — we will not see them till to- I 
morrow. I will withdraw to my quarters.” 

King Frederick stepped slowly through the I 
ranks of the sleepers, and gave a sign to the offi- I 
cer and the four soldiers who bad accompanied 1| 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


131 


aim, but remained at a distance from the fire, to 
Skove lightly and awaken no one. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BATTLE OP LEUTHEN. 

; Early the next morning the king left his tent. 
Tike generals were anxiously awaiting him. His 
countenance glowed with energy and determina- 
I tion, and his brilliant eyes flashed with a spark- 
ling light. Inspired by the appearance of their 
hero, the clouded brows of the assembled generals 
became clearer. They felt that his lofty brow was 
illumined by genius, and that the laurels which 
crowned it could never fade. They were now con- 
fident, courageous, ready for the battle, and, al- 
though they had at first disapproved of the king’s 
plan of attacking the enemy who had twice over- 
come them, now that he was in their midst they 
felt secure of success. 

j Spies reported that the Austrian army had left 
I their camp at sunrise and advanced toward Leu- 
then ; they spoke much and loudly of the strength 
of the enemy, and of the eagerness of the soldiers 
to fall upon the weak Prussian army. 

At a sign from the king, Seidlitz approached 
, him, and informed him of the latest rumors, 
i “ It is a fearful army we are to attack,” said 
; Seidlitz ; “ more than twice our number.” 

I “I am aware of the strength of the enemy,” 
said the king, quietly, “ but nothing is left for me 
* but victory or death. Were they stationed upon 
i the church-tower of Breslau I would attack them.” 

Then approaching the other generals, he con- 
_ tinned in a loud voice : 

1 “ You are aware, gentlemen, that Prince Charles, 

' of Lothringen, succeeded in taking Schweidnitz, 
defeating the Duke of Bevern, and has made him- 
self master of Breslau, while I was protecting Ber- 
lin from the French army. The capital of Silesia, 
and all the munitions of war stowed there, have 
' been lost. All these circumstances are calculated 
1 to distress me deeply, had I not a boundless confi- 
^ dence in your courage, your resolution, and your 
: devoted love to your country. There is, I think, 

I QOt one among us who has not been distinguished 
j for some great, some noble deed. I feel assured 
t that your courage will not now fail in this hour of 
1 lirest need. I would feel as if I had accomplished 
nothing were I to leave Silesia in the possession 
[ of the Austrians. Against all acknowledged rules 
[ of war, I am determined to attack the army of 
! Charles of Lothringen, though it is three times as 


strong as my own. Notwithstanding the number 
of the enemy, or its advantageous position, I feel 
confident of success. This step must be taken, or 
all is lost I We must defeat the Austrians, or fall 
beneath their batteries ! This is my opinion, and 
thus I shall act. Make my determination known 
to every officer. Acquaint the soldiers with the 
events that will soon occur — tell them that I re- 
quire unconditional obedience ! Remember that 
you are Prussians ! — do not show yourselves un- 
worthy of the name ! But should there be any 
among you who fear to share these dangers 
with us, they can leave at once, and shall not be 
repi’oached by me.” 

The king ceased speaking, and looked inqui- 
ringly at his listeners. Upon every countenance 
he read determination, courage, and inspiration, 
but here and there were some whose brows be- 
came clouded at the king’s last suggestion, and 
tears were sparkling in old General Rohr’s eyes. 
The king pressed the general’s hand almost ten- 
derly. 

“ Ah, my dear friend,” said he, “I did not sus- 
pect you. But I again say, that if any amongst 
you wishes leave of absence, he shall have it.” 

Profound quiet followed these words. No one 
approached the king — no sound disturbed the 
solemn stillness. At a distance, the loud shouts 
and hurrahs of the soldiers, preparing for battle, 
could be heard. The king’s countenance became 
clear, and he continued with enthusiasm : 

“I knew beforehand that none of you would 
leave me. I counted upon your assistance; with 
it, I shall be victorious. Should I fall in this bat- 
tle, you must look to your country for reward ; 
and now, away to the camp, and repeat to your 
men what I have said to you. Farewell, gentle- 
men, before long we will either have defeated the 
enemy, or we will see one another no more.” 

And now there arose from the generals and offi- 
cers loud, joyous shouts. 

“ We will conquer or die ! ” cried Seidlitz, whose 
daring, youthful countenance sparkled with de- 
light. “We will conquer or die!” was repeated 
by all. 

At last the brave words reached the camp, and 
were reechoed by thirty thousand lusty throats. 
There was universal joy. Old gray-headed war- 
riors, who had followed the king into many bat- 
tles, who had conquered repeatedly with him, 
shook hands with and encouraged each othei*, and 
warned the younger soldiers to be brave and fear- 
less. 

Resting upon his horse, the king had been a 
joyful witness to all this enthusiasm. At this 
moment, a troop of soldiers, numbering about 


132 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


fifty, approached him. The commanding oflScer 
was greeted with a kindly smile. 

“ You are Lieutenant von Frankenberg? ” said 
the king. And as the lieutenant bowed in an- 
swer, he continued : “ General Kleist has spoken 
of you as being a brave and trustworthy officer. 
I have therefore a strange commission for you. 
Listen well ! do not lose a word of what I say. 
Come nearer. And now,” said the king, in a low 
voice, “ be attentive. In the approaching battle, 
I will have to expose myself more than usual ; you 
and your fifty men shall guard me. You must 
watch over me, and be careful that I fall not into 
tbe'hands of the enemy. Should I fall, cover my 
body with your mantle, and carry me to the 
wagon, which shall be stationed behind the first 
battalion. Leave me there, and tell no one of 
what has occurred. The battle must continue — 
the enemy must be defeated.” 

When the king had thus made his testament, 
he dismissed the lieutenant, and advanced toward 
his body-guard. 

“ Good-morning ! ” cried the king, cheerfully. 

“ Good-morning, father ! ” was the universal 
answer. Then the old graybeards, standing be- 
side the king, said again : 

“Good-morning, father! it is very cold to-day.” 

“ It will be warm enough before the day is 
over, boys ! ” said the king. “ There is much to 
be done. Be brave, my children, and I will care 
for you as a father.” 

* An old soldier, with silver hair, and the scars 
of many wounds upon his face, approached the 
king. 

“Your majesty,” said he, in an earnest voice, 
“ if we are crippled, what will become of us ? ” 

“ You shall be taken care of,” said the king. 

“Will your majesty give me your hand upon 
this promise ? ” 

This question was followed by deep silence. 
All present were gazing anxiously at the king and 
the old guard. The king advanced, and laid his 
hand in that of the old soldier. 

“I swear, that any of you who are crippled, 
shall be taken care of.” 

The old warrior turned with tearful eyes to his 
comrades. 

“Well,” said he, “you hear him? he is and 
will continue to be the King of Prussia and our 
father. The one who deserts is a rascal.” 

“ Long live our Fritz 1 ” and throughout the 
vhole camp resounded the cry — “ Long live our 
Fritz I Long live our king ! ” 

“ Onward ! onward ! ” was the cry, for at the 
end of the plain tL* enemy could De seen ap- 
proaching. 


“ Forward I ” cried the soldier’s, falling one by 
one into their places, as the king, followed by Lieu- 
tenant Fi’ankenberg and his men, galloped past 
them. 

A turn in the road show^ed the Prussians the 
enormous size of the enemy’s army. Silence pre- 
vailed for a few moments. Suddenly, here and 
there a voice could be heard singing a battle- 
hymn, and soon, accompanied by the band, the 
whole army was breathing out in song an earnest 
prayer to God. 

A gaard, approaching the king, said : 

“Is it your majesty’s desire that the soldiers 
should cease singing ? ” 

The king shook his head angrily. 

“ No 1 ” said he, “ let them alone. With such 
an army, God can but give me victory.” 

Nearer and nearer came the enemy, covering 
the plain with their numbers, and gazing with I 
amazement at the little army that dared to op- 
pose them. By the Austrian generals, smiling so 
contemptuously upon their weak opponents, one 
thing had been forgotten. The Austrians, confi- 
dent of success, were not in the least enthusiastic; 
the Prussians, aware of their danger, and inspired 
by love for their king, had nerved themselves 
to the contest. The armies now stood before 
each other in battle array. The king was at the 
front, the generals wei’e flying here and there, de- 
livering their orders. In obedience to these or- 
ders, the army suddenly changed its position, and 
so strange, so unsuspected was the change, that 
General Daun, turning to the Prince Lothringen, 
said : 

“ The Prussians are retreating ! we will not at- 
tack them.” 

Certain of this fact, they were off their guard, 
and disorder reigned in their camp. This security 
was suddenly changed to terror. They saw the 
Prussians rapidly approaching, threatening at 
once both wings of their army. Messenger upon ;® 
messenger was sent, imploring help from General 
Daun and Charles of Lothringen. The Prus- 
sians were upon them, felling them to the 
earth, regardless of danger — ^regardless of the nu- 
merous cannon which were playing upon them 
Daun, with a part of his command, hurried to the 
aid of General Luchesi, but he was too late ; 
Luchesi had fallen, and terror and disorder were 
rapidly spreading in the right wing, while from 
the left, Nadasky had already dispatched ten mes- 
sengers,' imploring assistance from Charles of 
Lothringen. In doubt as to which most needed 
help, he at last determined upon the right wing, 
whose ranks were thinning rapidly ; ho sent them 
aid, and took no notice of Nadasky’s messemrera 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


133 


And now the Prussians fell upon the left wing 
the Austrians. This attack was made with 
fury, and the Austrians retreated in wild disorder. 
It was in vain that other regiments came to their 
aid ; they had not time to arrange themselves be- 
fore they were forced back. They stumbled upon 
one another, the flying overtaking and trampling 
upon the flying. Again and again the imperial 
guards endeavored to place themselves in line of 
battle ; they were at once overpowered by the 
Prussian cavalry, who, intoxicated with victory, 
threw themselves upon them with demoniac 
strength. Yes, intoxicated — mad with victory, 
were these Prussians. With perfect indifference 
they saw their friends, their comrades, fall beside 
them ; they did not mourn over them, but re- 
venged their death tenfold upon the enemy. 
Those even who fell were inspired by enthusiasm 
and courage. Forgetful of their wounds, of their 
torn and broken limbs, they gazed with joy and 
pride at their comrades, joining in their shouts 
and hurrahs, until death sealed their lips. 

A Prussian grenadier, whose left leg had been 
shot off in the early part of the battle, raised 
himself from the ground ; using his gun as a crutch, 
he dragged himself to a spot which the army had 
to pass, and cried to the comrades who were look- 
ing pityingly upon his bleeding limb : “ Fight like 
brave Prussians, brothers ! Conquer or die for 
your king ! ” 

Another grenadier, who had lost both legs, lay 
upon the ground weltering in his blood, quietly 
smoking his pipe. An Austrian general galloping 
by, held in his horse and looked in amazement at 
the soldier. “ How is it possible, comrade,” said he, 
“ that in your fearful condition, you can smoke ? 
Death is near to you.” 

Taking the pipe from his mouth, the grenadier 
answered with white, trembling lips: “Well, and 
what of it ? Do I not die for my king ? ” 

Where the danger was the greatest, there was 
the king encouraging his soldiers. When a col- 
umn was seen to reel, there was Frederick in their 
midst inspiring new courage by his presence. 
The king was the soul of his army, and as his 
soul was sans peur et sans reproche^ the army was 
victorious. Napoleon, speaking of this battle, 
says: “Cette bataille de Leuthen est propre 
k immortaliser le caract^re moral de Fred4ric, et 
met k jour ses grands talents militaires.” And 
somewhat later, he says : “ Cette bataille etait un 
chef d’oeuvre de mouvements, de manoeuvres, et 
de resolution, seul elle suffirait pour immortaliser 
Fr6d6ric, et lui donne un lang parmi les plus 
frauds g4n4raux ! ” 

The victory was gained. The defeated Aus- 


trians fled in haste, leaving a hundred cannon, fif 
ty banners, and more than twenty thousand pris- 
oners in the hands of the Prussians ; while upon 
the battle-field six thousand of their dead and 
wounded were lying, with but two thousand dead 
and w'ounded Prussians. The victory belonged to 
Prussia. They had all distinguished themselves ; 
the king and every common soldier had done his 
dut)’. Frederick, accompanied by his staff, to 
which Lieutenant Frankenberg and his fifty men 
did not now belong, passed the bloody, smo- 
king battle-field. His countenance was spark 
ling with joy — his eyes shone like stars. He 
seemed looking for some one to whom to open his 
grateful heart. 

He who had given most assistance in the bat- 
tle was Prince Moritz von Dessau, whom at the 
battle of Collin the king had threatened with his 
sword, and with whom he had ever since been 
angry because his prophecy proved true. But 
there was no anger now in the king’s heart ; and 
as he had, in the presence of all his staff, threat- 
ened the prince, he wished also in their presence 
to thank and reward him. The prince was at a 
slight distance from him, so busily engaged in giv- 
ing orders that he did not perceive the king until 
he was quite close to him. 

“ I congratulate you upon this victory,” said 
the king, in a loud voice — “ I congratulate you, 
field-marshal.” 

The prince bowed in a silent, absent manner, 
and continued to give his orders. 

The king, raising his voice, said: “Do you not 
hear, field-marshal ? I congratulate you ! ” 

The prince looked hastily at the king, “ How ? 
Your majesty,” said he, doubtfully, “ has ap- 
pointed me — ” 

“ My field-marshal,” said the king, interrupting 
him. “ And well have you deserved this promo- 
tion ; you have assisted me in this battle as I have 
never before been assisted.” He grasped the 
prince’s hand and pressed it tenderly, and there 
were tears of emotion not only in the eyes of the 
new field-marshal, but also in those of the king. 

A fearful day’s work was finished — how fear- 
ful, could be seen by the wounded, the dying ly- 
ing pell-mell upon the battle-field amidst the dead, 
too exhausted to move. But the day had passed. 
The cries and shouts of the flying enemy had now 
ceased — the victory, the battle-field, belonged to 
the Prussians. What was now most needed by 
them was an hour’s rest. Above the bloody bat- 
tle-field, above the dying, the sleeping, the groan- 
ing, the sighing, now rose the moon grandly, sol- 
emnly, as if to console the dead and to lead the 
living to raise their grateful prayers to heaven 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HLS FAMILY. 


1JJ4 

And grateful praise ascended above that night — 
thanks for the preservation of their own and their 
friends’ lives — thanks for their hero’s victory. 
Side by side, whispering in low tones, lay the sol- 
diers — for the hour seemed to all too solemn to be 
broken by any loud sound. 

No hearts were so full of gratitude and joy as 
those of Charles Henry Buschman and Fritz Ko- 
ber. In the pressure of the battle they had been 
separated and had not again met during the en- 
gagement. In vain they had sought and called 
upon one another, and each one thought of the 
fearful possibility that the other had fallen. At 
last they stumbled upon each other. With shouts 
of joy they rushed into each other’s arms. 

“You are not wounded, Fritz Kober?” said 
Charles Henry, with a beating heart. 

“ I am unharmed ; but you, my friend ? ” 

“ Only a little cut in the hand, nothing more. 
How many prisoners did you take ? ” 

“ Seven, Charles Henry.” 

“ You will be promoted ! You will be an offi- 
cer ! ” 

“ Not unless you are also. How many prison- 
3rs did you take ? ” 

“ I am not sure, Fritz ; I think there were nine. 
But the captain will know.” 

“We will both be promoted, the king promised 
t, and now I am willing to accept it.” 

“ But what is this to us now, my friend,” said 
Charles Henry ; “ we have found one another, and 
I am indifferent to all else.” 

. “ You are right, Charles Henry ; this has been 
a fearful, a terrible day. My knees tremble be- 
neath me — ^let us rest awhile.” 

He laid himself upon the ground. Charles Hen- 
ry knelt beside him, laying one hand upon his 
shoulder, and looked at the starry sky; a holy 
smile glorified his countenance. As he gazed at 
the moon, tender feelings were at work in his heart. 
He thought of his distant home — of the graves of 
his loved parents, upon which the moon was now 
shining as brightly as upon this bloody battle- 
field. He thought how kind and merciful God had 
been to preserve his friend, his only consolation, 
the one joy of his weary, lonesome life. The sol- 
emn stillness by which he was surrounded, the 
bright moonlight which illuminated the battle- 
field, the thought of the hard struggle of the past 
day, all acted strongly upon his feelings. The 
brave, daring soldier, Charles Henry Buschman, 
was once more transformed into the gentle, soft- 
hearted Anna Sophia Detzloff ; now, when danger 
was past, she felt herself a weak, trembling wo- 
man. Deep, inexpressible emotion, earnest pray- 
ers to God, w^ere busy in Anna Sophia’s heart. 


Kneeling upon the ground, resting .m her friend, 
she raised her eyes heavenward, and commenced 
singing in an earnest, impassioned tone that glo- 
rious hymn, “Thanks unto God!” Fritz Kober, 
actuated by the same feelings, joined in the hymn, 
and here and there a comrade lent his voice to 
swell the anthem ; it became stronger, loirder, un- 
til at last, like a mighty stream, it passed over the 
battle-field, knocking at every heart, and urging it 
to prayer, finding everywhere an open ear. 

The moon stood smiling above the battle-field, 
upon which eight thousand dead and w^ounded 
men were lying. Even the wounded, who a short 
time before filled the air with groans of pain and 
agony, raised themselves to join in the song of 
praise which was now sung, not by a hundred, not 
by a thousand, but by thirty thousand soldiers, 
thirty thousand heroes, who, after that bloody day 
had earned the right to sing “ Thanks unto God.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

•WINTER QUARTERS IN BRESLAU. 

Faint and exhausted, the king had withdrawn 
to his room ; he was alone. To-day was the twen- 
ty-fourth of January, Frederick’s birthday, and, 
although he had forbidden all congratulations, all 
celebrations, he could not avoid receiving the 
highest tribunals of Breslau, and also a few depu- 
tations of the citizens of this reconquered city. 
These visits wearied the king ; he was grave and 
out of spirits. Once more alone, he could indulge 
in the sad memories that came over him involun- 
tarily and forcibly. For here in Breslau he had 
lately experienced a bitter disappointment; every 
thing in the castle reminded him of the treacher- 
ous friend whom he had loved so dearly , and who 
had so shamefully betrayed him. 

The king was now thinking of the Bishop von 
Schaffgotsch. * An expression of painful gloom 
clouded his face, he felt solitary and deserted ; the 
cold, silent room chilled his heart, and the snow 
blown against the window by the howling winds, 
oppressed him strangely. He was more dejected 
and anxious than he had ever felt before a battle. 

“ The marquis cannot travel in such weather,” 
he said, sighing, “ and my musicians will be care- 
ful not to trust themselves upon the highway ; they 
will imagine the snow has blocked up the way, 
and that it is impossible to come through. They 
will remain in Berlin, caring but little that I am 
counting the weary hours until they arrive. Yes^ 
yes, this is an example of the almighty power of 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


135 


a king ; a fow snow-flakes are sufficient to set his 
commands aside, and the king remains but an im. 
potent child of the dust. Of what avail is it that 
I have conquered the Austrians and the French ? 
I have sown dragons’ teeth, from which new ene- 
mies will arise, new battles, perhaps new defeats. 
What have I gained by consecrating my heart to 
my friends ? They are but serpents — ^I have nour- 
ished them in my breast, and they will sting 
when I least suspect them. Even ihose whom 
I still trust, forsake me now when I most need 
them ! ” 

The wild storm increased, and blew a cloud of 
snow-flakes against the window, and the wind 
whistled mournfully in the chimney. 

“ No,” murmured the king, “ D’Argens will cer- 
tainly not come ; he will remain quietly in his be- 
loved bed, and from there write me a touching 
epistle concerning the bonds of friendship. I know 
that when feeling does not flow from the hearts of 
men, it flows eloquently from ink as a pitiful com- 
pensation. But,” he continued after a pause, 
“ this is all folly ! Solitude makes a dreamer of 
me — I am sighing for my friends as a lover sighs 
for his sweetheart ! Am I then so entirely alone ? 
Have I not my books ? Come, Lucretius, thou 
friend in good and evil days ; thou sage, thou who 
bast never left me without counsel and consola- 
tion ! Come and cheer thy pupil — ^teach him how 
to laugh at this pitiful world as it deserves ! ” 

Taking Lucretius from the table, and stretching 
himself upon the sofa, he commenced reading. 
Deep stillness surrounded him. Bells were ring- 
ing in the distance in honor of the royal birthday. 
The Breslauers, who had so shortly before joyfully 
welcomed the conquering Austrians, now desired 
to convince the King of Prussia that they were his 
zealous subjects. The evening of the kingly 
birthday they wished to show the joy of their 
hearts by a brilliant illumination. 

The king still read, and became so absorbed 
that he did not hear the door gently opened. The 
tall, slender form of the Marquis d’Argens appeared 
at the threshold. Overcome with joyful emotions, 
Ae remained standing, and gazing with clouded 
eyes at the king. Composing himself, he closed 
tne door softly behind him and advanced. 

“ Sire, will you forgive me for entering unan- 
nounced? ” 

The king sprang from his seat and held out 
both his hands. “Welcome, welcome! I thank 
you for coming.” 

^ The marquis could not reply ; he pressed his 
lips silently upon the king’s hands. “ My God,” 
he said, in a trembling voice, “ how my heart has 
longed for this happy moment — how many offer- 


ings I have vowed to Heaven if allowed to see the 
king once more.” 

“You did not win Heaven by promises alone, 
friend, but you have offered up a victim. You 
have left that precious bed which you have occu- 
pied for the past eight months — ^you have gained 
a victory over yourself which is of more value 
than many victoi'ies.” 

“ Ah, your majesty,” cried the marquis, whose 
black eyes Avere again sparkling with mirth, “ I 
now feel that my poor heart spoke the truth when 
it declared that you were ever by its side. We 
have really not been separated, and your majesty 
begins with me to-day Avhere you left off but yester- 
day. You laugh now as then at me, and my poor 
bed, which has heard for more than a year past only 
my sighs and prayers for your majesty’s success. 
It was not difficult for me to leave it and to obey 
the summons of my king. If you think this con- 
quest over myself worth more than a victory over 
our enemies, how lightly the hero of Rossbach 
and Leuthen regards victories ! ” 

“ Not so, marquis ; but you know what the re- 
nowned King of the Hebrews said — that wise 
king who rejoiced in a thousand wives : ‘ He who 
conquers himself is greater than he who taketh a 
city.’ You, marquis, are this rare self-conqueror, 
and you shall be rewarded right royally. I have 
had rooms prepared as warm and comfortable as 
the marquise herself could have arranged for you. 
The windows are stuffed with cotton, furs are ly- 
ing before the stove, cap and foot-muff, so your 
faithful La Pierre may wrap and bundle you up to 
your heart’s content. Not a breath of air shall 
annoy you, and all your necessities shall be pro- 
vided for with as much reverence as if you Avere 
the holy fire in the temple of Yesta, and I the 
priestess that guards it.” 

The marquis laughed heartily. “Should the 
fire ever burn low and the fiame pale, I beg my 
exalted priestess to cast her burning glance upon 
me, and thus renew my heat. Sire, allow me, be- 
fore all other things, to offer my congratulations. 
May Heaven bless this day Avhich rose like a star 
of hope upon all Avho love the great, the beauti- 
ful, the exalted, and the — ” 

“ Enough, enough,” cried Frederick ; “ if you 
begin in this way, I shall fly from you ; I shall 
believe you are one of those stupid deputations 
with which etiquette greets the king. In this 
room, friend, there is no king, and when we are 
here alone Ave are two simple friends, taking each 
other warmly by the hand and congratulating our- 
selves upon having lived through another weary 
year, and having the courage bravely to meet the 
years that remain. Should you still desire to add 


136 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


a wish to this, marquis, pray that the war fever 
which has seized all Europe, may disappear — that 
the triumvirate of France, Russia, and Austria, 
may be vanquished — that the tyrants of this uni- 
verse may not succeed in binding the whole 
world in the chains they have prepared for it.” 

“ Your majesty will know how to obtain this 
result — to break this chain — and if they will not 
yield willingly, the hero of Rossbach and Leuthen 
will know how to crush them in his just rage.” 

“ God grant it ! ” sighed the king ; “ I long for 
peace, although my enemies say I am the evil ge- 
nius that brings discord and strife into the world. 
They say that if Frederick of Prussia did not ex- 
ist, the entire world would be a paradise of peace 
and love. I could say to them, as Demosthenes 
said to the Athenians: ‘If Philip were dead, what 
would it signify ? You would soon make another 
Philip.’ I say to the Austrians : ‘ Your ambition, 
your desire for universal reign, would soon rouse 
other enemies. The liberties of Germany, and in- 
deed of all Europe, will always find defenders.’ 
We will speak no more of these sad themes; they 
belong to the past and the future. Let us try to 
forget, friend, that we are in winter quarters at 
Breslau, and imagine ourselves to be at our dear 
Sans-Souci.” 

“ In our beautiful convent,” said the marquis, 
“ whose abbot has so long been absent, and whose 
monks are scattered to the four winds.” 

“ It is true,” sighed the king, gloomily, “ wide- 
ly scattered ; and when the abbot returns to Sans- 
Souci, every thing will be changed and lonely. Oh, 
marquis, how much I have lost since we parted ! ” 

“ How much you have gained, sire ! how many 
new laurels crown your heroic brow ! ” 

“ You speak of my victories,” said the king, 
shaking his head ; “ but believe me, my heart has 
Buffered defeats from which it will never recover. 

I am not speaking of the death of my mother — 
although that is a wound that will never heal ; 
that came from the hand of Providence ; against 
its decrees no man dare murmur. I speak of 
more bitter, more cruel defeats, occasioned by the 
ingratitude and baseness of men.” 

“Your majesty still thinks of the unworthy Ab- 
bot of Prades,” said D’Argens, sadly. 

“ No, marquis- ; that hurt, I confess. I liked 
him, but I never loved him — he was not my 
friend ; his treachery grieved but did not surprise 
me. I knew he was weak. He sold me ! Find- 
ing himself in my camp, he made use of his op- 
portunity and betrayed to the enemy all that came 
to his knowledge. He had a small soul, and upon 
such men you cannot count. But from another 
source I receive! a great wrong — this lies like 


iron upon my heart, and hardens it. I loved Bish 
op Schaffgotsch, marquis ; I called him friend ; 1 
gave him proof of my friendship. I had a right 
to depend on his faithfulness, and believe in a 
friendship he had so often confirmed by oaths. 
My love, at least, was unselfish, and deserved not 
to be betrayed. . But be was false in the hour of 
danger, like Peter who betrayed his Master. The 
Austrians had scarcely entered Breslau, when he 
not only denied me, but went further — he trampled 
upon the orders of my house, and held a Te Deum 
in the dome in honor of the Austrian victory at 
Collin.” The king ceased and turned away, that 
the marquis might not see the tears that clouded 
his eyes. 

“ Sire,” cried the marquis, deeply moved, “ for- 
get the ingratitude of these weak souls, who were 
unworthy of a hero’s friendship.” 

“I will; but enough of this. You are here, 
and I still believe in you, marquis. You and the 
good Lord Marshal are the only friends left me 
to lean upon when the baseness of men makes my 
heart fail.” 

“ These friends will never fail you, sire,” said 
the marquis, deeply moved; “your virtues and 
your love made them strong.” 

The king took his hand afiectionately. “Let 
us forget the past,” said he, gayly ; “ and as we 
both, in our weak hours, consider ourselves poets, 
let us dream that we are in my library in our be- 
loved Sans-Souci. We will devote this holy time 
of peace to our studies, for that is, without doubt, 
the best use we can make of it. You shall see a 
flood of verses with which I amused myself in 
camp, and some epigrams written against my en- 
emies.” 

“ But if we were even now in Sans-Souci, sire, 
I do not think you w'ould give this hour to books. 
I dare assert you would be practising with Quantz, 
and preparing for the evening concerts.” 

“Yes, yes; but here we are denied that happi- 
ness,” said the king, sadly. “ I have written for a 
part of my band, and they will be here I hope in 
eight days; but Graun and Quantz will certainly 
not—” The king paused and listened attentive- 
ly. It seemed to him as if he heard the sound of 
a violin in the adjoining room, accompanied by 
the light tones of a flute. Yes, it was indeed so ; 
some one was tuning a violin and the soft sound 
of the flute mingled with the violoncello. A flush 
of rosy joy lighted the king’s face— he cast a 
questioning glance upon the marquis, who nodded 
smilingly. With a joyful cry the king crossed the 
room — an expression of glad surprise burst from 
his lips. 

There they were, the loved companions of his 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


137 


evening concerts. There was Graun, with his 
soft, dreamy, artistic face ; there was Quantz, with 
his sullen, discontented look — whose grumbling, 
even Frederick was compelled to respect; there 
was the young Fasch, whom the king had just en- 
gaged, and who played the violoncello in the even- 
ing concerts. 

As the king advanced to meet them, they 
greeted him loudly : “ Long live oui king ! — our 
great Frederick ! ” Even Quantz forgot hinaoeif 
for a moment, and laughed good-humoredly. 

“ Listen, sire ; it will be a mortal sin if you 
scold us for coming to you without being sum- 
moned by your majesty. This is throughout all 
Prussia a festal day, and no one should desecrate 
it by scolding or fault-finding — not even the 
king.” 

“ Oh, I am not disposed to scold,” said Freder- 
ick, in low tones ; he did not wish them to hear 
how his voice trembled — “ I do not scold — I thank 
you heartily.” 

“We had nothing better to send your majesty 
on your birthday than our unworthy selves,” said 
Graun ; “ we come, therefore, to lay ourselves at 
our king's feet, and say to him : ‘ Accept our 
hearts, and do not spurn the gift.’ A warm, hu- 
man heart is the richest gift one man can offer an- 
other. Your majesty is a great king, and a good 
and great man, and we dare approach you, there- 
fore, as man to man.” 

“ And my Graun is so renowned a composer, 
that any man must count it an honor to be be- 
loved by him,” said Frederick, tenderly. 

“For myself,” said Quantz, gravely, handing 
the king a small roll carefully wrapped up, “ I 
have brought something more than my naked 
heart in honor of rny king’s birthday. I pray 
your majesty to accept it graciously.” * 

The king opened it hastily. “ A flute ! ” cried 
he, joyfully, “ and a flute made for me by the 
great master Quantz, I am sure.” 

“Yes, your majesty; all the time you were in 
the field, I have worked upon it. As the courier 
brought the news of the battle of Leuthen, all 
Berlin shouted for joy, and the banners floated in 
every street and at every window. Then this 
flute broke its silence for the first time — its first 
music was a liosanna to our great king.” 

“ From this time forth,” said Frederick, “ let 
no man dare to say that battles are in vain. The 
bloody field of Leuthen produced a flute from 
Quantz ; and by Heaven, that is a greater rarity 
than the most complete victory in these warlike 
lays ! ” 


“ Sire,” said the marquis, drawing some letters 
from his pocket, “ I have also some gifts to ofler 
This is a letter from Algarotti, and a small bov 
of Italian snuff, which he begs to add as an evi- 
dence of his rejoicing in your victories.* Here is 
a letter from Voltaire, and one from Lord Mar* 
shal.” 

“From all my distant friends — they have all 
thought of me,” said Frederick, as he took the 
letters. 

“ But I have no time to read letters now ; we 
will have music, and if agreeable to you, mes- 
sieurs, we will practise a quartet which I com- 
posed during my solitude, these last few days.” 

“ Let us try it,” said Quantz, carelessly opening 
the piano. 

Frederick went to his room to seek his note- 
book, and place his letters upon the table, but, 
before he returned, he called the marquis to him. 

“ D’Argens,” said he, “ may I not thank you 
for this agreeable surprise ? ” 

“Yes, sire, I proposed it, and took the respon- 
sibility upon myself. If your majesty is displeased, 
I am the only culprit ! ” 

“ And why have you made yourself the postil- 
ion, and brought me all these letters, marquis ? ” 

“ Sire, because — ” 

“ I will tell you, marquis,” said Frederick, with 
a loving glance, and laying his hand upon D’Ar- 
gens’ shoulder ; “ you did this, because you knew 
my poor heart had received a deep wound, and 
YOU wished to heal it. You wished to surround 
me with many friends, and make me forget the 
one who fails, and who betrayed me. I thank 
you, marquis ! Yours is a great heart, and I be- 
lieve your balsam has magic in it. I thank you 
for this hour, it has done me good ; and though 
the world may succeed in poisoning my heart, I 
will never — never distrust you ; I will never for- 
get this hour ! ” 

“And now, messieurs,” said Frederick, as he 
returned to the musicians, “ we will take our 
parts, and you, Quantz, take your place at the 
piano.” 

The concert began. Frederick stood behind 
the piano, at which Quantz sat; Graun and Fasch 
had withdrawn to the window, in order to enjoy 
the music, as Frederick was first to play a solo on 
his flute, with a simple piano accompaniment. 

The king played artistically, and with a rar» 
enthusiasm. The marquis was in ecstasy, anCi 
Graun uttered a few low bravos. Suddenly, all 
the musicians shuddered, and Quantz was heard 
to mutter angrily. The king had committed a 


♦ Pocus, “ Frederick the Great and his Friends.” 


♦ Poous, “ Frederick the Great and his Friends.” 


138 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


great fault in his composition — a fault against the 
severest rules of art. He played on, however, 
quietly, and said, when he had completed the 
page — “ Da capo / ” and recommenced. Again 
came the false notes, frightful to the ears of mu- 
sicians. An d now Graun and Fasch could not 
keep time. The king held his breath. 

“Go on, Quantz,” said he, zealously, placing 
the flute again to his lips. 

Quantz cast a sullen look at him. 

“As your majesty pleases,” said he, and he 
played so fiercely that Graun and Fasch shivered, 
and Quantz himself whistled to drown the discord. 
The unlearned marquis looked in blessed igno- 
rance upon his royal friend, and the beautiful 
music brought tears to his eyes. When the piece 
was ended, the king said to Quantz : 

“Do you find this text false ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, it is false!” 

“ And you two also believe it false ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, it is false!” said Graun 
and Fasch. 

“But, if the composer will have it so ? ” 

“ It is still false ! ” said Quantz, sullenly. 

“ But if it pleases me, and I think it melodi- 
ous ? ” 

“Your majesty can never find it so,” said 
Quantz, angrily. “ The notes are false, and what 
is false can never please your majesty.” 

“Well, well!” said the king, good-humoredly; 
“ don’t be quite so angry ! it is, after all, not a 
lost battle ! * If this passage is impossible, we 
will strike it out.” 

“ If your majesty does that, it will be a beauti- 
ful composition, and I would be proud myself to 
have composed it.” 

The king smiled, well pleased. It was evident 
that this praise of his proud and stem master was 
most acceptable to the hero of Leuthen and Ross- 
bach. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE BROKEN HEART. 

A CARRIAGE stopped before the pleasure palace 
of Oranienburg. The lady who sat in it, cast 
anxious, questioning glances at the windows, and 
breathed a heavy sigh when she saw the closed 
shutters, and observed the absence of life and 
movement ic the palace. At this moment an 
officer stepped hastily from the great portal to 
greet the lady, and assist her to descend. 


“ Does he still live ? ” said she, breathlessly. 

“He lives, countess, and awaits you eagerly ! 
said the officer. 

She did not reply, but raised her large, melan- 
choly eyes thankfully to heaven, and her lipa 
moved as if in prayer. 

They stepped silently and rapidly through the 
dazzling saloons, now drear and deserted. Their 
pomp and splendor was painful; it harmonized 
but little with their sad presentiments. 

“We have arrived, countess,” said the officer, 
as they stood before a closed and thickly-curtained 
door. “ The prince is in this garden-saloon.” 

The lady’s heart beat loudly, and her lips were 
pale as death. She leaned for a moment against 
the door, and tried to gather strength. 

“ I am ready ! announce me to the prince ! ” 

“That is unnecessary, countess. The prince’s 
nerves are so sensitive, that the slightest noise 
does not escape him. He heard the rolling of 
your carriage-wheels, and knows that you are 
here. He is expecting you, and has commanded 
that you come unannounced. Have the goodness 
to enter ; you will be alone with the prince.” He 
raised the curtain, and the countess looked back 
once more. 

“ Is there any hope ? ” said she, to her com- 
panion. 

“None! The physician says he must die to- 
day ! ” 

The countess opened the door so noiselessly, 
that not the slightest sound betrayed her presence. 
She sank upon a chair near the entrance, and 
fixed her tearful eyes with inexpressible agony 
upon the pale form, which lay upon the bed, near 
the open door, leading into the garden. 

What ! — this wan, emaciated figure, that coun- 
tenance of deadly pallor, those fallen cheeks, those 
bloodless lips, the hollow temples, thinly shade*] 
by the lifeless, colorless hair — was that Augustus 
William ? — the lover of her youth, the worshipped 
dream-picture of her whole life, the never-effaced 
ideal of her faithful heart ? 

As she looked upon him, the sweetly-painfu!, 
sad, and yet glorious past, seemed to fill her soul 
She felt that her heart was young, and beat, even 
now, as f^rdently for him who lay dying before 
her, as in the early time, when they stood side by 
side in the fulness of youth, beauty, and strength— 
when they stood side by side for the last time. 

At that time, she died ! Youth, happiness, 
heart were buried ; but now, as she looked upon 
him, the coffin unclosed, the shroud fell back, and 
the immortal spirits greeted each other with tn? 
love of the olden time. 

And now, Laura wept no more. Enthusiasm, 


* '^rhe king’s own worda 


FREDERICK THE GRF.AT AND HiS FAMILY. 


inspiration were written upon her face. She felt 
no earthly pain; the heavenly peace of the resur- 
rection morning filled her soul. She arose and 
ipproached the prince. He did not see her ; his 
ayes were closed. Perhaps he slumbered ; per- 
haps the king of terrors had already pressed his 
first bewildering kiss upon the pale brow. Laura 
bent over and looked upon him. Her long, dark 
ringlets fell around his face like a mourning veil. 
She listened to his light breathing, and, bowing 
lower, kissed the poor, wan lips. 

He opened his eyes very quietly, without sur- 
prise. Peacefully, joyfully he looked up at her. 
And Laura — she asked no longer if that wasted 
form could be the lover of her youth. In his eyes 
she found the long-lost treasure — the love, the 
youth, the soul of the glorious past. 

Slowly the prince raised his arms, and drew her 
toward him. She sank down, and laid her head 
by his cold cheek. Her hot breath wafted him a 
new life-current, and seemed to call back his soul 
from the spirit-world. 

For a long time no word was spoken. How 
could they speak, in this first consecrated mo- 
ment ? They felt so much, that language failed. 
They lay heart to heart, and only God understood 
their hollow sighs, their unspoken prayers, their 
suppressed tears. Only God was with them ! 
God sent through the open doors the fresh fra- 
grance of the flowers; He sent the winds. His 
messengers, through the tall trees, and their wild, 
melancholy voices were like a solemn organ, ac- 
companying love’s last hymn. In the distant 
thickets the nightingale raised her melancholy 
notes, for love’s last greeting. Thus eternal Na- 
ture greets the dying sons of men. 

God was with His children. Their thoughts 
were prayers ; their eyes, which at first were fixed 
upon each other, now turned pleadingly to heaven. 

“ I shall soon be there ! ” said Prince Augustus 
— “ soon ! I shall live a true life, and this struggle 
with death will soon be over. For sixteen years 
I have been slowly dying, day by day, hour by 
Hour. Laura, it has been sixteen years, has it 
not ? ” 

She bowed silently. 

“ No,” said he, gazing earnestly upon her ; “ it 
was but yesterday. I know now that it was but 
yesterday. You are just the same — unchanged, 
my Laura. This is the same angel-face which I 
have carried in my heart. Nothing is changed, 
and I thank God for it. It would have been a 
great grief to look upon you and find a strange 
face by my side. This is my Laura, my own 
Laura, who left me sixteen years ago. And now, 
'ook at me steadily ; see what life has made of 


139 

me; see how it has mastered me — tortured me 
to death with a thousand wounds ! I call no man 
my murderer, but I die of these wounds. Oh, 
Laura ! why did you forsake me ? Why did you 
not leave this miserable, hypocritical, weary world ■ 
of civilization, and follow me to the New World, 
where the happiness of a true life awaited us?” 

“ I dared not,” said she ; “ God demanded this 
offering of me, and because I loved you bound- 
lessly I was strong enough to submit. God also 
knows what it cost me, and how these many years 
I have struggled with my heart, and tried to learn 
to forget.” 

“ Struggle no longer, Laura, I am dying ; when 
I am dead you dare not forget me.” 

She embraced bim with soft tenderness. 

“ No, no,” whispered she, “ God is merciful ! 
He will not rob me of the only consolation of my 
joyless, solitary life. I had only this. To think 
he lives, he breathes the same air, he looks up 
into the same heavens — the same quiet stars greet 
him and me. And a day will come in which mil- 
lions of men will shout and call him their king ; 
and when I look upon his handsome face, and see 
him in the midst of his people, surrounded by 
pomp and splendor, I dare say to myself. That is 
my work. I loved him more than I loved myself, 
therefore he wears a crown — I had the courage 
not only to die for him, but to live without him, 
and therefore is he a king. Oh, my beloved, say 
not that you are dying ! ” 

“ If you love me truly, Laura, you will not wish 
me to live. Indeed I have long been dying. For 
sixteen years I have felt the death-worm in my 
heart — it gnaws and gnaws. I have tried to crush 
it — •! wished to live, because I had promised you to 
bear my burden. I wished to prove myself a man. 

I gave the love which you laid at my feet, bathed in 
our tears and our blood, to my fatherland. I was 
told that I must marry, to promote the interest of 
my country, and I did so. I laid a mask over my 
face, and a mask over my heart. I wished to 
play my part in the drama of life to the end ; I 
wished to honor my royal birth to which fate had 
condemned me. But it appears I was a bad ac- 
tor. I was cast out from my service, my gay uni- 
form and royal star torn from my breast. I, a 
prince, was sent home a humiliated, degraded, 
ragged beggar. I crept with my misery and my 
shame into this corner, and no one followed me. 
No one showed a spark of love for the poor, 
spumed cast-away. Love would have enabled me 
to overcome all, to defy the world, and to oppose 
its slanders boldly. I was left alone to bear my 
shame and my despair — wholly alone. I have a 
wife, I have children, and I am alone ; they live 


140 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


far away from me, and at the moment of my 
death they will smile and be happy. I am the 
heir of a throne, but a poor beggar ; I asked only 
of fate a little love, but I asked in vain. Fate had 
no pity — only when I am dead will I be a prince 
again ; then they will heap honors upon my dead 
body. Oh, Laura ! how it burns in my heart — 
how terrible is this hell-fire of shame ! It eats up 
the marrow of my bones and devours my brain. 
Oh, my head, my head ! how terrible is this 
pain ! ” 

With a loud sob he sank back on the pillow ; 
his eyes closed, great drops of sweat stood on his 
brow, and the breath seemed struggling in his 
breast. 

Laura bowed over him, she wiped away the 
death-sweat with her hair, and hot tears fell on the 
poor wan face. These tears aroused him — he 
opened his eyes. 

“ I have got something to say,” whispered he ; 
“ I feel that I shall soon be well. When the 
world says of me, ‘ He is dead,’ I shall have just 
awaked from death. There above begins the true 
life ; what is here so called is only a pitiful pro- 
logue. We live here only that we may learn to 
wish for death. Oh, my Laura ! I shall soon live, 
love, and be happy.” 

“ Oh, take me with you, my beloved,” cried 
Laura, kneeling before him, dissolved in tears. 
“ Leave me not alone — it is ,so sad, so solitary in 
this cold world ! Take me with you, my be- 
loved ! ” 

He heard her not ! Death had already touched 
him with the point of his dark wings, and spread 
his mantle over him. His spirit struggled with tlie 
exhausted body and panted to escape. He no 
longer heard when Laura called, but he still lived : 
his eyes were wide open and he spoke again. But 
they were single, disconnected words, which be- 
longed to the dreamland and the forms of the in- 
visible world which his almost disembodied spirit 
now looked upon. 

“ Once,” he said, in a loud voice, and this time 
he looked with full consciousness upon Laura, “ I 
close my life — a life of sorrow. Winterfeldt has 
shortened my days, but I die content in knowing 
that so bad, so dangerous a man is no longer in 
the army.” * 


* The prince’s own words. He died the 12th of June, 
1758, at thirty-six years of age. As his adjutant. Von 
Hagen, brought the ne^vs of his death to the king, Freder- 
ick asked, “ Of what disease did my brother die ? ” “ Grief 
and shame shortened his life,” said the oflBcer. Frederick 
turned his back upon him without a reply, and Yon Hagen 
was never promoted. 

The kin^ erected a monument to Winterfeldt, Ziethen, 


His mind wandered, and he thought he was on 
the battle-field, and called out, loudly; 

“ Forward ! forward fo the death ! ” 

Then all was still but the song of the birds and 
the sighing winds. 

Laura knelt and prayed. When she turned her 
glance from the cloudless heavens upon her be 
loved, his countenance was changed. There was 
a glory about it, and his great, wide-opened eyes 
flashed with inspiration ; he raised his dying head 
and greeted the trees and flowers with his last 
glance. 

“ How beautiful is the world when one is about 
to die,” said he, with a sweet smile. “ Farewell, 
world ! Farewell, Laura ! Come, take me in your 
arms — ^let me die in the arms of love ! Hate has 
its reign in this world, but love goes down with us 
into the cold grave. Farewell ! — farewell ! — fare- 
well ! ” 

His head fell upon Laura’s shoulder ; one last 
gasp, one last shudder, and the heir of a throne, 
the future ruler of millions, was nothing Lut a 
corpse. 

The trees whispered gayly — no cloud shadowed 
the blue heavens ; the birds sang, the flowers 
bloomed, and yet in that eventful moment a prince 
was born, a pardoned soul was wafted to the skies. 

Love pressed the last kiss upon the poor, wan 
lips ; love closed the weary eyes ; love wept over 
him ; love prayed for his soul. 

“ Hate has her reign in this poor world, love 
goes down with us into the dark tomb.” 

and Schwerin, but he left it to his brother Henry to erect 
ono to the Prince of Prussia. This was done in Eeinenz, 
where a lofty pyramid was built in honor of the heroes of 
the Seven Years’ War. The names of all the generals, 
and all the battles they had gained were engraven upon 
it, and it was crowned by a bust of Augustus William, the 
great-grandfather of the present King of Prussia. 

The king erected a statue to Winterfeldt, and forgot Ins 
brother, and now Prince Henry forgot to place Winter- 
feldt’s name among the heroes of the war. When the 
monument was completed, the prince made a speech, 
which was full of enthusiastic praise of his beloved 
brother, so early numbered with the dead. Prince Henry 
betrayed by insinuation the strifes and difficulties which 
always reigned between the king and himself; he did not 
allude to the king during bis speech, and did not class him 
among the heroes of the Seven Years’ War. 

In speaking of the necessity of a monument in memory 
of his best beloved brother, Augustus William, he alluded 
to the statue of Winterfeldt, and added : “ L’abus des 
richesses et du pouvoir 616vedes statues de marbre et de 
bronze h ceux qui n’6taient pas dignes de passer a la pos- 
t6rlt6 sous I’emblSme de I’honneur.” — Rouille’s “ Vie du 
Prince Henry.” 

Recently a signal honor has been shown to Prince Au- 
gustus William, his statue has the principal place on the 
monument erected In honor of Frederick the Great In 
Berlin. — Roulll e. 



I THE KING AND HIS OLD AND NEW ENEMIES. 

Three years, three long, terrible years had 
'* passed since the beginning of this fearful war ; 
U since King Frederick of Prussia had stood alone, 
® without any ally but distant England, opposed by 
all Europe. 

These three years had somewhat undeceived the 
proud and self-confident enemies of Frederick. 
The pope still called him the Marquis of Branden- 
burg, and the German emperor declared that, not- 
withstanding the adverse circumstances threaten- 
ing him on every side, the King of Prussia was 
still a brave and undaunted adversary. His en- 
emies, after having for a long time declared that 
they would extinguish him and reduce him once 
more to the rank of the little Prince-Elector of 
Brandenburg, now began to fear him. From 
every battle, from every effort, from every defeat. 
King Frederick rose up with a clear brow and 
flashing eye, and unshaken courage. Even the 
lost battles did not cast a shadow upon the lustre 
of his victories. In both the one and the other 
he had showm himself a hero, greater even after 
the battles in his composure and decision, in his 
unconquerable energy, in the circumspection and 
presence of mind by which he grasped at a glance 
all the surroundings, and converted the most 
threatening into favorable circumstances. After 
a great victory his enemies might indeed say they 
had conquered the King of Prussia, but never that 
they had subdued him. He stood ever undaunted, 
ever ready for the contest, prepared to attack 
\hem when they least expected it ; to take advan- 
tage of every weak point, and to profit by every 
mcautious movement. The fallen ranks of his 
brave soldiers appeared to be dragons’ teeth, 
which produced armed warriors. 

10 


In the camps of the allied Austrians, Saxons, 
and Kussians hunger and sickness prevailed. In 
Vienna, Petersburg, and Dresden, the costs and 
burden of the war were felt to be almost insup- 
portable. The Prussian army was healthy, their 
magazines well stocked, and, thanks to the English 
subsidy, the treasury seemed inexhaustible. 

Three years, as we have said, of never-ceasing 
struggle had gone by. The heroic brow of the 
gi’eat Frederick had been wreathed with new laurels. 
The battles of Losovitz, of Rossbach, of Leuthen, 
and of Zomdorf were such dazzling victories that 
they were not even obscured by the defeats of 
Collin and Hochkirch. The allies made their 
shouts of victory resound throughout all Europe, 
and used every means to produce the impression 
upon the armies and the people that these victo- 
ries were decisive. 

Another fearful enemy, armed with words of 
Holy Writ, was now added to the list of those 
who had attacked him with the sword. This new 
adversary was Pope Clement XIII. He mounted 
the apostolic throne in May, 1768, and immediate- 
ly declared himself the irreconcilable foe of the 
little Marquis of Brandenburg, who had dared to 
hold up throughout Prussia all superstition and 
bigotry to mockery and derision ; who had illumi- 
nated the holy gloom and obscurity of the church 
with the clear light of reason and truth ; who mis- 
used the priests and religious orders, and wel- 
comed and assisted in Prussia all those whom the 
holy mother Catholic Church banished for heresies 
and unbelief. 

Benedict, the predecessor of the present pope, 
was also known to have been the enemy of Fred- 
erick, but he was wise enough to be silent and not 
draw down upon the cloisters, and colleges, and 
Catholics of Prussia the rage of the king. 

But Clement, in his fanatical zeal, was not sat- 
isfied to pursue this course. He was resolved to 


142 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AN^D HIS FAMILY. 


do battle against this heretical king. He fulmi- 
nated the anathemas of the church and bitter 
imprecations against him, and showered down 
words of blessing and salvation upon all those who 
declared themselves his foes. Because of this 
fanatical hatred, Austria received a new honor, a 
new title from the hands of the pope. As a re- 
ward for her enmity to this atheistical marquis, 
and the great service which she had rendered in 
this war, the pope bestowed the title of apostolic 
majesty upon the empress and her successors. 
Not only the royal house of Austria, but the gen- 
erals and the whole army of pious and believing 
Christians, should know and feel that the blessing 
of the pope rested upon their arms, protecting 
them from adversity and defeat. The glorious 
victory of Hochkirch must be solemnly celebrated, 
and the armies of the allies incited to more daring 
deeds of arms. 

For this reason. Pope Clement sent to Field- 
Marshal Daun, who had commanded at the battle 
of Hochkirch, a consecrated hat and sword, thus 
changing this political into a religious war. It was 
no longer a question of earthly possessions, but a 
holy contest against an heretical enemy of mother 
church. Up to this time, these consecrated gifts 
had been only bestowed upon generals who had 
already subdued unbelievers or subjugated barba- 
rians.* 

But King Frederick of Prussia laughed at these 
attacks of God’s vicegerent. To his enemies, 
anned with the sword, he opposed his own glitter- 
ing blade ; to his popish enemy, armed with the 
tongue and the pen, he opposed the same weap- 
ons. He met the first in the open field, the last 
in winter quarters, through those biting, mocking, 
keen Fliegendm Blattern^ which at that time made 
all Europe roar with laughter, and crushed and 
brought to nothing the great deeds of the pope by 
the curse of ridicule. 

The consecrated hat and sword of Field-Mar- 
shal Daun lost its value through the letter of 
thanks from Daun to the pope, which the king 
intercepted, and which, even in Austria, was 
laughed at and made sport of. 

The congratulatory letter of the Princess Sou- 
bise to Daun was also made public, and produced 
general merriment. 

Wi en the pope called Frederick the “ heretical 
Marchese di Brandenburgo,” the king returned the 
compliment by calling him the “ Grand Lama,” 
and delighted himself over the assumed infallibil- 
ity of the vicegerent of the Most High. 

But the king not only scourged the pope with 


♦ CEnvroi Posthumes, vol. iii. 


his satirical pen — the modest anl prudish Em- 
press Maria Theresa was also the victim of hia 
wit. He wrote a letter, supposed to be from the 
Marquise de Pompadour to the Queen of Hun- 
gary, in which the inexplicable friendship between 
the virtuous empress and the luxurious mistress of 
Louis was mischievously portrayed. This letter 
of Frederick’s was spread abroad in every direction, 
and people were not only naive enough to read it, 
but to believe it genuine. The Austrian court 
saw itself forced to the public declaration that all 
these letters were false ; that Field-Marshal Daun 
had not received a consecrated wig, but a hat ; and 
that the empress had never received a letter of 
this character from the Marquise de Pompadour.* 

These Fliegende Blatter^ as we have said, 
were the weapons with which King Frederick 
fought against his enemies when the rough, inclem- 
ent winter made it impossible for him to meet 
them in the open field. In the winter quarters in 
1758 most of those letters appeared ; and no one 
but the Marquis d’Argens, the most faithful friend 
of Frederick, guessed who was the author of these 
hated and feared satires. 

The enemies of the king also made use ol this 
winter rest to make every possible aggression; 
they had their acquaintances and spies ihroughout 
Germany ; under vai'ious pretences and disguises, 
they were scattered abroad — even in the highest 
court circles of Berlin they were zealously at work, 
By flattery, and bribery, and glittering promises, 
they made friends and adherents, and in the capi- 
tal of Prussia they found ready supporters and in- 
formers. They were not satisfied with this — thej 
were haughty and bold enough to seek for allies 
among the Prussians, and hoped to obtain en- 
trance into the walls of the cities, and possessior 
of the fortresses by treachery. 

The Austrian and Russian prisoners confinec 
in the fortress of Kiistrln conspired to give it uf 
to the enemy. The number of Russian prisoners 
sent to the fortress of Kiistrin after the battle of 
Zorndorf, was twice as numerous as the garrison 
and if they could succeed in getting possessioi 
of the hundred cannon captured at Zorndorf, anc 
placed as victorious trophies in the market-place 


* In this letter the marquise complained bitterly tha 
the empress had made it impossible for her to hasten t< 
Vienna and offer her the homage, the love, the friendshij 
she cherished for her in her heart. The empress had es 
tablished a court of virtue and modesty in Vienna, anc 
this tribunal could hardly receive the Pompadour gra 
ciously. The marquise, therefore, entreated the empresi 
to execute judgment against this fearful tribunel of virtue 
and to bow to the yoke of the omnipotent goddess Venus 
All these letters can be seen In the “Supplement atu 
(Euvres Posthumes.” 


I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


143 


’i would be an easy thing to fall upon and over- 
come the garrison. 

Tliis plan was all arranged, and about to be car- 
ried out, but it was discovered the day before its 
completion. The Prussian commander doubled 
the guard before the casemates in which three 
thousand Russian prisoners were confined, and ar- 
rested the Russian officers. Their leader. Lieu- 
tenant von Yaden of Courland, was accused, con- 
demned by the court-martial, and, by the express 
command of the king, broken upon the wheel. 
Even this terrible example bore little fruit. Ever 
new attempts were being made — ever new con- 
spiracies discovered amongst the prisoners ; and 
whilst the armies of the allies were attacking 
Prussia outwardly, the prisoners were carrying on 
a not less dangerous guerilla war — the more to 
be feared because it was secret — ^not in the open 
field and by day, but under the shadow of night 
and the veil of conspiracy. 

Nowhere was this warfare carried on more vig- 
orously than in Berlin. All the French taken at 
Rossbach, all the Austrians captured at Leuthen, 
and the Russian officers of high rank taken at 
Zomdorf, had been sent by the king to Berlin. 
They had the most enlarged liberty ; the whole 
city was their prison, and only their word of hon- 
or bound them not to leave the walls of Berlin. 
Besides this, all were zealous to alleviate the sor- 
rows of the “ poor captives,” and by fHes and ge- 
nial amusements to make them forget their captiv- 
ity. The doors of all the first houses were opened 
to the distinguished strangers— -everywhere they 
were welcome guests, and there was no assembly 
at the palace to which they were not invited. 

Even in these fearful times, balls and fHes were 
given at the court. Anxious and sad faces were 
hidden under gay masks, and the loud soimd of 
music and dancing drowned the heavy sighs of the 
desponding. While the Austrians, Russians, and 
Prussians strove with each other on the bloody 
battle-field, the Berlin ladies danced the graceful 
Parisimne dances with the noble prisoners. This 
was now the mode. 

Truly there were many aching hearts in this 
gay and merry city, but they hid their grief and 
tears in their quiet, lonely chambers, and their 
clouded brows .cast no shadow upon the laughing, 
rosy faces of the beautiful women whose broth- 
ers, husbands, and lovers, were far away on the 
bloody battle-field. If not exactly willing to ac- 
cept these strangers as substitutes, they were at 
least glad to seek distraction in their society. Af- 
ter all, it is impossible to be always mourning, al- 
ways complaining, always leading a cloistered life. 
In tbe beginning, the oath of constancy and re- 


membrance, which all had sworn at parting, had 
been religiously preserved, and Berlin had the 
physiognomy of a lovely, interesting, but dejected 
widow, who knew and wished to know nothing 
of the joys of life. But suddenly Nature had as- 
serted her own inexorable laws, which teach for- 
getfulness and inspire hope. The bitterest tears 
were dried — the heaviest sighs suppressed ; peo- 
ple had learned to reconcile themselves to life, 
and to snatch eagerly at every ray of sunshine 
which could illumine the cold, hopeless desert, 
which surrounded them. They had seen that it 
was quite possible to live comfortably, even while 
wild war was blustering and raging without — ^that 
weak, frail human nature, refused td be ever 
strained, ever excited, in the expectation of great 
events. In the course of these three fearful years, 
even the saddest had learned again to laugh, jest, 
and be gay, in spite of death and defeat. They 
loved their fatherland — they shouted loudly and 
joyfully over the great victories of their king — • 
they grieved sincerely over his defeats ; but they 
could not carry their animosities so far as to be 
cold and strange to the captive officers who were 
compelled by the chances of war to remain in Ber- 
lin. They had so long striven not to seek to re- 
venge themselves upon these powerless captives, 
that they had at last truly forgotten they were 
enemies; and these handsome, entertaining, cap- 
tivating, gallant gentlemen were no longer looked 
upon even as prisoners, but as strangers and trav 
ellers, and therefore they should receive the hon- 
ors of the city.* 

The king commanded that these officers should 
receive all attention. It was also the imperative 
will of the king that court balls should be given ; 
he wished to prove to the world that his family 
were neither sad nor dispirited, but gay, bold, 
and hopeful. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE THREE OFFICERS. 

It was the spring of lYSQ. Winter quarters 
were broken up, and it was said the king had left 
Breslau and advanced boldly to meet the enemy 
The Berlin journals contained accounts of com- 
bats and skirmishes which had taken place here 
and there between the Prussians and the allies, 
and in which, it appeared, the Prussians had al- 
ways been unfortunate. 

* Sulzer writes : “ The prisoners of war are treated 
here as if they were (llstingni.shed travellers and v Isltors.* 


144 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Three captive officers sat in an elegant room of 
a house near the castle, and conversed upon the 
news of the day, and stared at the morning jour- 
nals which lay before them on the table. 

“ I beg you,” said one of them in French — “ I 
beg you will have the goodness to translate this 
sentence tor me. I think it has relation to Prince 
Henry, but I find it impossible to decipher this 
barbarous dialect.” He handed the journal to his 
neighbor, and pointed with his finger to the para- 
graph. 

“ Yes, there is something about Prince Henry,” 
said the other, with a peculiar accent which be- 
trayed the Russian ; “ and something. Monsieur 
Belleville, tvhich will greatly interest you.” 

“ Oh, I beseech you to read it to us,” said the 
Frenchman, somewhat impatiently; then, turning 
graciously to the third gentleman who sat silent 
and indifferent near him, he added : “We must 
first ascertain, however, if our kind host. Mon- 
sieur le Comte di Ranuzi, consents to the read- 
ing.” 

“ I gladly take part,” said the Italian count, 
“ in any thing that is interesting ; above all, in 
every thing which has no relation to this weari- 
some and stupid. Berlin.” 

“ Vraxment / you are right,” sighed the French- 
man. “ It is a dreary and ceremonious region. 
They are so inexpressibly prudish and virtuous — 
so filled with old-fashioned scruples — ^led captive 
by such little prejudices — that I should be greatly 
amused at it, if I did not suffer daily from the 
dead monotony it brings. What would the en- 
chanting mistress of France — what would the 
Marquise de Pompadour say, if she could see me, 
the gay, witty, merry Belleville, conversing with 
such an aspect of pious gravity with this poor 
Queen of Prussia, who makes a face if one al- 
ludes to La Pucelle d’Orl6ans, and wishes to make 
it appear that she has not read Crebillon ! ” 

“ Tell me, now, Giurgenow, how is it with your 
court of Petersburg ? Is it as formal, as ceremo- 
nious as here in Prussia ? ” 

Giurgenow laughed aloud. “ Our Empress 
Elizabeth is an angel of beauty and goodness — 
mild and magnanimous to all — sacrificing herself 
constantly to the good of others. Last year she 
gave a ball to her body-guard. She danced with 
every one of the soldiers, and sipped from every 
glass; and when the soldiers, carried away by 
her grace and favor, dared to indulge in somewhat 
free jests, the good empress laughed merrily, and 
forgave them. On that auspicious day she first 
turned her attention to the happy Bestuchef. He 
was then a poor subordinate officer — now he is a 
prince and one of the richest men in Russia.” 


“ It appears that your Russia has some resenv 
blance to my beautiful France,” said Belleville, 
gayly. “ But how is it with you. Count Ranuzi ? 
Is the Austrian court like the court of France, or 
like this wearisome Prussia ? ” 

“ The Austrian court stands alone — resembles 
no other,” said the Italian, proudly. “ At the 
Austrian court we have a tribunal of justice to 
decide all charges against modesty and virtue. 
The Empress Maria Theresa is its president.” 

“ Diable / ” cried the Frenchman, “ what earth- 
ly chance would the Russian empress and my 
lovely, enchanting marquise have, if summoned 
before this tribunal by their most august ally the 
Empress Maria Theresa? But you forget, Giur- 
genow, that you have promised to read us some- 
thing from the journal about Prince Henry.” 

“ It is nothing of importance,” said the Russian, 
apathetically ; “ the prince has entirely recovered 
from his wounds, and has been solacing himself in 
his winter camp at Dresden with the representa- 
tions upon the French stage. He has taken part 
as actor, and has played the rdle of Voltaire’s En- 
fant Prodigue. It is further written, that he has 
now left the comic stage and commenced the 
graver game of arms.” 

“He might accidentally change these rdZes,” 
said Belleville, gayly, “ and play the Enfant Pro, 
digtie when he should play the hero. In which 
would he be the greater, do you know, Ranuzi ? 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. “ Y^ 
must ask his wife.” 

“ Or Baron Kalkreuth, who has lingered here 
for seven months because of his wounds,” said 
Giurgenow, with a loud laugh. “ Besides, Prince 
Henry is averse to this war ; all his sympathies 
are on our side. If the fate of war should cost the 
King of Prussia his life, we would soon have peace 
and leave this detestable Berlin — this dead, sandy 
desert, where we are now languishing as prison- 
ers.” 

“ The god of war is not always complaisant,” 
said the Frenchman, grimly. “He does not al- 
ways strike those whom we would gladly see fall ; 
the balls often go wide of the mark.” 

“ Truly a dagger is more reliable,” said Ranuzi, 
coolly. 

The Russian cast a quick, lowering side glance 
upon him. 

“ Not always sure,” said he. “ It is said that 
men armed with daggers have twice found their 
way into the Prussian camp, and been caught in 
the king’s tent. Their daggers have been as little 
fatal to the king as the cannon-balls ” 

“ Those who bore the daggers were Dutchmen,” 
said Ranuzi, apathetically ; “ they do not under 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


145 


ftnud this sort of work. One must learn to han- 
dle the dagger in my fatherland.” 

“ Have you learned ? ” said Giurgenow, sharply. 

“ I have learned a little of every thing. I am a 
dilettanti in all.” 

“ But you are master iu the art of love,” said 
Belleville, smiling. “ Much is said of your love- 
affairs, monsieur.” 

“ Much is said that is untrue,” said the Italian, 
quietly. “ I love no intrigues — least of all, love 
intrigues ; while you, sir, are known as a veritable 
Don Juan. I learn that you are fatally in love 
with the beautiful maid of honor of the Princess 
Henry.” 

“ Ah, you mean the lovely Fraulein von Mar- 
shal,” said Giurgenow ; “ I have also heard this, 
and I admire the taste and envy the good fortune 
of Belleville.” 

“ It is, indeed, true,” said Belleville ; “ the little 
one is pretty, and I divert mySelf by making love 
to her. It is our duty to teach these little Dutch 
girls, once for all, what true gallantry is.” 

“ And is that your only reason for paying court 
to this beautiful girl ? ” said Giurgenow, frown- 

“ The only reason, I assure you,” cried Belleville, 
rising up, and drawing near the window. “ But, 
look,” cried he, hastily; “w'hat a crowd of men 
are filling the streets, and how the people are 
crying and gesticulating, as if some great misfor- 
tune had fallen upon them !” 

The two officers hastened to his side and threw 
open the window. A great crowd of people was 
indeed assembled in the platz, and they were still 
rushing from the neighboring streets into the 
wide, open square, in the middle of vvhich, upon a 
few large stones, a curious group were exhibiting 
themselves.* 

There stood a tall, thin man, enveloped in a 
sort of black robe ; his long gray hair fell in wild 
locks around his pallid and fanatical countenance. 
In his right hand he held a blble, which he waved 
aloft to the people, while his large, deeply-set, hol- 
low eyes were raised to heaven, and his pale lips 
murmured light and unintelligible words. By his 
side stood a w'oman, also in black, with dishevelled 
hair floating: down her back. Her face was color- 
less ; she looked like a corpse, and her thin, blue 
lips were pressed together as if in death. There 
was life in her eyes — a gloomy, wild, fanatical fire 
flashed from them. Her glance was glaring and 
uncertain, like a will-o’-the-wisp, and filled those 
upon whom it fell with a shivering, mysterious 
feeling of dniad. 

And now, as if by accident, she looked to the 
windows where the three gentlemen were standing. 


The shadow of a smile passed over her face, and 
she bowed her head almost imperceptibly. No 
one regarded this; no one saw that Giurgenow 
answered this greeting, and smiled back signifi. 
cantly upon this enigmatical wmman. 

“ Do you know what this means, gentlemen ? ^ 
said Belleville. 

“ It means,” said Giurgenow, “ that the people 
will learn from their great prophet something of 
the continuance, or rather of the conclusion of 
this war. These good, simple people, as it seems 
to me, long for rest, and wish to know when they 
may hope to attain it. That man knows, for he 
is a great prophet, and all his prophecies are ful- 
filled.” 

“ But you forget to make mention of the wo- 
man ? ” said Ranuzi, with a peculiar smile. 

“ The woman is, I think, a fortune-teller with 
cards, and the Princess Amelia holds her in great 
respect; but let us listen to what the prophet 
says.” 

They were silent, and listened anxiously. And 
now the voice of the prophet raised itself high 
above the silent crowd. Pealing and sounding 
through the air, it fell in trumpet-tones upon the 
ear, and not one word escaped the eager and at- 
tentive people 

“ Brothers,” cried the prophet, “ why do you 
interrupt me ? Why do you di.sturb me, in my 
quiet, peaceful path — me and this innocent woman, 
who stood by my side last night, to read the dark 
stars, and whose soul is sad, even as my own, at 
what we have seen.” 

“ What did you see ? ” cried a voice from the 
crowd. 

“ Pale, ghostly shadows, who, in bloody gar- 
ments, wandered here and there, weeping and 
wailing, seating themselves upon a thousand open 
graves, and singing out their plaintive hymns of 
lamentation. ‘War! war!’ they cried, ‘woe to 
war ! It kills our men, devours our youths, makes 
widows of our women, and nuns of our maidens. 
Woe, woe to war ! Shriek out a prayer to God 
for peace — peace ! 0 God, send us peace ; close 

these open graves, heal our wounds, and let our 
great suffering cease ! ’ ” 

The prophet folded his hands and looked to 
heaven, and now the woman’s voice was heard. 

“ But the heavens were dark to the prayer of 
the spirits, and a blood-red stream gushed from 
them ; colored the stars crimson, turned the moon 
to a lake of blood, and piteous voices cried out 
from the cloud?, and in the air — ‘ Fight on and 
die, for your king wills it so ; your life belongs to 
him, your blood is his.’ Then, from two rivulets of 
blood, giant-like, pale, transparent forms emerged ; 


146 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


upon the head of the first, I read the number, 
‘1769.’ Then the pale form opened its lips, 
and cried out : ‘ I bring war, and ever-new blood- 
shed. Your king demands the blood of your 
sons; give it to him. He demands your gold; 
give it to him. The king is lord of your body, 
your blood, and your soul. When he speaks, you 
must obey ! ’ ” 

“ It seems to me all this is a little too Russian 
in its conception,” said Ranuzi, half aloud. “ I 
shall be surprised if the police do not interrupt 
this 8'eance^ which smells a little of insurrection.” 

“The scene is so very piquant,” said Giurge- 
now, “ I would like to draw nearer. Pardon me, 
gentlemen, I must leave you, and go upon the 
square. It is interesting to hear what the people 
say, and how they receive such prophecies. We 
can, perhaps, judge in this way qf the probabili- 
ties of peaee and liberty. The voice of the people 
is, in politics, ever the decisive voice.” He took 
his hat, and, bowing to the gentlemen, left the 
room hastily. 


CHAPTER III. 

RANUZI. 

Count Ranuzi gazed after the Russian with a 
mocking smile, 

“ Do you know, Belleville, where he is going ? ” 

“ He has not told us, but I guess it. He is go- 
ing to approach this fortune-teller, and give her a 
sign that her zeal has carried her too far, and 
that, if not more prudent, she will betray herself.” 

“ You think, then, that Giurgenow knows the 
fortune-teller ? ” 

“I am certain of it. He has engaged these 
charlatans to rouse up the people, and excite them 
against the king. This is, indeed, a very common 
mode of proceeding, and often successful; but 
here, in Prussia, it can bear no fruit. The people 
here have nothing to do with politics ; the king 
reigns alone. The people are nothing but a mass 
of subjects, who obey implicitly his commands, 
even when they know, that in so doing, they rush 
on destruction.” 

“ Giurgenow has failed, and he might have 
counted upon failure ! If you, Belleville, had re- 
sorted to these means, I could have understood it. 
In France, the people play an important role in 
politics. In order to put down the government, 
you must work upon the people. You might 
have been forgiven for this attempt, but Giurge- 
now never ! ” 

“ You believe, then, that he is manoeuvring 


here, in Berlin, in the interest of his government 
said Belleville, amazed. 

Ranuzi laughed heartily. 

“ That is a fine and diplomatic mode of express* 
ing the thing ! ” said he. “ Yes, he is here in the 
interest of his government ; but when the Prussiar 
government becomes acquainted with this fact, 
they will consider him a spy. If discovered, he 
will be hung. If successful, when once more at 
liberty, he may receive thanks and rewards from 
Russia. See, now, how rightly I have prophesied ! 
There is Giurgenow, standing by the side of the 
prophetess, and I imagine I almost hear the words 
he is whispering to her. She will commence 
again to prophesy, but in a less violent and fanati* 
cal manner.” 

“ No, no ; she will prophesy no more ! The po- 
lice are breaking their way forcibly through the 
crowd. They do not regard the cries of fear and 
suffering of those they are shoving so violently 
aside. These are the servants of the police ; they 
will speedily put an end to this prophesying. Al- 
ready the people are flying. Look how adroitly 
Giurgenow slips away, and does not condescend 
to give a glance to the poor prophetess he inspired. 
Only see how little respect these rough policemen 
have for these heaven-inspired prophets ! They 
seize them rudely, and bear them off. They will 
be punished with, at least, twenty-four hours* 
arrest. In Prussia, this concourse and tumult of 
the people is not allowed. Come, monsieur, let 
us close the window ; the comedy is over. The 
prophets are in the watch-house. Their role is 
probably forever played out !” said Belleville, smi- 
lingly. 

“ Not so ; they will recommence it to-morrow ; 
These same prophets have high and mighty pro- 
tectors in Berlin ; the police will not dare to keep 
them long under arrest. The Princess Amelia will 
demand her fortune-teller.” 

“ Vraiment^ monsieur le com te,” said the French- 
man, “you seem extraordinarily well acquainted 
with all these intrigues ? ” 

“ I observe closely,” said Ranuzi, with a mean- 
ing smile. “ I am very silent — therefore hear a 
great deal.” 

“ Well, I counsel you not to give to me or my 
actions the honor of your observations,” said 
Belleville. “ My life offers few opportunities for 
discovery. I live, I eat, I sleep, I chat, and write 
poetry, and caress, and seek to amuse myself as 
well as possible. Sometimes I catch myself pray- 
ing to God tearfully for liberty, and truly, not 
from any political considerations — simply from 
the selfish wish to get away from here. You see, 
therefore, I am an innocent and harmless hon enr 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


147 


fant, not in the least troubled about public af- 
feirs.” 

“ No,’ said Ranuzi, “ you do not love Fraulein 
Marshal at all from political reasons, but solely 
because of her beauty, her grace, and her charms. 
Behold, this is the result of my observations.” 

“You have, then, been watching me?” said 
Belleville, blushing. 

“ I have told you that I was always observant. 

. This is here my only distraction and recreation, and 
really I do not know what I should do with my time 
if I did not kill the weary hours in this way.” 

“ You do employ it sometimes to a better pur- 
pose ? ” said the Frenchman, in low tones. “ Love 
is still for you a more agreeable diversion, and you 
understand the game well.” 

“ It appears you are also an observer,” said Ra- 
nuzi, with an ironical smile. “ Well, then, I do 
find love a sweeter diversion ; and if I should 
yield myself up entirely to my love-dreams, I 
would perhaps be less observant. But, Belleville, 
why do you take your hat ? Will you also leave 
me?” 

“ I must, perforce. Through our agreeable con- 
versation I had entirely forgotten that I had prom- 
ised Fraulein Marshal to ride with her. A cava- 
lier must keep his promise with a lady, at least 
till he knows she is ardently in love with him.” 
He gave his hand to the duke, and as he left the 
room he hummed a light French chanson. 

Ranuzi looked after him with a long, frowning 
glance. “ Poor fool,” murmured he, “he believes 
he plays his part so well that he deceives even 
me. This mask of folly and levity he has assumed 
is thin and transparent enough — ^I see his true 
face behind it. It is the physiognomy of a sly 
intriguant. Oh, I know him thoroughly ; I un- 
derstand every emotion of his heart, and I know 
well what his passion for the beautiful Marshal 
signifies. She is the maid of honor of the Prin- 
cess Henry — ^this is the secret of his love. She is 
the confidante of the princess, who receives every 
week long and confidential letters from the tent 
of her tender husband. Fraulein Marshal is nat- 
urally acquainted with their contents. The prince 
certainly speaks in these letters of his love and 
devotion, but also a little of the king’s plans of 
battle. Fraulein von Marshal knows all this. If 
Belleville obtains her love and confidence, he will 
receive pretty correct information of what goes on 
in the tent of the king and in the camp councils. 
So Belleville will have most important dispatches 
to forward to his Marquise de Pompadour — dis- 
r>atches for which he will be one day rewarded 
with honor and fortune. This is the Frenchman’s 
plan! I see through him as I do through the 


Russian. They are both paid spies — informers 
of their governments — nothing more. They will 
be paid, or they will be hung, according as acci- 
dent is favorable or unfavorable to them.” Ranu 
zi was silent, and walked hastily backward and 
forward in the room. Upon his high, pale brow 
dark thoughts were written, and flashes of anger 
flamed from his eyes. 

“ And I,” said he, after a long pause, “ am I in 
any respect better than they ? Will not the day 
come when I also will be considered as a pur- 
chased spy ? a miserable informer ? and my name 
branded with this title ? No, no ; away with this 
dark spectre, which floats like a black cloud be- 
tween me and my purpose ! My aim is heaven ; 
and what I do, I do in the^name of the Church — 
in the service of this great, exalted Church, whose 
servant and priest I am. No, no ; the world will 
not call me a spy, will not brand my name with 
shame. God will bless my efforts as the Holy 
Father in Rome has bles^d them, and I shall 
reach the goal.” 

Ranuzi was brilliantly handsome in this inspired 
mood ; his noble and characteristic face seemed 
illuminated and as beautiful as the angel of dark- 
ness, when surrounded by a halo of heavenly 
light. 

“ It is an exalted and great aim which I hare 
set before me,” said he, after another pause ; “ a 
work which the Holy Father himself confided to 
rpe. I must and I will accomplish it to the honor 
of God and the Holy Madonna. This blasphe- 
mous war must end ; this atheistical and free- 
thinking king must be reduced, humbled, and cast 
down from the stage he has mounted with such 
ostentatious bravado. Silesia must be torn from 
the hands of this profligate robber and incorpo- 
rated in the crown of our apostolic majesty of 
Austria. The holy Church dare not lose any of 
her provinces, and Silesia will be lost if it remains 
in the hands of this heretical king ; he must be 
punished for his insolence and scoffing, for having 
dared to oppose himself to the Holy Father at 
Rome. The injuries which he heaped upon the 
Queen of Poland must be avenged, and I will not 
rest till he is so humbled, so crushed, as to sue for 
a shameful peace, even as Henry the Fourth, clad 
like a peasant, pleaded to Canoza. But the means, 
the means to attain this great object.” 

Hastily and silently he paced the room, his 
head proudly thrown back, and a cold, defiant 
glance directed upward. 

“ To kill him ! ” said he suddenly, as it answer- 
ing the voices which whispered in his soul ; “that 
would be an imbecile, miserable resort, and, more 
over, we would not obtain our object ; he would 


148 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


not be humiliated, but a martyr’s crown would be 
added to his laurels. When, however, he is com- 
pletely humbled, when, to this great victory at 
Hochkirch, we add new triumphs, when we have 
taken Silesia and revenged Saxony, then he might 
die ; then we will seek a sure hand which under- 
stands the dagger and its uses. Until then, silence 
and caution ; until then this contest must be car- 
ried on with every weapon which wisdom and 
craft can place in our hands. I think my weap- 
ons are good and sharp, well fitted to give a tell- 
ing thrust ; and yet they are so simple, so thread- 
bare — a cunning fortune-teller, a love-sick fool, a 
noble coquette, and a poor prisoner ! these are my 
only weapons, and with these I will defeat the 
man whom his flatterers call the heroic King of 
Prussia.” 

He laughed aloud, but it was a ferocious, threat- 
ening laugh, which shocked himself. 

“ Down, down, ye evil spirits,” said he ; “ do 
not press forward so boldly to my lips ; they are 
consecrated now to soft words and tender sighs 
alone. Silence, ye demons ! creep back into my 
heart, and there, from some dark corner, you can 
hear and see if my great role is well played. It 
is time ! it is time ! I must once more prove my 
weapons.” 

He stepped to the glass and looked thoughtfully 
at his face, examined his eyes, his lips, to see if 
they betrayed the dark passions of his soul ; then 
arranged his dark hair in soft, wavy lines over his 
brow ; he rang for his servant, put on his Aus- 
trian uniform, and buckled on the sword. The 
king had been gracious enough to allow the cap- 
tive officers in Berlin to wear their swords, only 
requiring their word of honor that they would 
never use them again in this war. When Count 
Ranuzi, the captive Austrian captain, had com- 
pleted his toilet, he took his hat and entered the 
street. Ranuzi had now assumed a careless, in- 
different expression ; he greeted the acquaintances 
who met him with a friendly smile, uttering to 
each a few kindly words or gay jests. He reached, 
at last, a small and insignificant house in the 
Frederick Street, opened the door which was 
only slightly closed, and entered the hall ; at the 
same moment a side door opened, and a lady 
sprang forward, with extended arms, to meet the 
count. 

“ Oh, my angel,” said she, in that soft Italian 
tongue, so well suited to clothe love’s trembling 
sighs in words — “ oh, my angel, are you here at 
last ? I saw your noble, handsome face, from my 
window ; it seemed to me that my room was illu- 
minated with glorious sunshine, and my heart and 
soul were warmed.” 


Ranuzi made no answer to these glowing words ^ 
silently he suffered himself to be led forward bj 
the lady, then replied to her ardent assurances by 
a few cool, friendly words. • 

“You are alone to-day, Marietta,” said he 
“ and your husband will not interrupt our con 
versation.” 

“ My husband ! ” said she, reproachfully, “ Ta 
liazuchi is not my husband. I despise him ; I 
know nothing of him ; I am even willing that he 
should know I adore you.” 

“ Oh woman, woman ! ” said Ranuzi, laughing ; 

“ how treacherous, how dangerous you are ! When 
you love happily, you are like the anaconda, whose 
poisonous bite one need not fear, when it is well fed 
and tended ; but when you have ceased to love, 
you are like the tigress who, rashly awaked from 
sleep, would strangle the unfortunate who dis- 
turbed her repose. Come, my anaconda, come; 
if you are satisfied with my love, let us talk and 
dream.” He drew her tenderly toward him, and, 
kissing her fondly, seated her by his side ; but 
Marietta glided softly to his feet. 

“ Let it be so,” she said ; “ let me lie at your 
feet ; let me adore you, and read in your face the 
history of these last three terrible days, i ^ which 
I have not seen you. Where were you, Carlo ? 
why have you forgotten me ? ” 

“Ah,” said he, laughing, “my anaconda begins 
to hunger for my heart’s blood ! how long before*^^ 
she will be ready to devour or to murder me ? ” 

“ Do not call me your anaconda,” she said,’ 
shaking her head ; “ you say that, when we are 
satisfied with your love, we are like the sleeping 
anaconda. But, Carlo, when I look upon you, Ij 
thirst for your glances, your sweet words, your as- J 
surances of love. And has it not been thus all my J 
life long ? Have I not loved you since I was ca-j^ 
pableof thought and feeling? Oh, do you remem- 
ber our happy, glorious childhood, Carlo ? those 
days of sunshine, of fragrance, of flowers, of,, 
childish innocence ? Do you remember how often 
we have wandered hand in hand through the Cam- 
pagna, talking of God, of the stars, and of the 
flowers? — dreaming of the time in which the 
angels and the stars would float down into our 


hearts, and change the world into a paradise for ^^j 
us ? ” t 


“ Ah ! we had a better awaking from 


these 


fair dreams,” said Ranuzi, thoughtfully. “My 


father placed me in a Jesuit college ; your mother^ 
sent you to a cloister, that the nuns might make,^ 
of you a public singer. We had both our own 
career tq make. Marietta ; you upon the stage, I 
on the confessor’s stool. We were the poor chil- ^ 
dren of poor parents, and every path was closed y 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


140 


10 U3 but one, the church and the stage ; our wise 
parents knew this.” 

“And they separated us,” sighed Marietta; 
“ they crushed out the first modest flame of our 
young, pure hearts, and made us an example 
of their greed ! Ah, Carlo ; you can never know 
how much I suffered, how bitterly I wept on your 
account. I was only twelve years old, but I loved 
you with all the strength and ardor of a woman, 
and longed after you as after a lost paradise. The 
nuns taught me to sing ; and when my clear, rich 
voice pealed through the church halls, no one 
knew that not God’s image, but yours, was in my 
heart ; that I was worshipping you with my hymns 
of praise and pious fervor. I knew that we were 
forever separated, could never belong to each 
other, so I prayed to God to lend swift wings to 
time, that we might become independent and free, 
I as a singer and you as my honored con- 
fessor.” 

Ranuzi laughed merrily. “ But fate was unpro- 
pitious,” said he. “ The pious fathers discovered 
that I had too little eloquence to make a good 
priest ; in short, that I was better fitted to serve 
holy mother Church upon the battle-field. When 
I was a man and sufficiently learned, they ob- 
tained a commission for me as officer in the Pope’s 
body-guard, and I exchanged tlje black robe of 
my order for the gold-embroidered uniform.” 

“ And you forgot me, Carlo ? you did not let 
me know where you were ? Five years after, 
when I was engaged in Florence as a singer, I 
learned what had become of you. I loved you 
always. Carlo ; but what hope had I ever to tell 
you so ? we were so far away from each other, 
and poverty separated us so widely. I must 
first become rich, you must make your career. 
Only then might we hope to belong to each other . 
I waited and was silent.” 

“ You w^ted and were silent till you forgot me,” 
said Ranuzi, playing carelessly with her long, soft 
curls ; “ and, having forgotten me, you discovered 
that Signor Taliazuchi was a tolerably pretty fel- 
low, whom it was quite possible to love.” 

“ Taliazuchi understood how to flatter my van- 
ity,” said she, gloomily ; “ he wrote beautiful and 
glowing poems in my praise, which were printed 
and read not only in Florence, but throughout all 
Italy. When he declared his love and pleaded for 
my hand, I thought, if I refused him, he would 
persecute me and hate me ; tha t mockery and 
ridicule would take the place of the enthusiastic 
hymns in my praise, with which Italy then re- 
sounded. I was too ambitious to submit to this, 
and had not the courage to refuse him, so I be- 
came his wife, and in becoming so, I abhorred 


him, and I swore to make him atone for having 
forced me to become so.” 

“ But this force consisted only in hymns of 
praise and favorable ci'iticisms,” said Rauuzi, 
quietly. 

“I have kept my oath,” said Marietta; “I 
have made him atone for what he has done, 
and I have often thought that, when afterward 
compelled to write poems in my favor, he cursed 
me in his heart ; he would gladly have crushed 
me by his criticisms, but that my fame was a 
fountain of gold for him, which he dared not 
exhaust or dry up. But my voice had been 
injured by too much straining, and a veil soon 
fell upon it. I could but regard it as great good 
fortune when Count Algarotti proposed to me to 
take the second place as singer in Berlin; this 
promised to be more profitable, as the count 
carelessly offered Taliazuchi a place in the opera 
troupe as writer. So I left my beautiful Italy ; 
I left you to amass gold in this cold north. And 
now, I no longer repent ; I rejoice ! I have found 
you again — you, the beloved of my youth — ^you, my 
youth itself. Oh, Heaven ! never will I forget the 
day when I saw you passing. I knew you in spite 
of the uniform, in spite of the many years which 
had passed since we met. I knew you ; and not 
my lips only, but my heart, uttered that loud cry 
which caused you to look up, my Carlo. And 
now you recognized me and stretched your hands 
out to me, and I would have sprung to you from 
the window, had not Taliazuchi held me back. I 
cried out, ‘ It is Ranuzi ! it is Carlo ! I must, I 
will fly to him,’ when the door opened and you 
entered and I saw you, my own beloved ; I heard 
your dear voice, and never did one of God’s poor 
creatures fall into a happier insensibility than I in 
that rapturous moment.” 

“ And Taliazuchi stood by and smiled ! ” said 
Ranuzi, laughing ; “ it was truly a pretty scene 
for an opera writer. He, no doubt, thought so, 
and wished to take note of it, as he left the room 
when you awaked to consciousness.” 

“Since that time, I am only awake when 
in your presence,” said Marietta, passionately. 
“ When you are not near me, I sleep. You are 
the sun which rouses me to life. When you leave 
me, it is night — dark night, and dark, gloomy 
thoughts steal over me.” 

“ What thoughts. Marietta ? ” said he, placing 
his hand under her chin, and raising her head 
gently. 

She looked up at him with a curious, dreamy 
smile, but was silent. 

“ Well, what thoughts have you when I am 
not with you? ” he repeated. 


150 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ I think it possible a day may come in which 
you will cease to love me.” 

“ And you think you will then fly to Taliazuchi 
for consolation ? ” said Ranuzi, laughing. 

“No; I think, or rather I fear that I will re- 
venge myself ; that I will take vengeance on you 
for your unfaithfulness.” 

“ Ah ! my tigress threatens ! ” cried Ranuzi. 
“ Now, Marietta, you know well that I shall never 
cease to love you, but a day will come when we 
will be forced to separate.” 

She sprang up with a wild cry, and clasped him 
stormily in her arms. 

“ No, no ! ” she cried, trembling and weeping ; 
“no man shall dare to tear you from me! We 
will never be separated 1 ” 

“You think, then, that I am not only your 
prisoner for life, but also the eternal prisoner of 
the King of Prussia ? ” 

“ No, no 1 you shall be free — free ! but Marietta 
will also be free, and by your side. When you 
leave Berlin, I go with you ; no power can bind 
me here. Taliazuchi will not seek me, if I leave 
him my little fortune. I will do that ; I will take 
nothing with me. Poor, without fortune or pjos- 
sessions, I will follow you, Ranuzi. I desire noth- 
ing, I hope for nothing, but to be by your side.” 

She clasped him in her arms, and did not re- 
mark the dark cloud which shadowed his brow, but 
this vanished quickly, and his countenance as- 
sumed a kind and clear expression. 

“ It shall be so. Marietta I Freedom shall unite 
us both eternally, death only shall separate us 1 
But when may we hope for this great, this 
glorious, this beautiful hour? When will the 
blessed day dawn in which I can take your hand 
and say to you, ‘ Come, Marietta, come ; the world 
belongs to us and our love. Let us fly and enjoy 
our happiness.’ Oh, beloved, if you truly love 
me, help me to snatch this happy day from fate ! 
Stand by nle with your Jove, that I may attain my 
freedom.” 

“ Tell me what I can do, and it is done,” said 
she resolutely ; “ there is nothing I will not under- 
take and dare for you.” 

Ranuzi took her small head in his hands and 
gazed long and smilingly into her glowing face. 

“ Are you sure of yourself? ” said he. 

“ I am sure. Tell me. Carlo, what I must do, 
and it is done.” 

“ And if it is dangerous. Marietta ? ” 

“ I know but one danger.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ To lose your love. Carlo ! ” 

“ Then this world has nc janger for you. Ma- 
rietta 1 ” 


“ Speak, Carlo, speak ! How can I ai li you ? 
What can I do to obtain your liberty ? ’■ 

Ranuzi threw a quick and searching glance 
around the room, as if to convince himself that 
they were alone, then bowed down close to her 
ear and whispered ; 

“ I can never be free till the King of Prussia is 
completely conquered and subjected, and only if 1 
bring all my strength and capabilities to this ob- 
ject, may I hope to be free, and rich, and honored. 
The King of Prussia is my enemy, he is the enemy 
of the Church, the enemy of my gracious sovereign 
of Austria, to whom I have sworn fealty. A man 
may strive to conquer his enemies with every 
weapon, even with craft. Will you stand by me 
in this ? ” 

“I will.” 

“ Then observe and listen, and search all around 
you. Repeat to me all that you hear and see — 
seem to be an enthusiastic adherent of the King 
of Prussia ; you will then be confided in and know 
all that is taking place. Be kind and sympathetic 
to your husband ; he is a sincere follower of the 
king, and has free intercourse with many distin- 
guished persons ; he is also well received at court. 
Give yourself the appearance of sympathizing in 
all his sentiments. When you attend the con- 
certs at the castle, observe all that passes — every 
laugh, every glance, every indistinct word, and in- 
form me of all. Do you understand. Marietta ?— 
will you do this ? ” 

“I understand. Carlo, and I will do this. Is 
this all ? Can I do nothing more to help you ? ” 

“ Yes, there are other things, but they are more 
difficult, more dangerous.” 

“ So much the better ; the more dangerous the 
stronger the proof of my love. Speak, dear Carlo !’‘ 

“ It is forbidden for the captive officers to send 
sealed letters to their friends or relatives. All our 
letters must be read, and if a word of politics is 
found in them, they are condemned. All other 
persons have the right to send sealed letters in 
every direction. Have you not friends to whom 
you write. Marietta ? ” 

“ I have, and from this time onward your 
friends will be mine, and I will correspond with 
them.” 

As she said this, with a roguish smile, a ray of 
joy lighted up Ranuzi’ s eyes. 

“You understand me, my beloved ; your intel- 
lect is as clear and sharp as your heart is warm 
and noble. Think well what you do — what dan- 
ger threatens you. I tell you plainly. Marietta, 
this is no question of common friendly letters, 
but of the most earnest, grave, important inter- 
ests I ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


151 


She bowed to his ear and whispered : “ All that 
you espy in Berlin you will confide to these let- 
ters ; you will concert with your friends, you will 
design plans, perhaps make conspiracies. I will 
address these letters and take them to tbe post, 
and no one will mistrust me, for my letters will be 
addressed to some friends in Vienna, or to whom 
you will. Have I understood you, Carlo ? Is this 
all right ? ” 

He clasped her rapturously in his arms, and tbe 
words of tender gratitude which he expressed 
were not entirely wanting in sincerity and truth. 

Marietta was proudly happy, and hstened with 
sparkling eyes to his honeyed words. 

As Ranuzi, however, after this long interview, 
arose to say farewell, she held him back. Laying 
her hands upon his shoulder, she looked at him 
with a curious expression, half laughing, half 
threatening. 

“ One last word. Carlo,” she said ; “ I love you 
boundlessly. To prove my love to you, I become 
a traitress to this king, who has been a gracious 
master to me, whose bread I eat — who received and 
protects me. To prove my love, I become a spy, 
an informer. Men say this is dishonorable work, 
but for m^^self I feel proud and happy to under- 
take it for you, and not for all the riches and 
treasures of this world would I betray you. But, 
Carlo, if you ever cease to love me, if you deceive 
me and become unfaithful, as true as God helps 
me, I will betray both myself and you ! ” 

“ I believe truly she is capable of it,” said Ra- 
nuzi, as he reached the street ; “ she is a danger- 
ous woman, and with her love and hate she is 
truly like a tigress. Well, I must be on my 
guard. If she rages I must draw her teeth, so 
that she cannot bite, or flee from her furious 
leaps. But this danger is in the distance, the 
principal thing is that I have opened a way to my 
correspondence, and that is immense progress in 
my plans, for which I ‘might well show my grati- 
tude to my tender Marietta by a few caresses.” 

♦ 

CHAPTER lY. 

,OUISE DTI TROUFPLE. 

Hadame DtJ Trouffle paced her room restless- 
y; she listened to every stroke of the clock, 
every sound made her tremble. 

“He comes not! he comes not!” murmured 
she ; “ he received my irony of yesterday in ear- 
nest and is exasperated. Alas ! am I really an 
old woman ? Have I no longer the power to en- 


chain, to attract ? Can it be that I am old and 
ugly ? No, no ! I am but thirty -four years of 
age — that is not old for a married woman, and as 
to being ugly — • 

She interrupted herself, stepped hastily to tbe 
glass, and looked long and curiously at her face. 

Yes, yes ! she must confess her beauty was 
on the wane. She was more faded than her age 
would justify. Already was seen around her 
mouth those yellow, treacherous lines which van- 
ished years imprint upon the face; already her 
brow was marked with light lines, and silver 
threads glimmered in her hair. 

Louise du Trouffle sighed heavily. 

“ I was too early married, and then unhappily 
married ; at eighteen I was a mother. All this ages 
a woman — not the years but the storms of life 
have marked these fearful lines in my face. Then 
it is not possible for a man to feel any warm in- 
terest in me when he sees a grown-up daughter 
by my side, who will soon be my rival, and strive 
with me for the homage of men. This is indeed 
exasperating. Oh, my God ! my God ! a day may 
come in which I may be jealous of my own daugh- 
ter ! May Heaven guard me from that ! Grant 
that I may see her fresh and blooming beauty 
without rancor ; that I may think more of her 
happiness than my vanity.” 

Then, as if she would strengthen her good reso- 
lutions, Louise left her room and hastened to the 
chamber of her daughter. 

Camilla lay upon the divan — ^her slender and 
beauteous form was wrapped in soft white drapery ; 
her shining, soft dark hair fell around her rosy 
face and over her naked shoulders, with whose 
alabaster whiteness it contrasted strongly. Ca- 
milla was reading, and so entirely was she occu- 
pied with her book that she did not hear her 
mother enter. 

Louise drew softly near the divan, and stood 
still, lost in admiration at this lovely, enchanting 
picture, this reposing Hebe. 

“ Camilla,” said she, fondly, “ what are you 
reading so eagerly ? ” 

Camilla started and looked up suddenly, then 
laughed aloud. 

“ Ah, mamma,” said she, in a silver, clear, and 
soft voice, “ how you frightened me ! I thought it 
was my tyrannical governess already returned 
from her walk, and that she had surprised me 
with this book.” 

“ Without doubt she foroade you to read it,” 
said her mother, gravely, stretching out her hand 
for the book, but Camilla drew it back suddenly. 

“ Yes, certainly, Madame Brunnen forbade me 
to read this book ; but that is no reason, mamma, 


152 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


why you should take it away from me. It is to 
be hoped you will not play the stern tyrant against 
your poor Camilla.” 

“ I wish to know what you are, reading, Camil- 
la.” 

“Well, then, Yoltaire’s ‘Pucelle d’0rl6ans,’ and 
I assure you, mamma, I am extremely pleased 
with it.” 

“ Madame Brunnen was right to forbid you to 
read this book, and I also forbid it.” 

“ And if I refuse to obey, mamma ? ” 

“I will force you to obedience,” cried her 
mother, sternly. 

“ Did any one succeed in forcing you to obey 
your mother ? ” said Camilla, in a transport of rage. 
“ Did your mother give her consent to your elope- 
ment with the garden-boy ? You chose your own 
path in life, and I will choose mine. I will no 
longer bear to be treated as a child — ^I am thir- 
teen years old ; you w^ere not older when you had 
the affair with the garden-boy, and were forced to 
confide yourself to my father. Why do you wish 
to treat me as a little child, and keep me in lead- 
ing-strings, when I am a grown-up girl ? ” 

“ You are no grown-up girl, Camilla,” cried her 
mother; “if you were, you would not dare to 
speak to your mother as you have done ; you 
would know that it was unseemly, and that, above 
all other things, you should show reverence and 
obedience to your mother. No, Camilla, God be 
thanked ! you are but a foolish child, and there- 
fore I forgive you.” 

Louise drew near her daughter and tried to 
clasp her tenderly in her arms, but Camilla strug- 
gled roughly against it. 

“You shall not call me a child,” said she, 
rudely. “ I will no longer bear it ! it angers me ! 
and if you repeat it, mamma, I will declare to 
every one that I am sixteen years old ! ” 

“ And why will you say that, Camilla? ” 

Camilla looked up with a cunning smile. 

“ Why ? ” she repeated, “ ah ! you think I do not 
know why I must always remain a child ? It is 
because you wish to remain a young woman — 
therefore you'declare to all the world that I am 
but twelve years old ! But no one believes you, 
mamma, not one believes you. The world laughs 
at you, but you do not see it — you think you are 
younger when you call me a child. I say to you I 
will not endure it ! I will be a lady— I will adorn 
myself and go into society. I will not remain in 
the school-room with a governess while you are 
sparkling in the saioon and enchanting your fol- 
lowers by your beauty. I will also have my wor- 
shippers, who pay court to me ; I will write and 
receive love-letters as other maidens do; I will 


carry on my own little love-affairs as all other 
girls do ; as you did, from the time you were 
twelve years old, and still do ! ” 

“ Silence, Camilla ! or I will make 3 ou feel that 
you are still a child ! ” cried Louise, raising her 
arm threateningly and approaching the divan. 

“Would you strike me, mother?” said she, 
with trembling lips. “ I counsel you not to do it. 
Raise your hand once more against me, but think 
of the consequences. I will run away ! I wdll fly 
to my poor, dear father, whom you, unhappy one, 
have made a drunkard ! I will remain with him 
— ^he loves me tenderly. If I were with him, he 
would no longer drink.” 

“ Oh, my God, my God ! ” cried Louise, with 
tears gushing from her eyes ; “ it is he who has 
planted this hate in her heart — he has been the 
cause of all my wretchedness ! She loves her 
father who has done nothing for her, and she 
hates her mother who has shown her nothing but 
love.” With a loud cry of agony, she clasped her 
hands over her face and wept bitterly. 

Camilla drew close to her, grasped her hands 
and pulled them forcibly from her face, then 
looked in her eyes passionately and scornfully. 
Camilla was indeed no longer a child. She stood 
erect, pale, and fiercely excited, opposite to her 
mother. Understanding and intellect flashed from 
her dark eyes. There were lines around her 
mouth which betrayed a passion and a power with 
which childhood has nothing to do. 

“ You say you have shown me nothing but 
love,” said Camilla, in a cold and cutting tone. 
“ Mother, what love have you shown me ? You 
made my father wretched, and my childish years 
were spent under the curse of a most unhappy 
marriage. I have seen my father weep while you 
were laughing merrily — I have seen him drunk 
and lying like a beast at my feet, while you were 
in our gay saloon receiving and entertaining guests 
with cool unconcern. You say you have shown me 
nothing but love. You never loved me, mother, 
never ! Had you loved me, you would have taken 
pity with my future — you would not have given 
me a step-father while I had a poor, dear father, 
who had nothing in the wide world but me, me 
alone ! You think perhaps, mother, that I am 
not unhappy ; while I am giddy and play foolish 
pranks, you believe me to be happy and contented. 
Ah, mother, I have an inwaid horror and prophet- 
ic fear of the future which never leaves me ; it 
seems to me that evil spirits surround me — as if 
they enchanted me with strange, alluring songs. 
I know they wiU work my destruction, but I can. 
,,not withstand them — I must listen, I must suo 
cumb to them. I would gladly be different— be 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


153 


better. I desire to be a virtuous and modest 
gir!, but alas, alas, I cannot escape from this 
magic circle to which my mother has condemned 
me ! I have lived too fast, experienced too much 
— am no longer a child — I am an experienced 
woman. The world and the things of the world 
call me with a thousand alluring voices, and I 
shall be lost as my mother was lost ! I am her 
most unhappy daughter, and her blood is in my 
heart ! ” Almost insensible, crushed by excite- 
ment and passion, Camilla sank to the earth. 

Her mother looked at her with cold and tear- 
less eyes ; her hair seemed to stand erect, and a 
cold, dead hand seemed placed upon her heart 
and almost stilled its beatings. “ I have deserved 
this,” murmured she ; “ God punishes the levity 
of my youth through my own child.” She bowed 
down to her daughter and raised her softly in her 
arms. 

“ Come, my child,” she said, tenderly, “ we will 
forget this hour — we will strive to live in love and 
harmony with each other. You are right ! You 
are no longer a child, and I will think of introdu- 
cing you to the world.” 

“And you will dismiss Madame Brunnen,” 
said Camilla, gayly. “ Oh, mamma, you have no 
idea how she tortures and martyrs me with her 
Argus-eyes, and watches me day and night. Will 
you not dismiss her, mamma, and take no other 
governess ? ” 

“ I will think of it,” said her mother, sadly. But 
now a servant entered and announced Count Ra- 
nuzi. Madame dll Trouffle blushed, and directed 
the servant to conduct him to the parlor. 

Camilla looked at her roguishly, and said ; “ If 
you really think me a grown-up girl, take me with 
you to the parlor.” 

Madame du Trouffle refused. “You are not 
* 

properly dressed, and besides, I have important 
business with the count.” 

Camilla turned her back scornfully, and her 
mother left the room ; Camilla returned to the so- 
fa and Madame du Trouffle entered the saloon. In 
the levity and frivolity of their hearts they had 
Doth forgotten this sad scene in the drama of a 
demoralized family life ; such scenes had been too 
often repeated to make any lasting impression. 

Madame du Trouffle found Count Ranuzi await- 
ing her. He came forward with such a joyous 
greeting, that she was flattered, and gave him her 
hand with a gracious smile. She said triumphant- 
ly to herself that the power of her charms was 
not subdued, since the handsome and much ad- 
niired Ranuzi was surely captivated by them. 

The count had pleaded yesterday for an inter- 
rtew, and he had done this with so 'mysterious and 


melancholy a mien, that the gay and sport ivo 
Louise had called him the Knight of Toggen- 
berg, and had asked him plaintively if he was 
coming to die at her feet. 

“ Possibly,” he answered, with grave earnest* 
ness — “possibly, if you are cruel enough to re- 
fuse the request I prefer.” 

These words had occupied the thoughts of this 
vain coquette during the whole night; she was 
convinced that Ranuzi, ravished by her beauty, 
wished to make her a declaration, and she had 
been hesitating whether to reject or encourage 
him. • As he advanced so gracefully and smiling- 
ly to meet her, she resolved to encourage him and 
make him forget the mockery of yesterday. 

Possibly Ranuzi read this in her glance, but he 
did not regard it ; he had attained his aim — the 
interview which he desired. “ Madame,” said he, 
“ I come to make honorable amends, and to plead 
at your feet for pardon.” He bowed on one knee, 
and looked up beseechingly. 

Louise found that his languishing and at the 
same time glowing eyes were very beautiful, and 
she was entirely ready to be gracious, although 
she did not know the offence. “ Stand up, count,” 
said she, “ and let us talk reasonably together. 
What have you done, and for what must I forgive 
you ? ” 

“ You annihilate me with your magnanimity,” 
sighed Ranuzi. “ You are so truly noble as to 
have forgotten my boldness of yesterday, and you 
choose to forget that the poor, imprisoned soldier, 
intoxicated by your beauty, carried away by your 
grace and amiability, has dared to love you and to 
confess it. But I swear to you, madame, I will 
never repeat this offence. The graceful mockery and 
keen wit with which you punished me yesterday has 
deeply moved me, and I assure you, madame, you 
have had more influence over me than any prude 
with her most eloquent sermon on virtue could 
have done. I have seen my crime, and never 
again will my lips dare to confess what lives and 
glows in my heart.” He took her hand and kissed 
it most respectfully. 

Louise was strangely surprised, and it seemed 
to her not at all necessary for the count to pre- 
serve so inviolable a silence as to his love ; but 
she was obliged to appear pleased, and she did 
this with facility and grace. 

“ I thank you,” she said, gayly, “ that you have 
freed me from a lover whom, as the wife of Major 
du Trouffle, I should have been compelled to ban- 
ish from my house. Now I dare give a pleasant^ 
kindly welcome, to Count Ranuzi, and be ready at 
all times to serve him gladly.” 

Ranuzi looked steadily at her. “ Will you tru- 


154 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


ly do this ? ” said he, sighing — “ will you interest 
yourself for a poor prisoner, who has no one to 
hear and sympathize in his sorrows ? ” 

Louise gave him her hand. “ Confide in me, sir 
count,” said she, with an impulse of her better 
nature ; “ make known your sorrows, and be as- 
sured that I will take an interest in them. You 
are so prudent and reasonable as not to be my 
lover, and I will be your friend. Here is my 
hand — I ofier you my friendship *, will you accept 
it ? ” 

“ Will I accept it ? ” said he, rapturously ; “ you 
offer me life, and ask if I will accept it 1 ” 

Louise smiled softly. She found that Ranuzi 
declared his friendship in almost as glowing terms 
as he had confessed his love. “ So then,” said 
she, “ you have sorrows that you dare not name ? ” 
“Yes, but they are not my own individual 
griefs I suffer, but it is for another.” 

“ That sounds mysterious. For whom do you 
suffer?” 

“ For a poor prisoner who, far from the world, 
far from the haunts of men, languishes in wretch- 
edness and chains — whom not only men but God 
has forgotten, for He will not even send His min- 
ister Death to release him. I cannot, I dare not 
say more — it is not my secret, and I have sworn 
to disclose it to but one person.” 

“ And this person — ” 

“ Is the Princess Amelia of Prussia,” said Ra- 
mizi. 

Louise shrank back, and looked searchingly at 
the count. “ A sister of the king ! And you say 
that your secret relates to a poor prisoner? ” 

“ I said so. Oh, my noble, magnanimous friend, 
do not ask me to say more ; I dare not, but I 
entreat you to help me. I must speak with the 
princess. You are her confidante and friend, you 
alone can obtain me an interview. 

“ It is impossible ! impossible ! ” cried Madame 
du Trouffle, lising up and pacing the room hastily. 
Ranuzi followed her with his eyes, observed every 
movement, and read in her countenance every 
emotion of her soul. 

“ I will succeed,” said he to himself, and proud 
triumph swelled his heart. 

Louise drew near and stood before him. 
“Listen,” said she, gravely; “it is a daring, a 
danerous enterprise in which you wish to entangled 
me — doubly dangerous for me, as the king sus- 
pects me, and he would never forgive it if he 
should learn that I had dared to act against his 
commands, and to assist the Princess Amelia to 
wave an unhappy wretch whom he had irretriev- 
ably condemned. I know well who this prisoner 
is, but do not call his name — it is dangerous to 


speak it, even to think it. I belong not to the 
confidantes of the princess in this matter, and 1 
do not desire it. Speak no more of the prisoner, 
but of yourself. You wish to be presented to 
the princess. Why not apply to Baron Pollnitz ? 

“I have not gold enough to bribe him; and, 
besides that, he is a babbler, and purchasable. To- 
morrow he would betray me.” 

“ You are right; and he could not obtain you 
a secret interview. One of the maids of honor 
must always be present, and the princess is sur- 
rounded by many spies. But there is a means 
and it lies in my hands. Listen ! ” 

Louise bowed and whispered. 

Ranuzi’s face sparkled with triumph. 

“ To-morrow, then,” said he, as he withdrew. 

“ To-morrow,” said Louise, “ expect me at the 
castle gate, and be punctual.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE F 0 R T U N E-T E L L ER» 

The heavy curtains were drawn down, and a 
gloomy twilight reigned in this great, silent room, 
whose drear stillness was only interrupted by the 
monotonous stroke of the clock, and the deep 
sighs and lamentations which came from the sofa 
in a distant part of the room. There in the cor- 
ner, drawn up convulsively and motionless, lay a 
female form, her hands clasped over her breast, 
her eyes fixed staringly toward heaven, and from 
time to time uttering words of grief and scorn 
and indignation. 

She was alone in her anguish — ever alone; 
she had been alone for many years;' grief and 
disappointment had hardened her heart, and made 
it insensible to all sorrows but her own. She 
hated men, she hated the world , she railed at 
those who were gay and happy, she had no pity 
for those who wept and mourned. 

Had she not suffered more ? Did she not still 
suffer? Who had been merciful, who had pitied 
her sorrows ? Look now at this poor, groaning 
woman ! Do you recognize these fearful features, 
deformed by sickness and grief; these blood-shot 
eyes, these thin, colorh ss lips, ever convulsively 
pressed together, as if to suppress a wild shriek of 
agony, which are only unclosed to utter cold, harsh 
words of scorn and passion ? Do you know this 
woman ? Has this poor, unhappy, deformed being 
any resemblance to the gay, beautiful, intellect- 
ual Princess Amelia, whom we once knew ? and yet 
this is the Princess Amelia. How have the migl tj 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


155 


fallen ! Look at the transforming power of a few 
Borrowful years! The sister of a mighty hero 
king, but a poor desolate creature, shunned and 
avoided by all ; she knows that men fly from her, 
and she will have it so ; she will be alone — ^lonely 
in the midst of the world, even as he is, in the 
midst of his dark and gloomy prison. Amelia 
calls the whole world her prison ; she often says 
to herself that her soul is shut in behind the iron 
bars of her body and can never be delivered, that 
her heart lies upon the burning gridiron of the 
base world, and cannot escape, it is bound there 
with the same chains which are around about 
and hold him. in captivity. 

But Ameha says this only to herself, she de- 
sires no sympathy, she knows no one will dare to 
pity her. Destiny placed her high in rank and 
alone — alone she will remain; her complaints 
might perhaps bring new danger to him she 
loves, of whom alone she thinks, for whose sake 
alone she supports existence, she lives only for 
him. Can this be called life ? A perpetual hope 
— and yet hopeless — a constant watching and list- 
ening for one happy moment, which never comes 1 
She had not been permitted to live for him, she 
would not die without him. So long as he lived 
he might need her aid,, and might call upon her for 
help in the hovj/" of extremest need, so she would 
not die. 

She was not wholly dead, bu.: her youth, her 
heart, her peace, her illusions, her hopes were 
dead ; she was opposed to all that lived, to .the 
world, to all mankind. In the wide world she 
loved but two persons : one, who languished in 
prison and who suffered for her sake, Frederick 
von Trenck ; the other, he who had made her 
wretched and who had the power to liberate Trenck 
and restore their peace — the king. Amelia had 
loved her mother, but she was dead ; grief at the 
lost battle of Collin killed her. She had loved 
her sister, the Margravine of Baireuth ; but she 
died of despair at the lost battle of Hochkirch. 
Grief and the anger and contempt of the king had 
killed her brother, the Prince Augustus William of 
Prussia. She was therefore alone, alone 1 Her 
other sisters were far away ; they were happy, and 
with the happy she had nothing to do ; with them 
Bhe had no sympathy. Her two brothers were 
in the field, they thought not of her. There was 
but one who remembered her, and he was under 
the earth — not dead, but buried — ^buried alive. 
The blackness of thick darkness is round about 
him, but he is not blind ; there is glorious sun- 
Bhine, but he sees it not. 

These fearful thoughts had crushed Amelia’s 
youth, her mind, her life ; she stood like a deso- 


late ruin under the wreck of the past. The rude 
storms of life whistled over her, and she laughed 
them to scorn ; she had no more to fear — not she ; 
if an oak fell, if a fair flower was crushed, her 
heart was glad ; her own wretchedness had made 
her envious and malicious ; perhaps she concealed 
her sympathy, under this seeming harshness ; per- 
haps she gave herself the appearance of proud re- 
serve, knowing that she was feared and avoided. 
Whoever drew near her was observed and sus- 
pected ; the spies of the king surrounded her and 
kept her friends, if she had friends, far off Per- 
haps Amelia would have been less unhappy if slie 
had fled for shelter to Him who is the refuge of 
all hearts ; if she had turned to her God in her 
anguish and despair. But she was not a pious be- 
liever, like the noble and patient Elizabeth Chiis- 
tine, the disdained wife of Frederick the Great. 

Princess Amelia was the true sister of the king, 
the pupil of Voltaire ; she mocked at the church 
and scorned the consolations of religion. She 
also was forced to pay some tribute to her sex ; 
she failed in the strong, self-confident, intellectual 
independence of Frederick ; her poor, weak, trem- 
bling hands wandered around seeking support ; as 
religion, in its mighty mission, was rejected, she 
turned for consolation to superstition. While 
Elizabeth Christine prayed, Amelia tried lier for- 
tune with cards ; while the queen gathered around 
her ministers of the gospel and pious scholars, the 
princess called to the prophets and fortune-tellers. 
While Elizabeth found comfort in reading the 
Holy Scriptures, Amelia found consolation in the 
mystical and enigmatical words of her sooth- 
sayers. While the queen translated sermons and 
pious hymns into French, Amelia wrote down 
carefully all the prophecies of her cards, her 
coffee-grounds, and the stars, and both ladies sent 
their manuscripts to the king. 

Frederick received them both with a kindly 
and pitiful smile. The pious manuscript of the 
queen was laid aside unread, but the oracles of 
the princess werd carefully looked over. Per- 
haps this was done in pity for the poor, wounded 
spirit which found distraction in such child’s play. 
It is certain that when the king wrote to the 
princess, he thanked her for her manuscripts, and 
asked her to continue to send them.* But he also 
demanded perfect silence as to this strange cor- 
respondence ; he feared his enemies might falsely 
interpret his consideration for the weakness of the 
princess ; they might suppose that he needed these 
prophecies to lead him on to victory, as his adver- 
saries needed the consecrated sword. 


• TliI6bault, p. 2T9. 


156 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


This was one of the days on which the princess 
was accustomed to receive her fortune-teller ; she 
had been very angry when told that she was 
under arrest ; neither the prophet nor the fortune- 
teller were at liberty, and the princess was not 
able to obtain their release. Sbe would, there- 
fore, have been compelled to forego her usual oc- 
cupation for the evening, had not Madame du 
Trouffle come to her aid. Louise had written that 
morning to the princess, and asked permission to 
introduce a new soothsayer, whose prophecies as- 
tonished the world, as, so far, they had been liter- 
ally fulfilled. Amelia received this proposition 
joyfully, and now waited impatiently for Madame 
du Trouffle and the soothsayer ; but she was yet 
alone, it was not necessary to hide her grief in 
stoical indifference, to still the groans of agony 
which, like the last sighs from a death-bed, rang 
from her breast. 

The princess suffered not only from mental 
anguish ; her body was as sick as her soul. The 
worm gnawing at her heart was also devouring her 
body ; but neither for body nor soul would she 
accept a physician, she refused all sympathy for 
intellectual and physical pain. Amelia suffered 
and was silent, and only when as now she was 
certain there was no eye to see, no ear to hear 
her complaints, did she give utterance to them. 
And now the maid entered and announced Madame 
du Trouffle and the prophet. 

“ Let them enter,” said the princess in a hollow, 
death-like voice ; “ let them enter, and remain 
yourself, Fraulein Lethow ; the soothsayer shall 
tell your fortune.” 

The door opened, and Madame du Trouffle en- 
tered. She was gay and lovely as ever, and drew 
near the princess with a charming smile. Amelia 
returned her salutation coldly and carelessly. 

“ How many hours have you spent at your toi- 
let to-day ? ” said she, roughly ; “ and where do 
you buy the rouge with which you have painted 
your cheeks ? ” 

“Ah, your royal highness,” said Louise, smi- 
ling, “Nature has been kind to me, and has 
painted my cheeks with her own sweet and cun- 
ning hand.” 

“ Then Nature is in covenant with you, and helps 
you to deceive yourself to imagine that you are 
yet young. I am told that your daughter is grown 
up and wondrously beautiful, and that only when 
you stand near her is it seen how old and agly 
you are.” 

Louise knew the rancor of the unhappy prin- 
cess, and she knew no one could approach her 
without being wounded — that the undying worm 
ID her Boul was only satisfied with the blood it 


caused to flow The harsh words of the princess 
had no sting for her. “ If I were truly old,” said 
she, “ I would live again in my daughter ; she is 
said to be my image, and when she is praised, 1 
feel myself flattered.” 

“ A day will come when she will be blamed and 
you will also be reproached,” murmured Amelia. 
After a pause she said : “ So you have brought me 
another deceiver who declares himself a prophet ? ” 

“ I do not believe him to be an impostor, your 
highness. He has given me convincing proofs of 
his inspiration.” 

“ What sort of proofs? How can these peop.e 
who prophesy of the future prove that they are 
inspired ? ” 

“ He has not told me of the future, but of the 
past,” said Louise. 

“ Has he had the courage to recall any portion 
of your past to you?” said the princess, with a 
coarse laugh. 

“ Many droll and merry portions, your highness, 
and it is to be regretted that they were all true,” f|| 
she said, with comic pathos. ■ 

“ Bring in this soothsayer, Fraulein von Lethow. 
He shall prophesy of you : I think you have not, 
like Madame du Trouffle, any reason to fear a picj: 
ture of your past.” 

The prophet entered. He was wrapped in 
long black robe, which was gathered around his^j 
slender form by a black leathern girdle covered^^ j; 
with curious and strange figures and emblems ; ra-^ ;'j 
ven black hair fell around his small, pule facejlf^} 
his eyes burned with clouded fire, and flashed?*^;| 
quickly around the room. With head erect and|| 
proud bearing, he drew near the princess, and onlyjl* 
when very near did he salute her, and in a sweet, ft 
soft, melodious voice, asked why she wished to* 
see him. 

“ If you are truly a prophet, you will know my^ i 
reasons,” 

“Would you learn of the past?” said he, sol-| j 
emnly. 

“ And why not first of the future ? ” 

“ Because your highness distrusts me and would 
prove me. Will you permit me to take my cards ? 

If you allow it, I will first prophesy to this lady.” 

He took a mass of soiled, curiously painted cards, 
and spread them out before him on the table. He 
took the hand of Fraulein I.ethow and seemed to 
read it earnestly; and now, in a low, musical 
voice, he related little incidents of the past. They 
were piquant little anecdotes which had been se- 
cretly whispered at' the court, but which no one 
dared to speak aloud, as Fraulein Lethow passed 
for a model of virtue and piety. 

She received these developments of the prophet 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


157 


with visible scorn. In place of laughing, and by 
Bmiling indifference bringing their truth in ques- 
tion, she was excited and angry, and thus pre- 
pared for the princess some gay and happy mo- 
ments. 

“ I dare not decide,” said Amelia, as the prophet 
ceased, “whether what you have told is true or 
false. Fraulein Lethow alone can know that ; 
but she will not be so cruel as to call you an im- 
postor, for that would prevent me from having my 
fortune told. Allow me, therefore, to believe that 
you have spoken the truth. Now take your cards 
and shuffle them.” 

“Does your highness wish that I should tell 
you of the past ? ” said the soothsayer, in a sharp 
voice. 

The princess hesitated. “Yes,” said she, 
“ of my past. But no-f-, I will first hear a little 
chapter out of the life of my chaste and modest 
Louise. Now, now, madame, you have nothing to 
fear ; you are pure and innocent, and this little 
recitation of your by-gone days will seem to us a 
chapter from ‘ La Pucelle d’Orl4ans.’ ” 

“ I dare to oppose myself to this lecture,” said 
Louise, laughing. “ There are books which should 
only be read in solitude, and to that class belong 
the volumes of my past life. I am ready in the 
presence of your highness to have my future 
prophesied, but of my past I will hear nothing — 
I know too much already.” 

“Had I been alone with Fraulein Lethow, I 
should have told her many other things, and she 
would have been forced to believe in my power. 
Only when these cards are under your eyes is my 
spirit clear.” 

“ I must, then, in order to know the whole truth 
from you, be entirely alone ? ” said the princess. 

The prophet bowed silentlv. Amelia fixed a 
piercing glance upon him, and nodded to her la- 
dies. 

“ Go into the next room,” said she. “ And now,” 
said the princess, “ you can begin.” 

The magician, instead of taking the cards, knelt 
before the princess and kissed the hem of her 
robe. “ I pray for mercy and forgiveness,” said 
he ; “I am nothing but a poor impostor ! In or- 
der to reach the presence of your royal highness, 
I have disguised myself under this mask, which 
alone made it possible. But I swear to you, prin- 
cess, no one knows of this attempt, no one can 
ever know it — I alone am guilty. Pardon, then, 
princess — pardon for this bold act. I was forced 
to this step — forced to clasp your knees — to im- 
plore you in your greatness and magnanimity, to 
stand by me ! I was impelled irresistibly, for I 
had sworn a fearful oath to do this thing.” 

11 


“To whom have you sworn?” said the prin- 
cess, steiTily. “ Who are you ? what do you ask 
of me ? ” 

“ I am Count Ranuzi, Austrian captain and pris- 
oner of war. I implore you, noble princess, to 
have mercy upon a poor, helpless prisoner, con- 
sumed with grief and despair. God and the world 
have forsaken him, but he has one protecting an- 
gel in whom he trusts, to whom he prays — and 
her name is Amelia ! He is bound in chains like 
a wild beast — a hard stone is his couch, and a 
vault beneath is his grave — he is living and buried 
— his heart lives and heaves and calls to you, 
princess, for rescue.” 

The Princess Amelia shrank back trembling and 
groaning on the sofa ; her eyes were wide open, 
and staring in the distance. After a long pause, 
she said, slowly : “ Call his name.” 

“ Frederick von Trenck ! ” 

Amelia shuddered, and uttered a low cry. 
“Trenck!” repeated she, softly; “oh, what sad 
melody lies in that word I It is like the death- 
cry of my youth. I think the very air must weep 
when this name vibrates upon it. Trenck, Trenck ! 
How beautiful, how lovely that sounds ; it is a 
sweet, harmonious song ; it sings to me softly of 
the only happiness of my life. Ah, how long, 
how long since this song was silenced ! All with- 
in me is desolate! On every sfQe my heart is 
torn — on every side ! , Oh, so drear, so fearful ! 
All ! all ! ” Lost in her own thoughts, these 
words had been slowly uttered. She had forgot- 
ten that she was not alone with her remembran- 
ces, which like a cloud had gathered round about 
her and shut off the outward world. 

Ranuzi did not dare to recall her thoughts — 
he still knelt at her feet. 

Suddenly her whole frame trembled, and she 
sprang up. “ My God ! I dream, while he calls 
me ! I am idly musing, and Trenck has need of 
me. • Speak, sir, speak ! What do you know of 
him ? Have you seen him ? Did he send you to 
me ? ” 

“He sent me, your highness, but I have not 
seen him. Have the grace to listen to me. Ah, 
your highness, in what I now say I lay the safe- 
ty of a dear and valued friend, yes, his life, at your 
feet. One word from you, and he will be deliv 
ered over to a court-martial and be shot. But 
you will not speak that word — you are an angel of 
mercy.” 

“Speak, sir — speak, sir,” said Amelia, breath- 
lessly. “ My God ! do you not see that I am dying 
from agitation ? ” 

“ Princess, Trenck lives — he is in chains — ^he ia 
in a hole under the earth — but he lives, and aa 


158 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


long as he has life, he hopes in you — ^has wild 
dreams of liberty, and his friends think and hope 
with him, Trenck has friends who are ready to 
offer up their liyes for him. One of them is in 
the fortress of Magdeburg — ^he is lieutenant of the 
guard ; another is a Captain Kimsky, prisoner of 
w^ar ; I am a third. I have known Trenck since 
my youth. In our beautiful days of mirth and 
revelry, we swore to stand by each other in every 
danger. The moment has come to fulfil my oath 
— Trenck is a prisoner, and I must help to liber- 
ate him. Our numbers are few and dismembered 
— we need allies in the fortress, and still more in 
the city. We need powerful assistance, and no 
one but your highness can obtain it for us.” 

“ I have an assured and confidential friend in 
Magdeburg,” said the princess ; “ at a hint from 
me he will be ready to stand by you to — ” 

Suddenly she was silent, and cast a searching, 
threatening glance at Ranuzi. She had been too 
often deceived and circumvented — snares had 
been too often laid at her feet — she was distrust- 
ful. “ No, no,” said she, at last, sternly, rudely — 
“ I will take no part in this folly. Go, sir — go. 
You are a poor soothsayer, and I will have noth- 
ing to do with you.” 

Ranuzi smiled, and drew a folded paper from 
his bosom, which he handed to the princess. It 
contained thes# words ; “Count Ranuzi is an 
honest man — he can be trusted unconditionally.” 
Under these words was written: “Nel tue giorni 
felici, vicordati da me.” 

The breast of Amelia heaved convulsively — she 
gazed at these written characters ; at last her eyes 
filled with tears — at last her heart was overcome 
by those painful and passionate feelings which 
she had so long kept in bondage. She pressed 
the paper, the lines on which were written with his 
blood, to her lips, and hot tears gushed from those 
poor eyes which for long, long years, had lost the 
power to weep. 

“Now, sir,” said she, “ I believe in you, I trust 
you. Tell me what I have to do.” 

“ Three things fail us, princess : A house in 
Magdeburg, where Trenck’s friends can meet at 
all hours, and make all necessary preparations, 
and where he can be concealed after his escape. 
Secondly, a few reliable and confiding friends, who 
will unite with us and aid us. Thirdly, we must 
have gold — we must bribe the guard, we must buy 
horses, we must buy friends in the fortress, and 
astly, we must buy French clothing. Besides 
this, I must have permission to go for a few days 
to Magdeburg, and there on the spot I can better 
make the final preparations. A fair pretext shall 
not fail me for this ; Captain Kimskv is my near 


relative — ^he will be taken suddenly ill, and a? a 
dying request he will beg to see me ; one of his 
comrades will bring me notice of this, and I \vill 
turn imploringly to your highness.” 

“ I will obtain you a passport,” said Amelia, de 
cisively. 

“ While in Magdeburg, the flight will be ar- 
ranged.” 

“ And you believe you will succeed ? ” said the 
princess, with a bright smile, which illuminated 
her poor deformed visage with a golden ray of 
hope. 

“ I do not only believe it, I know it ; that is, if 
your royal highness will assist us.” 

The princess made no reply ; she stepped to her 
desk and took from it several rolls of gold, then 
seated herself and wrote with a swift hand : “ You 
must trust the bearer fully, he is my friend ; as- 
sist him in all that he undertakes.” She folded 
the paper and sealed it. 

Ranuzi followed every movement with flashing 
eyes and loudly beating heart. As she took the 
pen to write the address a ray of wild triumph 
lighted his dark face, and a proud smile played 
about his mouth. As Amelia turned, all this dis- 
appeared, and he was dignified and grave as be- 
fore. 

“ Take this, sir,” said she ; “ you see that I 
place in your power a faithful and beloved friend , 
he is lost if you are false. As soon as you reach 
Magdeburg go to him, and he will make other 
friends and allies known to you.” 

“ Can I make use of this address, and write un- 
der it to my friend Kimsky ? ” said Ranuzi. 

“ Yes, without danger. To-day I will find 
means to infonn him that he may expect this let- 
ter. Here is gold, two hundred ducats, all that I 
have at present. When this is exhausted, turn 
again to me and I will again supply you.” 

Ranuzi took the gold and said, smilingly, “ This 
is the magic means by which we will break his 
chains.” 

Amelia took a costly diamond pin, which laj 
upon the table, and gave it to Ranuzi. She 
pointed to the paper marked with blood, which she 
still held in her hand. 

“This is a most precious jewel which you have 
given me — let us exchange.” 

Ranuzi fell upon his knees and kissed her ham 
as he took the pin. 

“ And now, sir, go. My maid is a salaried spy 
and a longer interview would make yoei suspected. 
You would be watched, and all discovered. Go 
If I believed in the power of prayer, I would li« 
upon my knees night and day, and pray for God’: 
blessing upon your effort. As it is, I can on 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


159 


follow you with my thoughts and hopes. Fare- 
well ! ” 

“ Your royal highness sends no reply to these 
lines, written with Trench’s heart’s blood ? ” 

Amelia took the pen and wrote a few hasty 
lines upon the paper, which she handed Ranuzi. 
The words were : “ Ovunque tu sei vicina ti 
3ono.” 

“ Give him that,” said she ; “ it is not written 
with my heart’s blood, but my heart bleeds for 
him — bleeds ever inwardly. And now resume 
your role of soothsayer — I must call my ladies.” 

The afternoon of this day Ranuzi wrote to his 
friend. Captain Kimsky, prisoner of war at Mag- 
deburg : 

“ The train is laid, and will succeed. The for- 
‘ tress will soon be in our hands. A romantic, sen- 
i timental woman’s heart is a good thing, easily 
moved to intrigues. Magdeburg will be ours ! 
Prepare every thing — be ill, and call for me ; I shall 
get a passport. I have a powerful protectress, 
and with such, you know, a man may attain all the 
: desires of his heart ! ” 


[ CHAPTER VI. 

I 

A COURT DAY IN BERLIN. 

It was the birthday of Prince Henry, and was 
to be celebrated with great pomp at the court. 
The king had himself written explicitly on this 
subject to the master of ceremonies, Baron Poli- 
nitz. Pollnitz was, therefore, actively occupied in 
the early morning, and no general ever made his 
preparations for a battle with more earnestness 
and importance than the good baron gave his or- 
ders for the splendid which was to be given in 
the royal apartments that night. 

And this was indeed a great opportunity. The 
people of Berlin were to enjoy a ball and a con- 
cert, at which all the Italian singers were to be 
present ; and then a rare and costly supper, to 
which not only the court, but all the officers who 
were prisoners of war were to be invited. 

This supper was to Pdlbiitz the great circum- 
stance, the middle point of the fete. Such an en- 
tertainment was now rare at the court of Berlin, 
and many months might pass away ere the queen 
would think of giving another supper. Pollnitz 
knew that when he thirsted now for a luxurious 
meal he must enjoy it at his own cost, and this 
thought made him shudder. The worthy baron 
was at the same time a spendthrift and a miser. 

Four times in every year he had three or four 
Jays of rare and rich enjoyment ; he lived en 


grand seigneur^ and prepared for himself every 
earthly luxury ; these were the irst three or four 
days of every quarter in which he received his 
salary. With a lavish hand he scattered all the 
gold which he could keep back from his greedy 
creditors, and felt himself young, rich, and happy. 
After these fleeting days of proud glory came 
months of sad economy ; he was obliged to play 
the role of a parasitical plant, attach himself to 
some firm, well-rooted stem, and absorb its 
strength and muscle. In these days of restraint 
he watched like a pirate all those who were in the 
condition to keep a good table, and so soon as he 
learned that a dinner was on hand, he knew how 
to conquer a place. At these times he was 
also a passionate devotee of the card-table, and 
it was the greatest proof of his versatility and 
dexterity that he always succeeded in making up 
his party, though every man knew it cost gold to 
play cards with Pollnitz. The grand-master had 
the exalted principles of Louis XV. of France, 
who was also devoted to cards. Every evening 
the great Louis set apart a thousand louis d’or to 
win or lose. If the king won, the gold went into 
his private pocket ; if he lost, the state treasury 
suffered. 

Following this royal example, Pollnitz placed 
the gold he won in his pocket ; if he lost, he bor- 
rowed the money to pay — he considered this bor- 
rowed sum as also the clear profit of bis game ; 
he was assured to win, and in this way he ob- 
tained his pocket money. 

To-day, however, he would not be merry at a 
strange table ; he himself would do the honors, 
and he had conducted the arrangements of the 
table with a scholarship and knowledge of details 
which would have obtained the admiration of the 
Duke de Richelieu. 

On this occasion it was not necessary to restrain 
his luxurious desires and tastes. Honor demanded 
that the court should show itself in full pomp and 
splendor, and prove to the world that this long, 
wearisome war had not exhausted the royal treas- 
ury, nor the royal table service of silver ; in short, 
that it was an easy thing to carry on the war, 
without resorting to the private treasures of the 
royal house. 

It was, therefore, necessary to bring out for this 
great occasion the golden service which had been 
the king’s inheritance from his mother. Frederick’s 
portion had been lately increased by the death of 
the Margravine of Baireuth, who had explicitly 
willed her part to her brother Frederick.* 

♦ "WTien the court fled, after th« battle of Kunendorf, 
to Magdeburg, they took the golden service which the 
king inherited from, his mother with them ; that portioir 


160 


FHEDERIOK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The queen and the princesses were to appear in 
all the splendor of their jewels, and by their costly 
and exquisite toilets impose upon these proud and 
haughty officers, whom fate had sent as prisoners 
of war to Berlin, and who would not fail to in- 
form their respective governments of all they saw 
in the capital. 

This fete was a demonstration made by the king 
to his over-confident enemies. He would prove to 
them that if he wished for peace it was not be- 
cause the gold failed to carry on the war, but be- 
cause he wished to give rest and the opportunity 
to recover to Europe, groaning and bleeding from 
a thousand wounds. Besides this, the king wished 
to show his subjects, by the celebration of his 
brother’s birthday, how highly he honored the 
prince — ^how gladly he embraced the opportunity 
to distinguish the young general who, during the 
whole war, had not lost a single battle ; but, by 
his bold and masterly movements, had come to 
the king’s help in the most difficult and dangerous 
moments. 

This celebration should be a refutation of the 
rumors spread abroad by the king’s enemies, that 
Frederick regarded the success and military talent 
of his brother with jealous envy. 

There were, therefore, many reasons why Poll- 
nitz should make this a luxurious and dazzling 
feast ; he knew also that Prince Henry would re 
ceive a detailed account of the celebration from 
his adjutant. Count Kalkreuth, who had lingered 
some months in Berlin because of his wounds, 
was now fully restored, and would leave Berlin the 
morning after the ball to return to the army. 

And now the important hour had arrived. Poll- 
nitz wandered through the saloons with the search- 
ing glance of a warrior on the field of battle ; he 
pronounced that all was good. 

The saloons were dazzling with light ; pomp and 
splendor reigned throughout, and on entering the 
supper-room you were almost blinded by the ar- 
ray of gold and silver adorning the costly buffet^ on 
whose glittering surface the lights were a thou- 
sand times reflected. 

Suddenly the rooms began to fill ; everywhere 
gold-embroidered uniforms, orders, stars, and 
flashing gems were to be seen; a promiscuous 
and strange crowd was moving through these lofty 
saloons, illuminated by thousands of lights and 
odorous with the fragrance of flowers. 

Side by side with the rich, fantastic uniform of 
ihe Russian, was seen the light and active French 
shasseur ; here was to be seen the Hungarian hus- 

given to Frederick by the margravine was left in Berlin, 
and the next year, 1T60, was seized by the Russians and 
carried to Petersburg. — “ Gesdichte Berlins,’’ vol. v., p. 2. 


sar, whose variegated and tasteful costume con, 
trusted curiously with the dark and simple uniform 
of the Spaniard, who stood near him, both con* 
versing gayly with an Italian, dressed in the white 
coat of an Austrian officer. 

It seemed as if every nation in Eurof e had ar- 
ranged a rendezvous for this day in the royal pal- 
ace at Berlin, or as if the great Frederick had sent 
specimens to his people of all the various nations 
against whom he had undertaken this gigantic 
war. 

There were not only Germans from all the prov- 
inces, but Italians, Spaniards, Russians, Swedes, 
Hungarians, Netherlanders, and Frenchmen. All 
these were prisoners of war — their swords had 
been stained with the blood of Prussians ; the fate 
of war now confined them to the scabbard, and 
changed the enemies of the king into guests at his 
court. 

Hundreds of captive officers were now waiting 
in the saloon for the appearance of the queen, but 
the Prussian army was scarcely represented. All 
who were fit for service were in the field, only the 
invalids and the old warriors, too infirm for active 
duty had remained at the capital ; even the youths 
who had not attained the legal age for military 
duty, had hastened to the army, full of courage 
and enthusiasm, inspired by the example of their 
fathers and brothers. 

The dazzling appearance of these royal saloons 
was therefore mostly owing to the flashing uni- 
forms of the prisoners of war. Only a few old 
Prussian generals, and the courtiers, whose duties 
prevented them from being heroes, were added to 
the number. 

Herr von Giurgenow, and his friend Captain 
Belleville, were invited to the ball, and were well 
pleased to offer their homage to the majesty of 
Prussia. Count Ranuzi, who, reserved and silent 
as usual, had been wandering through the saloons, 
now joined them, and they had all withdrawn to a 
window, in order to observe quietly and undis 
turbed the gay crowd passing before them. 

“ Look you,” said Ranuzi, laughing, “ this 
reminds me of the frantic confusion in the ante- 
rooms of hell, which Dante has described in such 
masterly style. We all wear our glittering 
masks, under which our corpses are hidden ; one 
word from our master and this drapery would fall 
off, and these grinning death-heads be brought tc 
ruim It depends solely upon the will of Fred- 
erick of Prussia to speak this word. He is our 
master, and when he commands it, we must lay 
aside our swords and exchange our uniforms for 
the garments of a malefactor.” 

He will not dare to do this,” said Giurgenow; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


J61 


** all Europe would call him a barbarian, and 
make him answerable for his insolence.” 

“ First, all Europe must be in a condition to call 
him to account,” said Ranuzi, laughing ; “and 
that is certainly not the case at present, I am 
sorry to say.” 

“ You have not heard, then,” said Belleville, “ of 
the glorious victory which our great General 
Broglie has gained over Duke Ferdinand of Bruns- 
wick ; all France is jubilant over this happy event, 
and the Marquise de Pompadour, or rather King 
Louis, lias made this second Turenne, our 'noble 
Broglie, marshal.” 

“I know of this,” said Ranuzi; “but I know 
, also that the fortune of battles is inconstant, 

I othermse we would not now be here.” 

I “ It is to be hoped we will not be here long,” 
said Giurgenow, impatiently. “ Does it not lie in 
our power to go at once? What think you? 

I Have we not our swords ? They have not dared 
I to take them from us ! They tremble before us, 
j and honor, in our persons, the nations we repre- 
! sent. Look at the complaisance and considera- 
j tion with which we are met on all sides. The 
i King of Prussia fears his powerful enemies, and 
j loes all in his power to conciliate them. Suppose 
! that to-night, as soon as the royal family are 
, assembled, we draw our swords.and take them all 
prisoners ; we have overpowering numbers, and I 
think it would be an easy victory. We could 
make a fortress of this palace, and defend our- 
, solves; they would not dare to make a violent 
attack, as the queen and princesses would be in 
‘ our power. What think you of this plan. Count 
Ranuzi ? ” 

Ranuzi met the sharp and piercing glance of the 
; Russian with cool composure. 

“I think it bold, but impossible. We could 
not maintain our position, one hour. The gar- 
rison of Berlin would overcome us. We have 
no thousands of prisoners in the casements here, 

I as in Kiistrin, to aid us in such an attempt.” 

“The count is right,” said Belleville, gayly ; 
“ such a grandiose and warlike conspiracy would 
amount to nothing. We must revenge ourselves 
in another way for the tedious ennui we are made 
to endure here, and my friends and myself are 
resolved to do so. We will no longer submit to 
the shackles of etiquette, which are laid upon us ; 
we will be free from the wearisome constraint 
' which hems us in on every side. These proud 
ladies wish us to believe that they are modest and 
virtuous, because they are stiff and ceremonious. 
They make a grimace at every 'equivoque. We 
will prove to them that we are not blinded by this 
outward seeming, and not disposed to lie like 


Dutchmen, languishing at the feet of our inexo- 
rable fair ones. Our brave brothers have con- 
quered the Prussians atHochkirch and at Bergen; 
we cannot stand side by side with them in the 
field, but here, at least, we can humble the Prus- 
sian women ! ” 

“ I can well believe,” whispered Giurgenow, 
“ that you would be pleased to humble the beauti- 
ful Fraulein von Marshal ? ” 

“ Ah, my friend,” said Ranuzi, laughing, “ you 
touch the wound of our poor friend. You do 
not seem to know that the beautiful Marshal is 
responsible for the scorn and rage of Count Belle- 
ville. She is indeed a haughty and presump tous 
beauty ; she not only dared to reject the love of 
the fascinating count, but she showed him the 
door ; and when afterward he ventured to send 
her a passionate and tender billet-doux, she in- 
formed him, through her servant, that she would 
give the letter to her chambermaid, for whom, 
without doubt, it was intended.” 

“ Eh hun^ what do you say to this insolence ? ” 
cried the enraged Frenchman. “ But she shall do 
penance for it. I have already made the neces- 
sary arrangements with my friends. This is not 
simply a personal affair, it touches the general 
honor. The whole French army, all France, is 
insulted in my person. It is necessary we should 
have satisfaction, not only from this presumptuous 
lady, but from all the ladies of the court ! We will 
have our revenge this evening! We will show to 
these dull dames what we think of their prudery. 
And the queen shall see that we are not at all in- 
clined to bow down to her stiff ceremonies. She 
is, in our eyes, not a queen — simply the wife of an 
enemy over whom we will soon triumph glori- 
ously.” 

“ I counsel you, however, to wait till the hour 
of triumph for your revenge,” said Ranuzi. “ Your 
intentions may lead to the worst .consequences for 
us all. The great Frederick will never be a harm- 
less adversary till he is dead, and we would all 
be ignominiously punished for any contempt shown 
the queen. You have a personal affair with 
Fraulein Marshal ; well, then, you must make her 
pei’sonally responsible ; but do not involve us all 
in your difficulties. It would be an easy thing to 
forfeit even this appearance of freedom.” 

“ You are right,” said Giurgenow ; “ we might 
be banished from Berlin, and that would be a 
bitter punishment for us all.” 

“ But look ! the doors are being thrown open, 
and the queen and court will appear ; you will have 
the happiness of seeing your cruel fair one,” whis- 
pered Ranuzi to the Frenchman. 

“ I assure you she shall repent of her cruelty to- 


162 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


oiglit,” sam BeLeville, gnashing his teeth. Ex- 
changing a significant glance with several French 
officers, who were standing not far off, he advanced 
into the saloon to the outer circle, which was 
formed on both sides, and through which the 
queen and court must pass. 

Now the grand master of ceremonies appeared 
on the threshold, with his golden staff. Behind 
him the queen and the Princess Amelia entered 
the room ; both appeared in all the pomp and 
splendor of their rank. A small diamond-crown 
glittered in the blonde hair of the queen, a mag- 
mficent necklace of diamonds and emaralds was 
clasped around her dazzlingly white and beauti- 
fully formed throat. 

Bielfeld had once declared that this necklace 
could purchase a kingdom. A white robe worked 
with silver and a dark-red velvet shawl trimmed 
with ermine fell in graceful folds around the noble 
and graceful figure of the queen, whose bowed head, 
and quiet, modest bearing contrasted strangely 
with the luxury and splendor which surrounded 
her. 

Another striking contrast to the queen was 
offered in the presence of the Princess Amelia, 
liike her royal sister, she appeared in complete 
toilet, adorned with all her jewels — her arms, 
her throat, her hair, and her hands flashed with 
diamonds. The festoons of her robe of silver 
gauze were fastened up with diamond buttons, 
and beneath appeared a green robe embroid- 
ered with silver. The princess knew full well 
that all this splendor of toilet all these flashing 
gems, would but bring into contemptuous notice 
her sharp, angular figure, and her poor deformed 
visage ; she knew that the eyes of all would be 
fixed upon her in derision, that her appearance 
alone would be greeted as a cherished source of 
amusement, and as soon as her back was turned 
the whole court would laugh merrily. She as- 
sumed, as usual, a cold contemptuous bearing ; she 
met mockery with mockery, and revenged herself 
by sharp wit and cutting irony fo’ the derisive 
glances which plainly spoke what the lips dared 
not utter. She no sooner entered the saloon than 
she began to greet her acquaintances ; every word 
contained a poisonous sting, which inflicted a 
grievous wound. When she read in the faces of 
her victims that her sharp arrows had entered the 
quivering flesh, a malicious fire sparkled in her 
eyes, and a bitter smile played upon her lips. 

Behind the queen and Princess Amelia appeared 
the Princess Henry. She was also superbly 
dressal, but those who looked upon her thought 
not of her toilet ; they were refreshed, enraptured 
Dy her adorable beauty — by the goodness and 


purity written on her rosy cheek. To-day, Iio\»- 
ever, the eyes of the princess were less clear and 
dazzling than usual — a gleam of sadness shad- 
owed her fair brow, and her coral lips trembled 
lightly as if in pain. Perhaps it was the remem- 
brance of the beautiful and happy days, past and 
gone like a dream, which made the lonely present 
seem so bitter. Absent-minded and thoughtful, 
she stepped forward without looking to the right 
or left, regardless of the flashing orders and stars, 
of the handsome officers and courtly circle bow- 
ing profoundly before her as she passed on. 

The court had now passed ; the bowed heads 
were raised, and now the young French officers 
cast impertinent, almost challenging glances, at 
the ladies of the queen and the princesses, who 
drew near and bestowed here and there stolen 
smiles and light greetings upon their admirers. 

Fraulein Marshal did not seem to be aware that 
the insolent eyes of these haughty Frenchmen 
were fixed upon her. Proudly erect she advanced ; 
her large blue eyes were turned toward the prin- 
cess ; she gave neither glance nor smile to any one ; 
her noble and beautiful countenance had a stern, 
resolved expression — her lips were pouting, and 
her usually soft eyes told tales of an angry souJ 
There was something Juno-like in her appeal- 
ance — she was lovely to behold, but cold and 
stern in her beauty. 

As she passed by Count Belleville, he exclaimed 
with a sigh to his neighbor : “ Ah, look at this 
majestic Galatea, this beautiful marble statue, 
which can only be awaked to life by kisses.” 

Fraulein Marshal trembled slightly ; a crimson 
blush suffused her face, her shoulders, and even 
her back ; but she did not hesitate or turn. She 
moved on slowly, though she heard the officers 
laughmg and whispering— though she felt that 
their presumptuous eyes were fixed upon her. 

The queen and princesses made the grande 
tournee through the rooms, and then mingled with 
the guests ; all formal etiquette was now laid aside, 
and a gay and unembarrassed conversation might 
be carried on till the beginning of the concert. 
This seemed to degenerate, on the part of tho 
French officers, to an indiscreet, frenzied levity. 
They laughed and talked boisterously — they 
walked arm in arm before the ladies, and re- 
marked upon them so boldly, that crimson blushes, 
or frightened pallor, was the result. Even the 
queen remarked the strange and unaccountable 
excitement of her guests, and to put an end to it, 
she entered the concert-room and ordered the mu- 
sic to commence. Even this had no effect. The 
royal capeUo played an overture composed by thi 
king, with masterly precision — the lingers emu- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


163 


lated them in an Italian aria — but all this did not 
silence the noisy conversation of the Frenchmen. 
They laughed and chatted without restraint ; and 
neither the amazed glances of the princesses nor 
the signs of the grand-master of ceremonies, 
made the slightest impression upon them. 

Suddenly there was a slight pause, and the 
Princess Amelia rose up from her seat and beck- 
oned with her fan to Baron Pbllnitz. In a loud 
and angry voice, she said : “ Baron Pollnitz, I in- 
sist upon your forcing these shrieking popinjays 
of the Marquise de Pompadour to silence. We 
cannot hear the music for their loud chattering. 
The like birds may pass very well in the gallant 
boudoir of a certain marquise, but not in a royal 
palace of Berlin.” 

Pbllnitz shrank back in alax’m, and fixed an im- 
ploring look upon the princess. Amongst the 
French officers arpse an angry murmur, swelling 
j louder and louder, more and more threatening, 
and completely drowning the music which was 
just recommencing. 

The queen bowed down to the princess. “ I 
pray you, sister,” said she, in a low voice, “ re- 
member that we are poor, unprotected women, 
and not in a condition to defend ourselves. Let 
as appear not to remark this unmannerly conduct, 
and let us remember that the king has made it 
our duty to receive the French officers with marked 
attention.” 

“You, sister, are simply a slave to the com- 
mands of the king. He is more truly your mas- 
ter than your husband,” said the princess, angrily. 

The queen smiled sweetly. “You are right; I 
am his slave, and my soul has chosen him for its 
lord. Blame me not, then, for my obedience.” 

“Do you intend to allow the arrogant presump- 
tion of these haughty Frenchmen to go unpun- 
ished ? ” 

“ I will take pains not to observe it,” said the 
queen, turning her attention again to the music. 

During all this time. Count Belleville stood be- 
hind Fraulein Marshal. While the concert was 
going on, he bowed over her and spoke long and 
impressively. Fraulein Marshal did not reply ; 
neither his ardent love-assurances, nor his glowing 
reproaches, nor his passionate entreaties, nor his 
bold and offensive insolence, could draw from her 
one word, one look. 

When the concert was over, and they were 
iibout to return to the saloon where, until supper, 
they could dance and amuse themselves, the 
young maiden turned with calm composure and 
indifference to Count Belleville. “ Sir, I forbid 
you to molest me with your presence, and I coun- 
iel you no longer to offend my ears with these in- 


decent romances, which you have no doubt learned 
upon the streets of Paris. But if, believing that 
I am unprotected, you still dare to insult me, I 
inform you that my father has this moment ar- 
rived, and will certainly relieve me from your dki- 
agreeable and troublesome society.” She spoke 
aloud, and not only Belleville, but the group of 
French officers who stood behind him, heard every 
word. She passed by them with calm indiffer- 
ence and joined a large, elderly officer, who was 
leaning against a pillar, and w'ho stretched out his 
hand smilingly toward her. 

“ Father,” she said, “ God himself put it in 
your heart to come to Berlin this day. You are 
by my side, and I have nothing to fear. I know 
you can protect me.” 

In the mean time, the musicians commenced to 
play the grave and at the same time coquettish 
minuet, and the officers drew near the ladies to 
lead them to the dance. This was done, however, 
in so bold and unconstrained a manner, with such 
manifest nonchalance^ the request was made with 
such levity, the words were so little respectful, 
that the ladies drew back frightened. 

Princess Amelia called Fraulein Marshal to her 
side. She took her hand with a kindly smile. 

“ My child,” she said, “ I rejoice that you have 
the courage to defy these shameless coxcombs. 
Go on, and count upon my protection. Why are 
you not dancing ? ” 

“ Because no one has asked me.” 

At this moment an officer drew near wfith dili- 
gent haste, apparently to lead her to the dance. 
While in the act of offering his hapd to her he 
made a sudden movement, as if he had just recog- 
nized the lady, turned his back, and withdrew 
without a word of apology. 

The princess was enraged. “I promise you 
they shall be punished for this presumption.” 
She turned to Baron Marshal, who stood behind 
his daughter: “Baron,” said she, “if this leads 
to a duel, I will be your second ! ” 


CHAPTER YII. 

IX THE W I X D 0 W - N I C H E . 

While these events were occurring in the dan- 
cing-room, and the queen was seated at the card- 
table, the Princess Wilhelmina, wife of Prince 
Henry, stood in the window-niche of the bail- 
room and conversed with Count Kalkreuth, the 
friend and adjutant of her husband. The count had 
been sent home amongst the wounded, but he w:id 


164 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


now restored and about to return to the camp. 
They spoke quickly and impressively together, but 
the music drowned their words and made them 
Indistinct to all others. What said they to each 
other? Seemingly petty and indifferent things. 
They had, perhaps, a deeper, secret meaning, for 
the countenance of the princess and that of the 
count were grave and sad, and the sweet smile had 
vanished from the charming face of the princess. 
They spoke of unimportant things, perhaps, be- 
cause they had not the courage for the great 
word which must be spoken — the word farewell ! 

“ Your royal highness has then no further com- 
mission to give me for the prince ? ” said the count, 
after a pause. 

“ No,” said the princess ; “ I wrote to him yes- 
terday by the courier. Describe the baU to him, 
and tell him how we are, and how you left me.” 

“I must tell him, then, that your highness is 
perfectly gay, entirely happy, and glowing with 
health and beauty,” said the count. These were 
simple and suitable words, but they were spoken 
in a hard and bitter tone. 

The princess fixed her large soft eyes with an 
almost pleading expression upon the count; then 
with a quick movement she took a wreath of white 
roses, which she wore in her bosom, and held them 
toward him. “As a proof that I am gay and 
happy,” said she, “ take these flowers to my hus- 
l)and, and tell him I adorned myself with them in 
honor of his /ete.” 

The count pressed his lips convulsively together 
and looked angrily upon the princess, but he did 
not raise his hand to take the flowers — did not 
appear to see that she held them tcw'ard him. 

“Well, sir,” said Princess Wilhelmina, “you do 
not take the flowers ? ” 

“No,” said he, passionately, “I will not take 
them.” 

The princess looked anxiously around; she 
feared some one might have heard this stormy 
“ No.” She soon convinced herself that there was 
no listener nearer than her maid of honor ; Frau- 
lein Marshal was slill near the Princess Amelia, 
and she was somewhat isolated by etiquette ; she 
saw, therefore, that she dared carry on this con- 
versation. 

“ Why will you not take my flowers ? ” she said, 
proudly 

The count drew nearer. “ I will tell you, prin- 
cess,” said he — “ I will tell you, if this passionate 
pain now burning in my breast does not slay me. 
I will not take your flowers, because I will not be 
a messenger of love between you and the prince ; 
because I cannot accept the shame and degrada- 
tion which such an office would lay upon me. 


Princess you have forgotten, but I remember there 
was a wondrous time in which I, and not tha 
prince, was favored with a like precious gift. At 
that time you allowed me to hope that this glow- 
ing, inextinguishable feeling which filled my heart, 
my soul, found an echo in your breast ; that at 
least you would not condemn me to die unheard, 
misunderstood.” 

“ I knew not at that time that my husband 
loved me,” murmured the princess ; “ I thought I 
was free and justified in giving that heart which 
no one claimed to whom I would.” 

“You had no sooner learned that the prince 
loved you than you turned from me, proud and 
cold,” said the count, bitterly ; “ relentlessly, with- 
out mercy, without pity, you trampled my heart 
under your feet, and not a glance, not a word 
showed me that you had any remembrance of the 
past. I will tell you what I suffered. You have 
a cold heart, it will make you happv to hear of 
my anguish. I loved you so madly I almost hated 
you ; in the madness of my passion I cursed you. 

I thanked God for the war, which forced me to 
that for which I had never found the moral 
strength to leave you. Yes, I was grateful when5(|![ 
the war called me to the field — I hoped to die. 
did not wish to dishonor my name by suicide. I 
was recklessly brave, because I despised life — I 
rushed madly into the ranks of the enemy, seek- 
ing death at their hands, but God’s blessed minis- 
ter disdained me even as you had done. I was 
borne alive from the battle-field and brought to 
Berlin to be nursed and kindly cared for. No one 
knew that here I received daily new and bitter 
wounds. You were always cruel, cruel even to 
the last moment ; you saw my sufferings, but you 
were inexorable. Oh, princess, it w'ould have been 
better to refuse me entrance, to banish me from 
your presence, than to make my heart torpid un- 
der the influence of your cold glance, your pol- 
ished speech, which ever allured me and yet kept 
me at a distance. You have played a cruel game 
with me, princess, you mock me to the last. Shall 
I be your messenger to the prince ? You know 
well that I would give my heart’s blood for one 
of those sweet flowers, and you send them by me 
to another. My humility, my subjection is at an 
end ; you have sinned against me as a woman, 
and I have therefore the right to accuse you as a 
man. I will not take these flowers ! I will not 
give them to the prince ! And now I have fin- 
ished — ^I beg you to dismiss me.” 

The princess had listened tremblingly ; her face 
became ever paler — completely exhausted, she 
leaned against the wall. 

“ Before you go ” whispered she, “ listen to a 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


few words : it may be that the death you seek 
may be found on the battle-field — this may be our 
last interview in this world ; in such a moment 
we dare speak the truth to each other ; from the 
louls which have been closely veiled, may cloud 
and darkness be for one moment lifted. What I 
now aay to yon shall go as a sacred secret with 
you to the grave, if you fall ; but if God hears my 
prayer, and you return, I command you to forget 
it, never to remind me of it. You say I have a 
cold heart. Alas ! I only choked the flame which 
raged within me ; I would not have my honor and 
ray duty burned to ashes. You say that my eyes 
are never clouded, that they shed no tears. Ah ! 
believe me, I have wept inwardly, and the silent, 
unseen tears the heart weeps are bitterer than all 
others. You reproach me for having received you 
when you returned here sick and wounded, and 
for not having closed my doors against you. I 
kno w well that was my duty, and a thousand times 
I have prayed to God on my knees for strength to 
do this, but He did not hear me, or He had no 
mercy. I could not send you off ; had my lips 
spoken the fearful words, the shriek of my heart 
would have called you back. My lips had strength 
to refuse an answer to the question which I read 
in your face, in your deep dejection, but my heart 
answered you in silence and tears. Like you, I 
could not forget — like you I remembered the 
bounteous sweet past. Now you know all — go ! 
As you will not take these flowers to the prince, 
they are yours, were intended for you; I have 
baptized them with my tears. Farewell ! ” 

She gave him the flowers, and without looking 
toward him, w'ithout giving him time to answer, 
she stepped forward and called her chamberlain. 

“ Count Saldow, be kind enough to accompany 
Count Kalkreuth, and give him the books and pa- 
pers my husband has ordered,” 

Wilhelmina passed on proudly, calmly, with a 
smile on her lips, but no one knew what it cost 
her poor heart. She did not look back. Kalkreuth 
would have given years to take leave once more 
of the lovely face, to ask pardon for the hard, rude 
words he had dared to say. The princess had 
still the bashful timidity of virtue; after the con- 
fession she had made she dared not look upon 
him. The count controlled himself ; he followed 
Saldow. He was bewildered, rapturously giddy. 
As he left the castle and entered his carriage he 
looked up at the window and said : “ I will not 
die ! — I will return ! ” — then pressed the bouquet 
to his lips and sank back in the carriage. 


16 fi 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE NUTSHELLS BEHIND THE FAUTEUIL OP TUB 
QUEEN. 

Princess Wilhelmina, as we have said, did 
not look back ; she stepped silently through the 
ball-room, and approached the Princess Amelia. 
She stood for a moment behind a couple who were 
dancing the Francaise. The French officers bad 
just taught this dance to the Prussian ladies as 
the newest Parisian mode. 

It was a graceful and coquettish dance, ap- 
proaching and avoiding ; the ladies stood opposite 
their cavaliers, and advanced with smiling grace, 
then appeared to fly from them in mocking haste. 
They were pursued in artistic tours by their cava- 
liers ; at the end of the dance their hands were 
clasped in each other’s, and they danced through 
the room with the graceful time and step of the 
minuet. 

Princess Wilhelmina stood silent and unobser- 
vant; she knew not the dance was ended; she 
knew not that the music was silenced. A softer, 
sweeter, dearer melody sounded in her ears ; she 
heard the echo of that voice which had spoken 
scornfully, despairingly, and yet love had been the 
sweet theme. 

The sudden stillness waked her from her dream 
and she stepped forward. The general silence 
was interrupted by the well-known coarse, stem 
voice of the Princess Amelia. 

“ Does this dance please you, Baron Marshal ? 
The French officers have taught it to our ladies as 
a return for the dance which our brave Prussian 
soldiers taught the French at Rossbach ; at Ross- 
bach, however, they danced to a quicker, faster 
tempo. These Frenchmen are now calling out, 
‘ En avant!"' but at Rossbach, I am told, En ar- 
riere!'^ was the word of command.” 

A death-like silence followed these sarcastic 
w'ords of the princess, and throughout the room 
her mocking, derisive laugh which followed these 
words was distinctly heard. She rose, and lean- 
ing upon the arm of Baron Marshal, advanced to 
meet the Princess Wilhelmina, and east a fierce 
glance at the officers, who wmre assembled in 
^groups and talking in low tones but earnestly with 
each other. 

Suddenly Belleville, leamng on another officer, 
advanced from one of these groups ; they walked 
backward and forward, laughing and chattering 
loudly, without regarding the presence of the prin- 
cess. They then drew near the orchestra, an<t 
called out in a jovial tone ; 

“ Messieurs, have the kindness to play a Dutd, 


166 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


waltz, but in the quick time which the Austrians 
played at Hochkirch, when they drove the Prus- 
sians before them ; and in which Field-Marshal 
Broglie played at Bergen, when he tramped upon 
the Prussians ! Play on, messieurs ! play on ! ” 

Belleville then danced forward with great levity 
of manner to Fraulein Marshal, who stood by the 
side of her father ; without saluting her, he seized 
her hand. 

“ Come, ‘ma Umte helle^' said he, “ you have 
played the marble statue long enough for one day ; 
it is time that you should awake to life in my 
arms. Come, then, and dance with me your las- 
civious Dutch waltz, which no respectable woman 
in France would dare to dance ! Come ! come ! ” 

Belleville tried to drag Fraulein Marshal for- 
ward, but at the instant a powerful and heavy 
arm was laid upon him, and his hand was dashed 
off rudely. 

“I have heard you to the end,” said Baron Mar- 
jhal, calmly ; “ I wished to see a little of the re- 
nowned gallantry of which the Frenchman is so 
proud. It appears to me that a strange ton must 
now reign in Paris, well suited, perhaps, to the 
boudoirs of mistresses, but not fitting or accept- 
able to the ears of respectable women. I beg you 
therefore, sir, not to assume this ton in Berlin ; I 
am resolved not to endure it.” 

Belleville laughed aloud, drew very near the 
baron, and looked him insolently in the face. 

“ Who are you, monsieur, who dare take the 
liberty of begging me, who do not know you, to 
do or not do any thing ? ” 

“ I am Baron Marshal, the father of this lady 
whom you have dared to offend ! ” 

Belleville laughed still louder than before. 

“ Aha ! that is a beautiful fairy tale ! You who 
are as hideous as a baboon, and have borrowed 
the eyes of the cat ! — you the father of the lovely 
Galatea Marshal ! — tell that tale to other ears — ^I 
do not believe in such aberrations of Nature. I 
repeat my question : who are you ? what is your 
name ? ” 

“I repeat to you, I am Baron Marshal, the 
father of this lady.” 

“You are more credulous, sir, than I am, if you 
believe that,” said Belleville, coarsely. 

“Perhaps I am less credulous than you sup- 
pose,” said Marshal, quietly. “ It would, for ex- 
ample, be diflScult for me to believe that you are 
a nobleman. I can assure you, however, that I 
am not only noble, but a man of honor.” 

Belleville was in the act of giving a passionate 
answer, when the doors of the supper-room were 
thrown open, and a sea of light irradiated the 
room. 


At this moment, the queen and her ladies en* 
tered from the card-room, and, at her appearance, 
every word, every sound was hushed. Silently, 
and with a conciliatory smile, the queen passed 
through the saloon, and seated herself at the table ; 
she then gave the sign to the grand-master, thal 
her guests should be seated. And now the ser- 
vants, in golden liveries, flew from side to side 
bearing silver plates, containing the rare and fra 
grant viands which the inventive head of Baron 
Pollnitz had ordered for the favored guests of her 
majesty the Queen of Prussia. 

Nothing is so well calculated to quiet the per- 
turbed soul as a costly and well-prepared feast. 
The haughty Frenchmen soon forgot their morti- 
fied vanity and resentment, and were well pleased 
to be seated at the table of the “ great Frederick.” 
They ate and drank right merrily in honor of the 
bold and brave prince who had sent them here 
from Rossbach ; but if the rich dishes made them 
forget their mortification, the fiery wine excited 
yet more their presumptuous levity. They forgot 
that they were the guests of a queen. Louder and 
more extravagant was their gayety, more boister- 
ous, more indiscreet their unrestrained laughter. 
In their frantic merriment they dared to sing 
aloud some of the little ambiguous, equivocal 
chansons^ which belonged to the gamins of Paris, 
and at which the Marquise de Pompadour laughed 
till she shed tears when sung sometimes by the 
merry courtiers. 

In vain the grand-master besought them, in 
his most polished manner, not to sing at table. 

“We have been so long forced to listen to the 
dull, screeching discord of your singers, that we 
must have some -compensation ! ” said they. 
“ Besides,” said Belleville, in a loud voice, “ it 
belongs now to ho7i ton to sing at the table ; and 
the Prussian court should thank us for introducing 
this new Parisian mode.” 

They sang, chatted, laughed, and almost over- 
powered the music by their boisterous levity. 
Their presumptuous revelry seemed to be every 
moment on the increase. The Austrian and Rus- 
sian officers looked upon them with disgust and 
alarm, and entreated them to desist ; but the 
French officers were regardless of all etiquette. 
During the dessert, Belleville and some of his friends 
arose and drew near the table at which the queen 
and the princesses were seated ; this was in the 
middle of the room, and slightly separated from 
the other tables. They gazed at the princesses 
with insolent eyes, and, placing themselves be- 
hind the chair of the queen, they began to crack 
nuts with their teeth, and throw the shells care- 
lessly upon the floor, near her majesty. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT 

.» 

i .> The queen continued a quiet conversation with 
; the Princess Wilhelmina, and appeared wholly un- 
■ conscious of this rudeness and vulgarity ; but her 
j face was pallid, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I pray your majesty to rise from the table ! ” 
said the Princess Wilhelmina. “ Look at the 
Princess Amelia ; her countenance glows with 
anger ; there is a tempest on her brow, and it is 
about to burst upon us.” 

“ You are right ; that is the best way to end 
this torture.” She rose from the table, and gave 
a sign for a general movement. 
nHkWhen the queen and her suite had left the 
f^om, Baron Marshal drew near Count Belleville, 

' “Sir,” said he, “I told you before that I was 
not sufficiently credulous to take you for a noble- 
man. Your conduct at the table has proved that 
I did well to doubt you. Yourself and friends 
have sho^vn that you are strangers to the duties 
of cavaliers, and utterly ignorant of the manners 
of good society.” 

“ Ah I ” cried Belleville, “ this offence demands 
satisfaction.” 

“ I am ready to grant it,” said Baron Marshal ; 

“ name the time and place of meeting.” 

“ You know well,” cried Belleville, “ that I am 
j a prisoner, and have given my word of honor not 
to use my sword ! ” 

“ So you were impertinent and shameless, because 
, you knew you were safe? You knew that, thanks 
to your word of honor, you could not be chas- 
I Used ! ” 

j “ Sir,” cried Belleville, “ you forget that you 
! speak not only to a nobleman, but to a soldier.” 

; “ Well, I know that I speak to a Frenchman, 

I who lost his powder-mantle and pomatum-pot at 
I Rossbach.” 

Belleville, beside himself with rage, seized his 
sword, and half drew it from the scabbard. 

“ God be praised, I have a sword with which to 
revenge insult ! ” he cried. “ I have given my 
word not to use it on the battle-field against the 
Prussians, but here w'e stand as private adversa- 
ries, man to man, and I challenge you, sir — chal- 
lenge you to mortal combat. I will have satisfac- 
tion ! You have insulted me as a nobleman, as a 
Frenchman, and as a soldier. No consideration 
shall restrain me. I dare not use my sword- 
well, then, we will fight with pistols. As to time 
and place, expect me to-morrow, at eight o’clock, 

Jn the Thiergarden.” 

“ I accept the conditions, and I will await you 
with your seconds,” said Baron Marshal. 

“ If the baron has not chosen his seconds,” 
laid a soft voice behind him, “ I beg to offer my 
services.” 


AND HIS FAMILY. 167 

Baron Marshal turned, and saw an officer in 
the Austrian uniform. 

“ Count Ranuzi,” cried Belleville, astonished . 
“how, monsieur! you offer yourself as second to 
my adversary ? I had thought to ask this service 
of you.” 

“ I suspected so,” said Ranuzi, with his accus- 
tomed calm and quiet manner, “ therefore I anti- 
cipated you. The right is certainly on the side of 
Baron Marshal, and in offering myself as his sec- 
ond, I do so in the name of all the Austrian offi- 
cers who are present. They have all seen the 
events of this evening with painful indignation. 
Without doubt the world will soon be acquainted 
with them ; we wish to make an open, public dem- 
onstration that we wholly disapprove the con- 
duct of the French officers. The nutshells thrown 
behind the fauteuil of the queen have made us 
your adversaries. Count Belleville.” 

“ That is not the occasion of this duel, but the 
affront offered me by Baron Marshal,” cried Belle- 
ville. “ This being the case, will you still be the 
second of my opponent ? ” 

“ I was compelled to insult you,” said Baron 
Marshal, “ because you would have given me no 
satisfaction for the nutshells thrown behind the 
fauteuil of the queen ; but be assured that I do 
not fight with you in order that you may wash 
out my offence with my blood, but wholly and 
alone that your blood may wash away the nut- 
shells from the feet of the queen.” 

Baron Marshal then turned to Ranuzi. “ I ac- 
cept your offer, sir, and rejoice to make the ac- 
quaintance of a true nobleman. Have the good- 
ness to meet the seconds of Count Belleville, and 
make all necessary arrangements. I will call for 
you early in the morning. I only say further that 
it is useless to make any attempts at recon- 
ciliation — I shall not listen to them. Prussia and 
France are at war. My great king has made no 
peace — I also will not hear of it. The nutshells 
lie behind the fauteuil of the queen, and only the 
blood of Count Belleville can wash them away.” 

He bowed to Ranuzi, and joined bis daughter^ 
who, pale and trembling, awaited him in the next 
room. 

“ Oh, father,” said she, with tears gushing from 
her eyes,, “ your life is in danger — you meet death 
on my account ! ” 

“ No, thank God, my child, your name will not 
be mixed up in this affair. No one can say that 
the mortified father revenged an insult offered to 
his daughter. I fight this duel not for you, but 
because of the nutshells behind the fauteuil of the 
queen.” 


168 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE DUEL AND JTS CONSEQUENCES. 

Early in the morning two horsemen dashed 
down the Linden. Their loud conversation, their 
f ert and noisy laughter, aroused the curiosity of 
the porters who stood yawning in the house-doors, 
and the maids opened the windows and gazed cu- 
riously at the two gallant French officers who 
were taking such an early ride to the Thiergarden, 
When the girls were young and pretty, Belleville 
threw them a kiss as he passed by, and com- 
manded them to give it with his tenderest greet- 
ing to their fair mistresses. 

“ Happily,” said his companion, “ these good 
Berliners do not understand our speech sufficiently 
to inform their mistresses of this last insolence of 
Count Belleville.” 

“ They do not, but their mistresses do, and I 
cannot think that they are still sleeping. No, I 
am convinced they have risen early, and are now 
standing behind their maids, and watching us go 
by. In this street dwell those who call themselves 
society ; they were at the castle yesterday, and 
know of this duel. I think our good marquise 
will one day reward me richly for this duel, when 
I tell her that I stood behind the queen and cracked 
nuts like a gamin in Paris, and that I was shot at 
because of the nutshells. She will laugh tears — 
tears which I will strive to convert into diamonds 
for myself.” 

“You feel assured that you will return un- 
harmed from this duel ? ” 

“Yes, I cannot doubt it. I always won the 
prize at our pistol-shooting in Paris, and then, this 
stupid Dutchman is, without doubt, horrified at 
the thought of shooting at a man, and not at a 
mark. No, vraiment^ I do not doubt but I shall 
be victorious, and I rejoice m anticipation of that 
dejeuner dinatoire with which my friends will cel- 
ebrate it.” 

“ But,” said his second, “ let us for a moment 
suppose that you are not victorious ; one must 
ever be prepared in this poor world, ruled by acci- 
dent, for the worst that can befall. In case you 
fall, have you no last commissions to give me ? ” 

Count^Belleville stopped his horse as they were 
in the act of entering the garden. 

You positively insist on burying me ? Well, 
then, I will make my last will. In case I fall go 
instantly to my quarters, open my writing-desk, 
wid press upon a small button you will see on the 
left side ; there you will find letters and papers ; 
tie them carefully, and send them in the usual 
way to Countess Bernis. As to my heritage, you 


know I have no gold ; I leave nothing but debts. 
My clothes you can give to my faithful servant, 
Fran9ois ; for the last year I have paid him no 
wages. Now my testament is made — no, stop, I 
had forgotten the most important item. Should the 
inconceivable, the unimaginable happen ? should 
this Dutch village-devil slay me, I make it the 
duty of the French officers here to revenge me on 
the haughty daughter of my adversary, and on all 
these dull and prudish beauties. They must carry 
out what I intended yesterday. I have drawn a 
few sketches and added a few notes ; make as 
many copies as are required, and paste them on the 
designated places. If I fall, this must be done 
the following night, that my wandering soul may 
find repose in the sweet consciousness of revenge. 
If my enemy’s ball strikes me, hasten forward, 
and, before any one dares lay his hand upon me, 
take from my breast-pocket a paper, which you 
will find there, and conceal it ; it is the drawing, 
and it is my legacy to my comrades. Swear to me 
to do as I have said.” 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ And now, mon ami^ let us forget this stupid 
thought of death, and look life saucily and merrily 
in the face. Life will not have the courage to break 
with a brave son of la belle France^ 

Belleville drew his bridle suddenly, and sprang 
through the gate into the garden ; turning to the 
right, they rode for some time under the shadow 
of the trees, then through a side allee^ which led 
to an open place surrounded by lofty oaks. At this 
moment he heard the roll of an open carriage, 
and turning, he saluted gayly the two gentlemen 
who were seated in it ; he checked his horse sud- 
denly in order to ride by their side, and provoking 
the beautiful and noble beast by the rude use of 
his spurs, he forced it into many difficult and 
artistic evolutions. Arrived at the place of ren- 
dezvous, he sprang lightly from the saddle and 
fastened his horse to a tree, then drew near Baron 
Marshal, who, with Ranuzi, was just descending 
frm the carriage. 

“ No man could be more prudent than yourself, 
sir,” said he, laughing, “to come to a rendezvous 
in a carriage ; truly, that is a wise and, I think on 
this occasion, well-grounded precaution.” 

“ A forethought which I have exercised on your 
account,” said the baron, gravely. “ You, sir, 
will require a carriage, and knowing you, as a 
stranger, had no carriage in Berlin, I brought 
mine. It shall be at your service.” 

“ Vraiment / you are too good ! I hope, how- 
ever, not to make use of your offer.” 

Now, according to custom, Ranuzi drew neai 
the baron to make a last attempt at reconciliation. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


169 


He answered sternly : “ You know that I am not 
to blame, and therefore will take no step in this 
matter. I suppose, Count Belleville is as little 
disposed as myself to make apologies.” 

“ I intend to prove to you, sir baron, that I am 
a noljleraan and a brave one ; and as to the nuts 
which I cracked behind the queen, my only regret 

is, that they, like every thing else in your detested 
Berlin, were hollow'.” 

“ No, sir, they were not at all hollow,” said 
Baron Marshal, drawing up the cock of his pis- 
tol ; “ in one of those nuts I saw a death-worm, 
which will soon bore into your flesh.” 

He bowed to Belleville and took the place 
pointed out by his second. The second of Belle- 
ville then drew near, and led him to the outermost 
pqint of the line. 

The Frenchman laughed aloud. “ How,” said 
he, “ you will take me to the end of the world to 
secure me from the ball of my enemy ? ” 

“ Sir,” said the grave and solemn voice of the 
baron, “ you will still be too near me.” 

“ Well, sir baron, I give you precedence,” said 
Belleville, laughing, “ though, I believe, I have the 
right ; but age must have the precedence — fire, 
sir.” 

“ No, young man,” said Marshal, sadly ; “ I 
will grant you one more glance at the glad sun 
and the fresh, green earth ; you shall fire first, 
and I council you to lay aside your levity ; let 
your hand be firm and your aim steady ; if you 
fail, you are lost. I am a good shot, and I am 
without mercy.” 

There was something so convincing, so gloomy 
in his tone, that Belleville was involuntary affected | 
by it. For the first time his brow was clouded, 
and a slight pallor took possession of his cheek ; 
but he forced back this prophetic shudder quick- 
ly, and raised his pistol with a firm hand. 

Far aw'ay, in the still park, sounded the echo 
of his shot ; but opposite to him stood his adver- 
sary, firm and calm as before, with his eye fixed 
steadily upon him. 

Belleville threw his pistol to the- ground, and 
drawing his gold snuff-box from his vest-pocket 
with his small white hands, adorned with cufis of 
lace, he played carelessly upon the lid ; then opened 

it, and slowly and gracefully took a pinch of snuff, 
saying, coolly, “ I await your ball.” 

Marshal raised his pistol and aimed directly at 
the head of his enemy, who looked him firmly in 
the eye. The appearance of this youthful, fresh, 
and brave face softened, against his will, the noble 
and magnanimous soul of this good man. He let 
his arm fall. “ Sir,” said he, “ you are so young, 
perhaps your life may improve. I will not kill 


you. But 3 'ou need for this life a gi'eal, impressive 
lesson and a lasting warning. I will therefore 
shoot you through the right leg, just above the 
knee.” * He raised the pistol quickly, and 
fired. As the smoke was lifted, Belleville was 
seen lying bleeding on the ground. The shot had 
gone right through the knee and broken the knee- 
pan. 

As his second bowed over him, Belleville whis- 
pered, with broken eyes and trembling lips : “My 
legacy ! do not forget my legacy ! I believe I 
shall die ; this pain is horrible.” 

The Frenchman took the paper from his pocket 
and concealed it. 

“ I will be avenged,” said Bell6ville, with a con- 
vulsive Smile, then sank into unconsciousness. 

Belleville was placed in the carriage of Baron 
Marshal and carried to the city. Baron Marshal 
went immediately to the commandant of Berlin, 
gave notice of what had taken place, and declared 
himself under arrest. 

The commandant took his hand kindly. “ The 
laws forbid duelling, and I must consider you un- 
der arrest until I receive further orders. That is 
to say, house-arrest ; you must give me your word 
not to leave your house. I will send a courier 
immediately to the king. I was in the castle last 
night, and witness to all the circumstances which 
led to this duel, witnessed the conduct of these 
Frenchmen, and in youi place I would have acted 
just as you have done.” 

The French officers fulfilled the vow they had 
made to their wounded comrade ; they had prom- 
ised to revenge him on Fraulein Marshal and the 
other ladies of the court. 

The morning after the duel, on the comers of 
all the principal streets, placards were pasted, 
which were soon surrounded by crowds of men, 
exhibiting astonishment and indignation. These 
placards contained a register of all the young and 
beahtiful women of the court and city ; to these 
names were added a frivolous and voluptuous per- 
sonal description of every lady, and to this the 
name of the French officer which each was sup- 
posed to favor, f 

An outcry of scorn and rage was heard through- 
out Berlin ; every one was excited at the boixnd- 
less shamelessness of the French officers, and on 
this occasion the mass of the people took the 
part of the rich and the distinguished, whom gen- 
erally they envied and despised. They felt them, 
selves aggrieved by the contempt and ridicule 
which these Frenchmen had cast upon the daugb- 


* The words of Baron Marshal — See Thi^bault. 
t Thi6bault, p. 90. 


170 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


ters of Prussians, and no police force was neces- 
sary to tear these placards from the walls ; they 
were torn off and trampled under foot, or torn 
into a thousand pieces and scattered to the winds. 
If a F'mchman dared to show himself on the 
street, he was received with curses and threats, 
and the police were obliged to forbid them to ap- 
pear in any public place, as they feared they 
would not be able to protect them from the fierce 
indignation of the people. The doors of all the 
prominent houses, in which heretofore they had 
received so much attention, were now closed 
against them. The commandant of Berlin had 
sent a detailed account of the conduct of the 
French officers to the king, and the answer had 
been received. 

Eight days after the placards had been pasted 
up by the Frenchmen, exactly upon the same 
places new placards were to be found, around 
which the people were again assembled ; on every 
face was seen a happy smile, from every lip was 
heard expressions of harmony and approbation. 
This was a greeting of the king not only to his 
Berliners, but to Prussia and to the world ; he 
was now “ the Great Frederick,” and all Europe 
listened when he spake. Frederick’s greeting 
read thus : 

“ It is known to all Europe that I have pro- 
vided every possible comfort to all officers who 
are prisoners of war. Swedes, Frenchmen, Rus- 
sians, Austrians I have allowed to pass the time 
of their captivity at my capital. Many among 
them have taken advantage of the confidence 
reposed in them and carried on a forbidden cor- 
respondence ; they have also, by unmannerly and 
presumptuous conduct, greatly abused the priv- 
ileges allowed them ; I therefore feel myself con- 
strained to send them to Spandau, which city 
must not be confounded with the fortress of the 
same name at Spandau ; they will be no more re- 
stricted than in Berlin, but they will be more 
closely watched. 

“For this decision I cannot be blamed. The 
law of nations and the example of my allied 
enemies justify me fully. The Austrians have 
not allowed any of my officers who have fallen 
into their hands to go to Vienna. The Russians 
have sent their captives to Kasan. My enemies 
lose no opportunity to ^ve a false aspect to my 
acts ; I have, therefore, thought it wise to make 
known the causes which lead me to change my 
policy with regard to the prisoners of war. 

“ Frederick.” 

Two of the officers, with whom we are ac- 
quainted, were not included in this sentence of 
banishment. 


One was Count Belleville. On the day that his 
comrades, deprived of their swords, left Berlin, 
his corpse was carried through the outer gate. 
The shot of Baron Marshal made an amputation 
necessary, and death was the consequence. While 
his friends, whose condemnation he had brought 
about, marched sadly to Spandau, his body wag 
laid in the “ Friedhof.” To the corpse had been 
granted a favor denied to the living — his sword 
was allowed to deck his coffin. 

The Austrian officer, Ranuzi, because of his 
wise and prudent conduct and the powerful sup>- 
port he gave to Baron Marshal, was permitted to 
remain in Berlin. Ranuzi received this permis- 
sion with triumphant joy. As he looked from his 
window at the prisoners marching toward Span- 
dau, he said with a proud smile — “ It is written, 
‘Be wise as a serpent.’ These fools have not 
regarded the words of Holy Writ, and therefore 
they are punished, while I shall be rewarded. 
Yes, my work will succeed ! God gives me a 
visible blessing. Patience, then, patience ! A 
day will come when I will take vengeance on this 
haughty enemy of the Church. On that day the 
colors of the apostolic majesty of Austria shall 
be planted on the fortress of Magdeburg ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE FIVE COURIERS. 

It was the morning of the thirteenth of August 
The streets of Berlin were quiet and empty. 
Here and there might be seen a workman with 
his axe upon his shoulder, or a tradesman step- 
ping slowly to his comptoir. The upper circle of 
Berlin still slumbered and refreshed itself after 
the emotions and excitements of yesterday. 

Yesterday had been a day of rejoicing; it had 
brought the news of the great and glorious victory 
which the crown prince, Ferdinand of Brunswick, 
had gained at Minden, over the French army 
under Broglie and Contades. 

The crown prince had ever remembered that 
great moment in the beginning of the war, when 
his mother took leave of him in the presence 
of the Brunswick regiments. Embracing him 
for the last time, she said : “ I forbid you to 
appear before me till you have performed deeds 
of valor worthy of your birth and your allies ! 

Her son, the worthy nephew of Frederick the 
Great had now bought the right to appear before 
his mother. 

♦ Bodman. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AN’D HIS FAMILY, 


By the victories of Gotsfeld and Minden he had 
\ now wiped out the defeat at Bergen, and the 
i laurels which Brissac had won there were now 
withered and dead. 

Berlin had just r-eceived this joyful news. After 
go much sorrow, so much humiliation and disap- 
pointment, she might now indulge herself in a 
day of festal joy, and, by public declarations and 
testimonials, make known to the world how dear 
, to her heart was this victory of her king and his 
|l generals, and how deep and warm was the sym- 
pathy she felt. 

All work was set aside in honor of this great 
celebration — ^the people were spread abroad in 
the meadows and woods, shouting and rejoicing, 
playing and dancing; the rich and the distin- 
guished joined them without ceremony, to prove 
to the world that in such great moments, all dif- 
ferences of rank were forgotten — that they were 
all members of one body — united in joy and in 
sorrow by an electric chain. 

3o they slumbered on; the streets were still 
empty, the windows still closed. 

But see ! There comes a horseman through the 
Frankfort gate, dusty and breathless ; his glowing 
face was radiant with joy ! As he dashed through 
the streets he waved a white handkerchief high 
in the air, and with a loud and powerful voice, 
cried out, “ Victory ! victory ! ” 

This one word had a magic influence. The 
windows flew up, the doors were dashed open, 
and shouting and screaming crowds of men rushed 
after the horseman. At a corner they surrounded 
his horse and compelled him to stop. “ Who is 
victorious ? ” cried they tumultously. 

“ The king — the great Frederick ! He has 
whipped the Russians at Kunersdorf !” 

A cry of rapture burst from every lip. “ The 
king is victorious ! he has defeated the Russians ! ” 

Onward flew the courier to the palace; after 
him streamed the mad people. “The days of 
mourning are over — the blood of our sons has 
not been shed in vain, they are the honored 
dead — their death brought victory to the father- 
land ; they have drenched the .soil with the blood 
of our barbarous enemies. We whipped the 
French at Minden, the Russians at Kunersdorf, 
and now we have defeated the Austrians and won 
back the trophies of their victory at Hochkirch !” 

The people surrounded the castle shouting and 
triumphing. The courier had entered to give to 
the queen the joyful news. Soon the royal mes- 
sengers were flying into every corner of the city 
to summon the ministers and officers of state to 
the castle. On foot, on horseback, in carriages, 
they hastened on, and the people received them 


171 

with joyful shouts. “The king .s victorious; 
the Russians are defeated ! ” 

And now a door opened on a balcony, and 
Minister Herzberg stepped out. He waved his 
hat joyfully high in the air. The people re- 
turned this greeting with a roar like an exulting 
lion. He waved his hand, and the lion ceased U 
roar — there was death-like silence. He then told 
them that the king had offered battle to the Rus- 
sians, yesterday, not far from Frankfort. The 
Russian army was greatly superior in numbers ; 
they received the Prussians with a fearful, deadly 
fire ! Unrestrainable, regardless of cannon-balls, 
or of death, the Prussians rushed on, stormed all 
the strongholds, and drove the Russian militia 
with fearful slaughter back to the graveyard of 
Kunersdorf. At five o’clock the king sent off 
the courier and the victory was assured. 

“ The victory was assured !” reechoed the mighty 
voice of the people. With warm and kindly eye* 
they looked upon each other. Proud, glad, happy, 
men who did not know each other, who had never 
met, now felt that they were brothers, the sous 
of one fatherland, and they clasped hands, and 
shouted their congratulations. 

Suddenly, at the end of the street, another 
horseman appeared. He drew nearer and nearer. 
It is a second courier, a second message of our 
king to his family and his Berliners. 

The people looked at him distrustfully, anx- 
iously. What means this second co rier ? What 
news does he bring ? 

His countenance gay, his brow clear, with a 
flashing smile he greets the people. He brings 
news of victory — complete, assured victory. 

Like the first courier, be dashed on to the 
castle, to give his dispatches to the queen and the 
ministers. The people were drunk with joy. The 
equipages of the nobles rolled by. Every one 
whose rank gave him the privilege wished to offer 
his personal congratulations to the queen. 

And now in the Konigstrasse was seen a vener- 
able procession. The magistrates of Berlin — in 
front the burgomasters with their long periwigs 
and golden chains, behind them the worthy city 
council — all hastened to the castle to offer con- 
gratulations m the name of the city. 

The crowd drew back respectfully before the 
worthy city fathers, and opened a path for them, 
then fixed their eyes again upon the balcony where 
Minister Herzberg again appeared, and called for 
silence. 

He will give us the news of the second courier. 
The victory is absolute. The Russians completely 
defeated. They had retreated to Kunersdorf. In 
this village they proposed to defend themselves 


112 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


But the Prussians were unceasingly pressing upon 
them. Seven redoubts, Kirchhof, Spitzberg, and 
one hundred and eighty-six cannon had been 
taken. The enemy had suffered a monstrous loss, 
and was in the greatest confusion. The fate of the 
day seemed conclusive. This was owing to the 
heroic courage of the army, whom neither the 
blazing heat of the sun nor the unexampled 
slaughter could for a moment restrain. At six 
o’clock, when the king sent off* this second courier, 
the enemy had retreated behind his last intrench- 
ments, and taken refuge at Gudenberg.* 

A loud hurrah broke from the people as Herz- 
berg finished and left the balcony. Now there 
was no room for doubt. The enemy was over- 
whelmed and had fled to his last intrenchment. 
Would the king leave him unmolested, and w'ould 
he not still drive the hated en§my further ? 

While groups of men were assembled here and 
there, discussing these weighty questions, and 
others, intoxicated, drunk with joy at this great 
victory over their hereditary enemy, were making 
eloquent addresses to the people, a third courier 
appeared in sight. 

Breathless wdth expectation and anxiety, thev 
would not give him time to reach the castle. 
They must — ^they would know the news he brings. 
There should be no delay, no temporizing, no mys- 
teries. The people.were one great family. They 
awaited the message of their fatiia: They de- 
manded news of their distant sons and brothers. 

The third courier brings renewed assurances. 
The Russians are routed. The king will give 
them no rest. He will drive them from their last 
stronghold. With his whole ai*my, with cavalry and 
militia, with all his cannon, he was in the act of 
storming Gudenberg. This is the message of the 
third courier. 

The people are proud and happy. No one thinks 
of going home. In fact, they have no home but 
the streets. Every house would be too .small for 
this great family which feels a thirst to express its 
joy and its rapture to each other. And then it 
was possible the king might send another courier. 
Who could go home till they knew that the Rus- 
sians were driven from their last stronghold, that 
Gudenberg was drenched in Russian blood? 

No one doubted that this news would come— ^ 
must come. Not the slightest fear, the least doubt 
troubled the proud, pure joy of this hour. The 
victor y was achieved, but it was still charming to 
hear it confirmed ; to receive these heavenly mes- 
sages. Every open space was filled with men. 
Each one would see and hear for himself. No 


man thought himself too distinguished, loo sick, 
too weak, to stand for hours in the burning sun, 
carried about involuntarily by this fluctuating 
wave of humanity. Side by side with the laborer 
stood th'e elegant lady in her silk robes ; near the 
poor beggar in his ragged jacket were seen the 
high oflBcial and the wealthy banker in their ric^' 
dresses. 

More than fifty thousand men were now assem- 
bled and waiting — waiting for what they knew 
not — for news — for a courier who could give the 
details. It was not enough to know that the king 
had conquered ; they wished to know the extent 
and the significance of this victory ; and lastly, 
they would know the bloody offering which this 
victory had cost. 

The dinner-hour was passed. What cared this 
happy people for dinner ? They hungered for no 
earthly food; ihey thirsted for no earthly drink; 
they were satisfied with the joy of victory. The 
clock struck three. Yes, there comes a horseman, 
his bridle is hanging loose — he is covered with dust 
— but how, what means this ? His face is pale as 
death ; his eyes are misty ; he looks around shame- 
faced and confused. No happy news is written 
upon this dark and clouded brow. What means 
this messenger of death in the midst of joy, 
triumph, and proud consciousness of victory ? 
They seek to hold him, to question him, but he 
gives no answer. He spurs his wearied horse till 
he springs aloft, and the men in rash terror are 
crushed against each other ; but the horseman 
makes no sign. Silently he dashes on through 
the laughing, chatting crowd, but wherever ho 
passes, laughter and smiles disappear, and speech 
is silenced. 

It seemed as if the angel of death had touched 
his brow, and the happy ones shuddered at his 
untimely presence. Now he has reached the castle, 
he descends from his horse. In breathless silence, 
pallid, trembling they know not why, those who 
have seen this dumb messenger look up shudder- 
ingly to the balcony. At last, after long waiting, 
the Minister Herzberg appeared once more. 

But, 0 God ! what means this ? he is pale — his 
eyes are filled with tears. He opens his mouth to 
speak, but strength has left him. He holds on to 
the bars of the balcony, otherwise he would sink 
At last he collects himself. It is not necessary to 
ask for silence ; the silence of the grave is upon 
those torpid men. He speaks ! his voice is faint 
and weak, and trembles — oh, so fearfully ! only a 
few in the first rank can hear his words. 

“ The battle is lost ! The Russians have con- 
quered ! The Austrians came to their assistance ! 
The presence of the Austrians was not known 


* Frederick the Great. — ^Thi6baalt. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


1V3 


they had their tents in holes in the ground ! As 
our militia rushed upon the last intrenchment at 
Judcuberg and were only a hundred steps distant, 
Loudon suddenly advanced with his fresh troops, 
against the worn-out and exhausted victors. He 
received the Prussians with so murderous a fire, 
j that their ranks faltered, wavered, and, at last, 

I b7oke loose in wild flight, pursued furiously by 
the raging enemy. The fortimes of the day had 
' tuvned ; we lost the battle. But all is not lost. 

I Tlic king lives ! he is slightly wounded ; three 
hor^es were shot under him. He lives, and so 
long as he lives, there is hope. In the far dis- 
tance, in the midst of the terrible disasters which 
have befallen himself and his army, he thinks of 
his Berliners. He sends you a father’s greeting, 
I and exliorts every one of you to save his posses- 
I sions, as far as possible. Those who do not feel 
* safe in Berlin, and who fear the approaching en- 
j - ray, the king counsels to withdraw, if possible, 
r sv’ch their money, to Magdeburg, where the royal 
“ family will take refuge this evening.” 

The minister was silent, and the people who had 
listened, dumb with horror, now broke out in wild 
cries of anguish and despair. Terror was written 
in every face ; tears gushed from every eye. 
Cries of unspeakable agony burst from those lips, 
which, a few moments before, were eloquent with 
hope and gladness. 

As if it were impossible to believe in these mis- 
fortunes without further confirmation, some men 
called loudly for the messenger, and the distant 
crowd, as if inspired with new hope, roared louder 
and louder: 

“ The courier ! the courier ! we wiU ourselves 
speak with the courier ! ” 

The demand was so threatening, so continuous, 
it must be complied with. Herzberg stepped upon 

I jithe balcony, and informed the crowd that the 
courier would at once descend to the public square, 
j A breathless silence succeeded ; every eye was 
fixed upon the castle-gate, through which the 
courier must come. When he appeared, the 
crowd rushed forward toward him in mad haste. 
Cries of woe and suffering were heard. The people, 
wild — ^mad with pain, beside themselves with de- 
spair, had no longer any mercy, any pity for each 
j other. They rushed upon the messenger of mis- 
\ fortune, without regarding those who, in the midst 
. of this wild tumult, were cast down, and trodden 
^ ander foot. 

\ The messenger began his sad story. He re- 
f peated all that the minister had said ; he told of 
the deadly strife, cf the bloody havoc, of the 
raging advance of the Austrians, and of the roar 
f of vengeance of the reassured Russians. He told 


how the cannon-balls of the enemy had stricken 
down whole ranks of Prussians ; that more than 
twenty thousand dead and wmunded Prussians lay 
upon the battle-field ; that all the cannon and all 
the colors had fallen into the hands of the enemy. 

The people received this news with tears, cries, 
and lamentations. The courier spoke also of the 
king. He, himself, had belonged to the body- 
guard of the king — ^had been ever near him. He 
had seen the king standing in the midst of the 
thickest shower of balls, when his two adjutants 
fell at his side. At last, a ball came and wounded 
the king’s horse — the Vogel — so fearfully, that the 
brave steed fell. Frederick mounted another 
horse, but remained upon the same spot ; a sec- 
ond ball wounded this horse, and the king quietly 
mounted that of Captain Gotzen. At this mo- 
ment, a bullet struck the king in the breast, but 
the golden etui which the king carried in his 
pocket, had turned it aside, and thus saved his 
life. In vain had the generals and adjutants en- 
treated him to leave this place, and think of his 
personal safety. His answer was — “We must 
seek, at this point, to win the battle. I must do 
my duty here with the rest ! ” * 

Many voices cried out — “Where is the king 
now ? ” 

The courier did not answer ; but the question 
was so fiercely, so stormily repeated, that he was 
compelled to go on. 

“ The king, in the midst of the confusion and 
horror of the flight, had called him, and com- 
manded him to gallop to Berlin, and bear the fatal 
news to Minister Herzberg. He had then gal- 
loped by him, exactly against the enemy, as if he 
wished their balls to strike him ; a little troop of 
his most faithful soldiers had followed 1 ” 

“ The king is lost ! the king is a prisoner — 
wounded — perhaps dead ! ” cried the terrified 
people. 

Suddenly, the mad tumult was interrupted by 
loud shouts of joy, which swelled and thundered 
like an avalanche from the other side of the square. 
A fifth courier had arrived, and brought the news 
of the complete defeat of the Russians, and a glo- 
rious Prussian victory. 

Now, one of those memorable, wondrous-grand 
scenes took place, which no earthly phantasy could 
contrive or prepare, to which only Providenofl 
could give form and color. As if driven by the 
storm-winds of every powerful earthly passion, 
this great sea of people fluctuated here and therei. 
At one point, thousands were weeping over the 
news which the unhappy messenger had brought 


♦ The king’s own words. — See Thi6bault o. 214. 


I7i 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Near by, thousands were huzzaing and shouting 
over the joyful intelligence brought by the fifth 
courier, while those who had been near enough to 
the fourth courier to understand his words, turned 
aside to give the sad news to those who were afar 
offi Coming at the same time from the other 
Bide, they were met by a mighty mass of men, who 
announced, with glad cries, the news of victory, 
brought by the fifth courier. Here you could see 
men, with their arms raised to heaven, thanking 
God for the hardly-won victory. A little farther 
on, pale, frightened creatures, motionless, bowed 
down, and grief-stricken. Here were women, with 
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, shouting over 
their hero king. There, the people wept and 
moaned ; their king had disappeared, was a pris- 
oner, or dead. As at the Tower of Babel, the 
people spoke in a thousand tdngues, and no one 
listened to another ; every one was lost — blinded 
by his own passionate hopes and fears. 

At last the two couriers were called upon to 
come face to face and decide these important ques- 
tions. Strong men lifted them upon their shoul- 
ders and brought them together ; a profound and 
fearful silence ensued, every man felt that he stood 
upon the eve of a mighty revelation ; fifty thou- 
sand men were, waiting breathlessly for news of 
happiness beyond compare, or of unspeakable woe. 
The conversation of the two horsemen standing 
upon the shoulders of their townsmen was quick 
and laconic. 

At what hour did the king send you off?” 
said the fourth courier to the fifth. 

At six. The king himself commissioned me.” 

Where stood our army at that time ? ” said 
the fourth courier. 

“ They stood before the hollow ground, and the 
Russians had withdrawn to the intrenchments of 
Zudenberg ; we had taken a hundred and twenty 
cannon, and many of our soldiers were wandering 
about the battle-field looking at the batteries they 
had taken.” * 

“ Yes,” said the fourth courier, sadly, “ that was 
at six, but at seven we were in full flight. Loudon 
had risen from the ground, and the frightened, 
conquered Russians had recovered themselves. 
You left at six, I at eight; I have ridden more 
rapidly than you. Unhappily, I am right, the 
battle is lost ! ” 

“ The battle is lost ! ” howled the people ; “ the 
king is also lost ! Woe ! woe ! ” 

At this moment the royal equipages were seen 
making their way slowly through the crowd, and 
the advance guard were praying the people to 


open a way for the travelling carriages to reach 
the castle. 

These words excited new alarm. “ We are lost ! 
Let us fly, let us fly ! The court, the queen, and 
the princesses flee — let us save ourselves ! The 
Russians will come to Berlin — they will annihilate 
us. We are deserted and lost, lost ! — no one 
knows where our king is ! ” 

As if driven by madness, the crowds rushed 
against each other, like the sea when it divides, 
and in billowy streams pours itself out here and 
there ; and the cry of anguish which now rang 
out from the castle square, found its echo in every 
street and every house. 


CHAPTER XT. 

AFTER THE BATTLE. 

The cannon were silenced, the discharges of 
musketry had ceased. On the great plain of Kii- 
nersdorf, where, a few hours before, a bloody bat- 
tle had been raging, all was quiet. Could this be 
called repose ? How cruel was the tranquillity 
which rested now upon this fearful battle-field ! 

It was the peace of death — the stillness which 
the awful messenger of Heaved presses as a sign 
and seal of his love upon the pale lips of the dead. 
Happy they whose immortal spirits were quickly 
wafted away by the dread kiss — they no longer 
suffer. Woe to those who yet live, though they 
belong to death, ahd who lie surrounded by grin- 
ning corpses ! The cold bodies of their comrades 
are the pillows upon which they lay their bloody 
heads. The groans of the dying form the awful 
melody which awakes them to consciousness; and 
the starry sky of this clear, transparent summer 
night is the only eye of love which bows down to 
them and looks upon them in their agony. 

Happy those whom the murderous sword and the 
crushing ball carried off in an instant to the land 
of spirits ! Woe, woe to those lying upon the 
battle-field, living, breathing, conscious of their 
defeat and of their great agony ! Woe! woe! for 
they hear the sound of the tramping and neighing 
of horses — they come nearer and nearer. The 
moon throws the long, dark shadows of those ad- 
vancing horsemen over the battle-field. It is fear- 
ful to see their rash approach ; spurring on over 
thousands of pale corpses, not regarding the dy- 
ing, who breathe out their last piteous sighs under 
the hoofs of these wild horses. 

The Cossack has no pity ; he does not shuddei 
or draw back from this monstrous open grava 


♦ Bodoian. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


which has received thousands of men as if they 
were one great corpse. The Cossack has come to 
rob and to plunder ; he spares neither friend nor 
foe. He is the heir of the dead and of the dying, 
and he has come for his inheritance. If he sees 
% ring sparkling upon the hand of a grinning 
corpse, he springs from his horse and tears it off. 
If his greedy, cruel eye rests upon a rich uniform 
he seizes it, he tears it off from the bleeding, 
wounded body, no matter whether it is dead or 
still breathing and rattling. 

Look at that warrior who, groaning with an- 
guish, his limbs torn to pieces, bleeding from a 
thousand wounds, is lying in an open grave ; he is 
wounded to death ; he still holds his sword in his 
eft hand — his right arm has been torn off by a 
cannon-ball, a shot has crushed his legs, and his 
comrades have placed him in this grave that he 
might not be trampled upon by the horses’ hoofs ; 
they are forced to leave him in the hands of God 
and to the mercy of man. 

But the Cossack knows no mercy. That is a 
word he has never heard in his Russian home ; he 
lias no fear of God before his eyes — he fears the 
Czar and his captain, and above all other things, 
he fears the knout. He knows nothing of pity, for 
it has never been shown him — how then should he 
exercise it ? 

When the Cossack saw the Prussian officer in 
his gold-embroidered uniform, he sprang from his 
horse and threw the bridle over him ; a shrill 
whistle told the wild steed, the Cossack’s better 
half, that he must stand still. He sprang into the 
grave where the Prussian warrior, the German 
poet, was laid to rest. Yes, a great German poet 
lies there — a poet by the grace of God. All Ger- 
many knows him, “ their songster of the spring.” 
All Germany had read and been inspired by his 
lays. The Austrian and the Saxon considered the 
Prussian Major Ewald von Kleist their enemy, but 
they loved and admired the poet, Ewald von 
Kleist. The people are never enemies to poesy, 
and even politics are silent before her melodious 
voice. 

There he lies, the gallant warrior, the inspired, 
noble poet ; his broken eyes are turned to heaven ; 
his blue, cold lips are opened and wearily stam- 
mering a few disconnected words. Perhaps he 
thinks in this last hour of the last words of his 
last poem. Perhaps his stiffening lips murmured 
these words which his mangled hand had written 
just before the battle: 

“ Death for one’s fatherland Is ever honorable. 

How gladly will I die that noble death 
When my destiny calls 1” 

Yes, death might have been beautiful, but fate 


1 4 0 

is never propitious to German poets. It woidd 
have been noble and sweet to die in the wild tu- 
mult of battle, under the sound of trumpets, amid 
the shouts of victory; sweet thus, with a smile 
upon the lip to yield up the immortal spirit. 

Ewald von Kleist, the German poet, received 
his death-wound upon the field of battle, but he 
did not die there; he lives, he knows that the bat- 
tle is lost, that his blood has been shed in vain. 
The Cossack has come down into his grave — with 
greedy eyes he gazes at the rich booty. This 
bleeding, mangled body — this is to the Cossack 
not a man, it is only a uniform which is his ; with 
hands trembling with greed he tears it from the 
quivering, bleeding form. What to him is the 
death-rattle and the blood — even the bloody shirt 
excites the covetousness of the barbarian, and he 
tears it from the dying frame.* 

The Prussian warrior, the German poet, lay 
there naked, his own blood alone covered his 
wounded body, wrapped it in a purple mantle, 
worthy of the poet’s crown with which his coun- 
trymen had decked his brow. 

But Ewald von Kleist is no longer a poet or a 
hero — he is a poor, suffering, tortured child of 
earth ; he lies on the damp ground, he pleads for 
a few rags to cover his wounds, into which the 
muddy water of the hole in wdiich he lies is rush 
ing. 

And now fate seems favorable. A Russian offi- 
cer is riding by — ^he takes pity on the naked man 
with the gaping wounds ; he throws him a soldier’s 
old mantle, a piece of bread, and a half gulden. f 
The German poet receives the alms of the Russian 
thankfully — ^he covers himself with the cloak, he 
tries to eat the bread. 

But destiny is never propitious to German poets. 
The Cossacks swarm again upon the battle-field, 
and again they approach the groaning warrior in 
the open grave ; he has no longer a glittering uni- 
form, but the Cossack takes all ; the poor^ old 
mantle excites his greed — he tears it from the un- 
resisting soldier; he opens his hands and takes 
out the half gulden which Ew’ald von Kleist had 
received from the Russian hussar. 

Again he lies naked, again the muddy water 
forces into his wounds, and adds cruel torture to 
the agonies of death. So lies he till the next day, 
till the enemy takes pity upon him and carries 
Mm as a prisoner to Frankfort, j; 

♦ “History of the Seven Years’ War.” — Thl6bault, 868. 

t “ Seven Tears’ War,” 258. 

J Ewald von Kleist died a few days after this, on the 
24th of August The Kussians gave him an honorable 
burial ; and as there was no sword upon his coflln, Captain 
Bulow. chief of the Euseian dragoons, took his own from 


176 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Happy those who meet with sudden death. It 
is true all the living did not share the cruel fate 
of Ewald von Kleist, but all those thousands who 
were borne wounded and bleeding from the battle- 
field were conscious of their sufierings and their 
defeat. 

The little village of Octshef near the battle- 
field was a hospital. During the battle all the in- 
habitants had fled. The wounded had taken pos- 
session of the huts and the surgeons were Hasten- 
ing from house to house giving relief where it was 
possible. No one entered into those two little 
huts which lay at the other end of the village, 
somewhat separated from the others. And yet 
those huts contained two wounded men. They 
had been brought here during the battle — the sur- 
geon had examined their wounds and gone out 
silently, never to return. Groaning from time to 
time, these two wounded men lay upon the straw, 
their eyes fixed upon the door, longing for the 
surgeon to bring them help, or at least allevi- 
ation. 

And now the door was indeed opened, and an 
oflScer entered. Was it the obscurity of twilight, 
or had blo^d and pain blinded the eyes of the 
wounded men so that they could not recognize the 
stranger ? It was true his noble and generally 
cheerful face was now grave and stern, his cheeks 
were ashy pale, and his great, flashing eyes were 
dim ; but there was still something inexpressibly 
majestic and commanding in his appearance — 
though defeated and cast down, he was still a he- 
ro, a king — Frederick the Great ! 

Frederick had come to take up his quarters in 
this lonely hut, to be alone in his great grief ; but 
when he saw the two wounded men, his expres- 
sion changed to one of earnest sympathy. With 
hasty steps he drew near to the two officers, 
bowed over and questioned them kindly. They 
recognized his voice — that voice which had so 
often inspired them to bold deeds in the wild whirl 
of battle, but whose tones were now mild and 
sympathetic. 

“The king!” cried both in joyful surprise, and 
forgetting their wounds and helplessness, they 
strove to rise, but sank back with hollow groans, 
with the blood streaming anew from their wounds. 

“Poor children,” said Frederick, “you are 
badly wounded.” 

“ Yes,” groaned Lieutenant von Grabow, “ bad- 
ly wounded, but that is of small consequence, if, 
your majesty, we only knew that we had gained 
the day. We had taken two redoubts, and were 

his side and placed it upon the bier, saying, “ So worthy' 
an officer shall not be buried without every mark of hon- 
W.”— Archenholtz, 262. 


Storming the third, when this misfortune befell us. 
Tell us, your majesty, is it not true ? Is not the 
victory ours ? ” 

A dark shadow passed over the face of the 
king, but soon disappeared. 

“You must now think only of yourselves. You 
have proved that you are brave — the rest is acci- 
dent or fate. Do not despond, all will be well 
Have your wounds been dressed ? Have you been 
fed ? ” 

“ Ah, sire, no devil will dress our wounds,” 
groaned Lieutenant von Hubenfall. 

“ How,” cried the king, “ have they left you : 
here without care and assistance ? ” i ; 

“Yes, sire, there is no earthly hope for us.’|g-| ^ ' 

The king was about to answer, when severalL : 
people, bearing hand-barrows, accompanied by a« i 
surgeon, entered. 

“ What do you wish ? ” said the king, angrily, i 

“ Sire,” answered the surgeon, “ we will remove • 
the wounded, as your majesty will make your ^ 
night-quarters here.” 

The king threw a scornful glance upon them. 

“ And you suppose that I will allow this ? The I 
wounded men remain here. I will seek shelter I 
elsewhere. But, above all things, examine the fi 
wounds of these two officers at once, and dre^^ 
them.” j 

The surgeon advanced, and examined the^>| 
carefully, then drew near the king. j 

“Your majesty,” said he, shrugging his shoulders, (I 
“ it would be all in vain. A cannon-ball has torn r 
off the right arm of one of these men, and he 
must die of gangrene. The other has a cartridge- E 
load of iron in his face and in his body. It is I 
impossible to bind up these wounds.” 

The king did not answer him. He stepped [ 
hastily to the straw-bed, and took both the 
wounded men by the hand. Then, turning to ; 
the surgeon, he said — 

“ Look, now, these two men are young and , 
powerful — they have no fever. With such young < 
blood and fresh hearts Nature often does won- i 
dcrs. Dress them, and bind up their wounds, f 
and, above all things, see that they have nour- 
ishment — they have need of it. 

“ Ah, yes, your majesty ; we have been hungry 
and thirsty a long time,” said Grabow. 

The king smiled. “ See, now, you think they 
are lost, and yet they have healthy stomachs ; so 
long as a man is hungry he will not die.” 

The surgeon opened his case of instruments 
and commenced to dress the wounds. The king 
watched him for a long time, then stooped down 
and said, tenderly, “ Children, do not despair ; I 
will learn how it goes with you, and if you are no 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Ill 


, .onger fit for service, I will take care of you. Be- 
k'lieve that I will not forget you.” He bowed 
kindly and left the room. His adjutants were 
awaiting him at the door of the tent.* 
jj.^,The king signed to them to follow him, and 
|l stepping rapidly through the village, he passed by 
11^3 huts from which loud cries of anguish and low 
murmurs were heard. 

“ Ah,” cried Frederick, “ Dante did not know 
all the horrors of hell, or he forgot to paint those 
I now suffer.” He hastened on — on — on, in the 
obscure twilight of the summer night, pursued by 
the sighs and groans of his dying and wounded 
soldiers ; a deep, immeasurable sadness lay upon 
his brow ; his lips were trembling ; cold perspira- 
tion stood upon his forehead ; his eyes wandered 
(over the battle-field, then were raised to heaven 
with a questioning and reproachful expression. 

; Already the village lay far behind him ; but he 
1 hurried on, he had no aim, no object; he wished 
' only to escape this hell, this cry of despair and 
woe from the condemned. An adjutant dared at 
last to step forward and awake him from his sad 
mood. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ the Cossacks are swarming 
in every direction, and if your majesty goes on, the 
most fearful results may be anticipated. The 
Cossacks shoot at every man who wears a good 
coat.” 

The king shook his head sadly. “ There is no 
ball for me,” said he in a low tone; “I have in 
vain called upon death. I have prayed in mercy 
for a ball; it came, but it only grazed my breast. 
No, no — there is no ball for me ! ” He advanced, 
and the adjutant dared once more to interrupt 
him. 

- “ Sire,” said he, “ will not your majesty seek 

I night-quarters ? ” 

Frederick raised his head, and was in the act 
of answering hastily, then said ; “ Yes, I need 
night-quarters.” He looked around and saw an 
" empty peasant’s house by the wayside, drew near 
j and entered silently. 

I t - 

I OHAPTEE XII. 

f 

I A HEROIC SOUL. 

“I WILL pass the night here,” said he, “the 
I place appears deserted ; we will disturb no one.” 

I ' " ~ ~ 

i * The klug’s own wolds. The whole scene is historical. 
These two officers, whom the king saved in this way from 
death, recovered I’apidly. After they were completely ro- 
•toi ed, they again took part in the contest, and were again 


The king was right. The miserable old hut 
was empty. No one advanced to meet him as ho 
entered. In one corner of the room there was 
some dirty straw ; in the other a wooden table 
and stool — this was all. 

“ It suffices for me,” said the king, smiling. “ I 
will pass the night here. Have you my writing 
materials with you ? ” 

“ I sent Adjutant von Goltz for them, sire, as 1 
did not wish to leave you alone.” 

Goltz now entered with the king’s portfolio, and 
informed him that he had brought two grenadiers 
to 'guard the house. 

“ Have I still grenadiers ? ” murmured the king, 
in a trembling voice. His head fell upon his 
breast, and he stood thus lost in deep thought for 
a while. “ Gentlemen,” said he, at length, “ in- 
spect the house. See if there is a more comfort- 
able room than this ; if not, I suppose we can man- 
age to sleep here. Send one of the guard for some 
soldiers, by whom I can forward my dispatches.” 

The adjutants bowed, and left the room. The 
king was alone. He could at last give way to his 
despair — ^his grief. 

“ All, all is lost ! ” murmured the king, and a 
voice within him answered : “ When all is lost, 
there is no escape but death ! It is unworthy to 
continue a life without fame, without glory. The 
grave alone is a resting-place for the broken- 
hearted, humiliated man ! ” 

The king listened attentively to this voice. He 
had borne with patience the sorrows and depriva- 
tions of the past years, but he could not survive 
the ruin of his country. His country was lost. 
There was no chance of saving it ; his army was 
gone. The victorious enemy had taken all the 
neighboring provinces. The Russians could now 
march undisturbed to Berlin. They would find no 
resistance, for the garrison there consisted of in- 
valids and cripples. 

Berlin was lost ! Prussia was lost ! The king 
was resolved to die, for he was a king without a 
crown, a hero without laurels. He wished to die, 
for he could not survive the destruction of his 
country. But first he must arrange his affairs, 
make his will, and bid adieu to his friends. The ^ 
king opened the door hastily, and desired that a 
light should be brought— it was no easy thing to 
procure in this dismal, deserted village. The ad- 
jutant succeeded at last, however, in getting a few 
small tallow candles, and placing them in old bot- 
tles, in the absence of candlesticks of any descrip- 

severely wounded at Kolberg. They served until peace 
was declared, and then retired on the invalid list, and, by 
the express order of the king, were most kindly cared 
for. — See Nicolai. 


178 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


lion, he carried them to the king. Frederick did 
not observe him ; he stood at the open window, 
gazing earnestly at the starry firmament. The 
bright light aroused him; he turned, and ap- 
proached the table. 

“ My last letters ! ” murmured he, sinking upon 
the wooden stod, and opening his portfolio. 

How his enemies would have rejoiced, could 
they have seen him in that wretched hovel ! He 
first wrote to General Fink, to whom he wished to 
leave the command of his army. He must fulfil 
the duties of state, before those of friendship. It 
was not a letter — rather an order to General Fink, 
and read as follows: 

“ General Fink will find this a weary and tedious 
commission. The army I leave is no longer in a 
condition to defend itself from the Russians. 
Haddeck will hasten to Berlin. Loudon also, I 
presume. If you intercept them, the Russians 
will be in your rear ; il’ you remain by the Oder, 
Haddeck will surround you. I nevertheless be- 
lieve, were Loudon to come to Berlin, you could 
attack and defeat him. This, were it possible, 
would give you time to arrange matters, and I can 
assure you, time is every thing, in such desperate 
circumstances as ours. Koper, my secretary, will 
give you the dispatches from Torgau and Dres- 
den. You must acquaint my brother, whom I 
make general-in-chief of the army, with all that 
passes. In the mean time, his orders must be 
obeyed. The army must swear by my nephew. 
This is the only advice I am able to give. Had I 
any resources, I would stand fast by you. 

“ Frederick.” * 

“ Yes, I would have stood by them,” murmured 
the king, as he folded and addressed his letter. 
“ I would have borne still longer this life of op- 
pression and privation ; but now, honor demands 
that I should die.” 

He took another sheet of paper. It was now 
no order or command, but a tender, loving, fare- 
well letter to his friend. General Finkenstein. 

“ This morning, at eleven o’clock, I attacked 
the enemy ; we drove them back to Gudenberg. 
All my men performed deeds of daring and bra- 
very, but, at the storming of Gudenberg, a terrific 
number of lives were lost. My army became 
separated. I reassembled them three times, but 
in vain. At last, they fled in wild disorder. I 
very nearly became a prisoner, and was obliged to 
leave the field to the enemy. My uniform was 
tom by cannon-balls, two horses were shot under- 
neath me, but death shunned me ; I seemed to 
bear a charmed life ; I could not die ! From an 

own words. 


army of forty-eight thousand men, there now re 
mains three thousand. The consequences of this 
battle will be more fearful than the battle itself 
It is a terrible misfortune, and I will not survive 
it. There is no one to whom I can look for 
help. I cannot survive my country’s ruin. Fare- 
well!” 

“ And now,” said the king, when he had sealed 
and directed his letter, “now I am ready; my 
worldly affairs are settled. I am at the end of my 
sufferings, and dare claim that last, deep rest 
granted by Nature to us all. I have worked enough, 
suffered enough ; and if, after a life of stormy dis- 
asters, I seek my grave, no one can say it was 
cowardly not to live — for all the weight of life 
rolled upon me, forced me to the ground, and the 
grave opened beneath my feet. I continued to 
hope, when overwhelmed with defeat at every 
point. Every morning brought new clouds, new 
sorrows. I bore it courageously, trusting that 
misfortune would soon weary, the storms blow 
over, and a clear, cloudless sky envelop me. I 
deceived myself greatly; my sorrows increased! 
And now, the worst has happened ; my country is 
lost ! Who dares say I should survive this loss ? 
To die at the proper time is also a duty. The 
Romans felt this, and acted upon it. I am a true 
scholar of the old masters, and wish to prove my- 
self worthy of them. When all is lost, the liberty 
to die should not be denied. The world has 
nothing more to do with me, and I laugh at her 
weak, unjust laws. Like Tiberius, will I live and 
die ! Farewell, then, thou false existence ; fare- 
well, weak man 1 Ah I there are so many fools-- 
so few men amongst you ; I have found so many 
faithless friends, so many traitors, so few honest 
men 1 In the hour of misfortune they all deserted 
me! But, no!” said he; “one remained true. 
D’Argens never deceived me, and I had almost 
forgotten to take leave of him. Well, death must 
wait for me, while I write to D’Argens ! ” 

A heavenly inspiration now beamed on his 
countenance ; his eyes shone like stars. The holy 
muse had descended to comfort the despairing 
hero, to whisper loving and precious words to him. 
Thus standing at death’s portals, Frederick wrote 
his most beautiful poem, called Ami le sorl 
en estjetey A great wail of woe burst from his 
soul. The sorrows, the grievances hid until now 
from all, he portrayed in touching, beautiful words 
to his absent friend. He pictured to him his suf- 
ferings, his hopes, his struggles, and finally, his 
determination to die. When all this had been 
painted in the most glowing colors, when his 
wounds were laid bare, he wrote a last and touch 
ing farewell to his friend: 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


179 


*' Adieu, D’Argens ! duns ce tableau, 

De mon trepas tii vois la cause ; 

Aa moins ne pense pas du n6ant du caveau, 

Que j ’aspire ^ I’apotb^ose. 

Tout ce que I’amitie par ces vers propose, 

C’est que tant qu'ici-bus le c61este flambeau ; 
Eclairera tes jours tandis que je repose, 

Et lorsque le prin temps paraissant de nouveau. 

De son sein abundant t'oflfre les fleurs ^closes, 
Chaque fois d’un bouquet de myrthes et de roses, 
Tu daignes purer mon combeau.” ♦ 

“ Ah ! ” murmured the king, as he folded and 
addressed his poetical letter, “ how lovely it must 
now be at Sans-Souci ! Well, well ! my grave shall 
be there, and D’Argens will cover it with flowers. 
And have I no other friends at Sans-Souci ? My 
good old hounds, my crippled soldiers! They 
cannot come to me, but I will go to them.” 

The king then arose, opened the door, and 
asked if a messenger was in readiness ; receiving 
an answer in the affirmative, he gave the three 
letters to the adjutant. “ And now my work is 
finished,” said he, “ now I can die.” He took 
from his breast-pocket a small casket of gold 
which he always carried with him, and which, in 
the late battle, had served him as a shield against 
the enemy’s balls. The lid had been hollowed in 
by a ball ; strange to say, this casket, which had 
saved his life, was now to cause his death. For 
within it there was a small vial containing three 
pills of the most deadly poison, which the king 
had kept with him since the beginning of the war. 
The king looked at the casket thoughtfully. 
‘‘ Death here fought against death ; and still how 
glorious it would have been to die upon the 
battle-field believing myself the victor I ” He held 
the vial up to the light and shook it ; and as the 
pills bounded up and down, he said, smiling sadly, 
“ Death is merry I It comes eagerly to invite me 
to the dance. Well, well, my gay cavalier, I am 
ready for the dance.” 

He opened the vial and emptied the pills into 
his hand. Then arose and approached the win- 
dow to see once more the sky with its glittering 
stars and its brightly-beaming moon, and the bat- 
tle-field upon which thousands of his subjects had 
tliis day found their death. Then raised the; hand 
with the pills. What was it that caused him to 
hesitate ? Why did his hand fall slowly down ? 
What were his eyes so intently gazing on ? 

The king was not gazing at the sky, the stars, 
or the moon j but far off into the distance, at the 
Austrian camp-fires. There were the conquerors, 
there was Soltikow and Loudon with their armies. 
The king had observed these fires before entering 
the hut, but their number had now increased, a 
sign that the enemy had not advanced, but was 
resting. How ? ^Vas it possible that the enemy, 
♦ See note, page 800, 


not taking advantage of their victory, was not fol- 
lowing the conquered troops, but giving them time 
to rally, to outmarch them, perhaps time to reach 
the Spree, perhaps Berlin ? 

“ If this is so,” said the king, answering hia 
own thoughts, “ if the enemy neglects to give me 
the finishing-blow, all is not lost. If there is a 
chance of salvation for my country, I must not 
die ; she needs me, and it is my duty to do all in 
my power to retrieve the past.” 

He looked again at the camp-fires, and a bright 
smile played about his lips. 

“ If those fires speak aright,” said he, “ my ene- 
mies are more generous — or more stupid — than I 
thought, and many advantages may still be de- 
rived from this lost battle. If so, I must return 
to my old motto that ‘ life is a duty.’ And so 
long as good, honorable work is to be done, man 
has no right to seek the lazy rest of the grave. 
I must ascertain at once if my suspicions are cor- 
rect. Death may wait awhile. As long as there 
is a necessity for living, I cannot die.” 

He returned the pills to the vial and hid 
the casket in its former resting-place. Then pass- 
ing hastily through the room, he opened the door. 
The two adjutants were sitting upon the wooden 
bench in front of the hut ; both were asleep. 
The grenadiers were pacing with ev.en LicaJ 
up and down before the house ; deep quiet pre- 
vailed. The king stood at the door looking in 
amazement at the glorious scene before him. He 
inhaled with delight the soft summer air ; never 
had it seemed to him so balmy, so full of strength- 
ening power, and he acknowledged that never had 
the stars, the moon, the sky looked as beautiful. 
With lively joy he felt the night- wind toying with 
his hair. The king would not tire of all this ; it 
seemed to him as if a friend, dead long since, 
mourned and bewailed, had suddenly appeared to 
him beaming with health, and as if he must open 
his arms and say, “ Welcome, thou returned one. 
Fate separated us ; but now, as we have met, we 
wdll never leave one another, but cling together 
through life and death, through good and evil re- 
port.” 

Life was the friend that appeared to Frederick, 
and he now felt his great love for it. Raising his 
eyes in a sort of ecstasy to the sky, he murmured, 
“ I swear not to seek death unless at the last ex- 
tremity, if, when made a prisoner, I cannot escape. 
I swear to live, to suffer, so long as I am free.” 

He had assumed the harness of life, and wsj 
determined to battle bravely with it. 


180 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

. THE TWO GRENADIERS. 

Smiling, and with elastic step, the king ad- 
vanced to meet the two gi’enadiers, who stood 
rooted to the spot as he approached them. 

“ Grenadiers,” said he, “ why are you not with 
your comrades ? ” 

“ Our comrades fled,” said one. 

“ It is dishonorable to fly,” said the other. 

The king was startled. These voices were fa- 
miliar, he had suiely heard them before. 

“ I ought to know you,” said he ; “ this is not 
the first time we have spoken together. What is 
your name, my son ? ” 

“ Fritz Kober is my name,” said the grenadier. 

“ And yours ? ” 

“ Charles Henry Buschman,” said the other. 

“You are not mistaken, sir king! we have met 
and spoken before, but it was on a better night 
than this.” 

“ Where was it?” said the king.- 

“ The night before the great, the glorious battle 
of Leuthen,” said Fritz Kober, gravely ; “ at that 
time, sir king, you sat at our tent-fire and ate 
dumplings with us. Charles Henry knows how to 
cook them so beautifully ! ” 

“ Ah ! I remember,” said the king ; “ you made 
me pay ray share of the costs.” 

“ And you did so, like a true king,” said Fritz 
Kobei’. “ Afterward you came back to our tent- 
fire, and Charles Henry Buschman told you fairy 
do that so beautifully as 
you slept refreshingly through- 

“ No, no, grerih^^.er,” said the king, “ I did not 
sleep, and I can tell you to-day all that Charles 
Henry related.’ 

“Well, what was it?” said Fritz Kober, with 
great delight. 

The king reflected a moment, and then said, in 
a soft voice : 

“ He told of a king who was so fondly loved by 
a beautiful fairy, that she changed herself into a 
sword when the king went to war and helped, 
him to defeat his enemies. Is that it, Fritz Ko- 
ber ? ” 

“ Nearly so, sir king ; I wish you had such a 
fiiiry at your side to-day.” 

“ Still, Fritz,” whispered Charles Henry Busch- 
man, “ our king does not need the help of a fairy ; 
our king can maintain his own cause, and God is 
with his sword.” 

“ Do you truly believe that, my son ? ” said the 
king, deeply moved. “ Have you still this great 


confidence in me ? Do you still believe that I can 
sustain myself and that God is with me ? ” 

“We have this confidence, and we will never 
lose it 1 ” cried Charles Henry, quickly. “ Our 
enemies over there have no Frederick to lead 
them on, no commander-in-chief to share with 
them hunger and thirst, and danger and fatigue; 
therefore they cannot love their leaders as we do 
ours.” 

“And then,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “ 1 
am always thinking that this war is like a battle 
of the cats and hounds. Sometimes it looks as if 
the little cats would get the better of the great 
bull-dogs ; they have sharp claws, and scratch the 
dogs in the face till they can neither see nor hear, 
and must for a while give way ; they go off, how- 
ever, give themselves a good shake, and open 
their eyes, and spring forward as great and strong 
and full of courage as ever ; they seize upon the 
poor cats in the nape of the neck and bite them 
deadly with their strong, powerful teeth. What 
care they if the cats do scratch in the mean 
while ? No, no, sir king, the cats cannot hold out 
to the end ; claws are neither so strong nor so 
lasting as teeth.” 

“ Yes,” said the king, laughing, “ but how do 
you know but our foes over there are the hounds 
and we are the little cats ? ” 

“ What ! ” cried Fritz Kober, amazed, “ we 
shall be the cats? No, no, sir king, we are the 
great hounds.” 

“ But how can you prove this ? ” 

“ How shall I prove it ? ” said Fritz Kober, 
somewhat embarrassed. After a short pause, he 
cried out, gayly, “ I have it — I will prove it^ 
Those over there are the cats because they are 
Russians and Austrians, and do not serve a king 
as we do; they have only two empresses, two 
women. Now, sir king, am I not right? Women 
and cats, are they not alike ? So those over 
there are the cats and we are the bull-dogs ! ” 

Frederick was highly amused. “ Take care,” 
said he, “ that ‘ those over there ’ do not hear you 
liken their empresses to cats.” 

“ And if they are empresses,” said Fritz Kober, 
dryly, “ they are still women, and women are 
cats.” 

The king looked over toward the camp-fires, 
which were boldly shining on the horizon. 

“ How far is it from here to those fires ? ” said 
he. 

“About an hour,” said Charles Henry, “not 
more.” 

“ One hour,” repeated the king, softly. “ Id 
one hour, then, I could know my fate ! Listen, 
children, which of you will go for me ? ” 


tales ; nobol^^an 
Charles Hen|jfy|^0,id 


out.” 





FREDERICK AND THE TWO GRENADIERS 








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FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


181 


Both exclaimed in the same moment, “ I will ! ” 

“ It is a fearful attempt,” said the king, ear- 
nestly ; “ the Cossacks are swarming in every di- 
rection, and if you escape them, you may be caught 
h: the camp and shot as spies.” 

“ I will take care that they shall not recognize 
me as an enemy,” said Charles Henry, quietly. 

“ I also,” said Fritz Kober, zealously. “ You 
stay, Charles Henry, we dare not both leave the 
king. You know that only this evening, while 
upon the watch, we swore that, even if the whole 
army of the enemy marched against us, we would 
not desert our king, but would stand at our post 
as long as there was a drop of blood in our veins 
or a breath in our bodies.” 

The king laid his hands upon the two soldiers 
and looked at them with much emotion. The 
moon, which stood great and full in the heavens, 
lighted up this curious group, and threw three long, 
dai’k shadows over the plain. 

“ And you have sworn that, my children ? ” said 
the king, after a long pause. “Ah, if all my men 
thought as you do, we would not have been de- 
feated this day.” 

“ Sir king, your soldiers all think as we do, but 
fate was against us. Just as I said, the cats out- 
numbered us to-day, but we will bite them bravely 
for it next time. And now tell me, sir king, what 
shall I do over there in the camp ? ” 

Before the king could answer, Charles Henry 
laid his hand upon his arm. 

“ Let me go,” said he, entreatingly ; “ Fritz Ko- 
ber is so daring, so undaunted, he is not cautious . 
they will certainly shoot him, and then you have 
lost the best soldier in your army.” 

“Your loss, I suppose, would not be felt; the 
king can do without you.” 

“Listen, children,” said the king, “it is best 
that you both go ; one can protect the other, and 
four ears are better than two.” 

“ The king is right, that is best — we will both 
go.” 

“ And leave the king alone and unguarded ? ” 
said Charles Henry, gravely. 

“ No,” said the king, pointing to the two sleep- 
ers, “ I have my two adjutants, and they will keep 
guard for me. Now, listen to what I have to say 
to you. Over there is the enemy, and it is most 
important for me to know what he is doing, and 
what he proposes to do. Go, then, and listen. 
Their generals have certainly taken up their quar- 
ters in the village. You must ascertain that posi- 
tively, and then draw near their quarters. You 
will return as quickly as possible, and inform me 
of all that you hear and see.” 

“ Is that all ? ” said Fritz Kober. 


“ That is all. Now be off, and if you do youi 
duty well, and return fresh and in good order, you 
shall both be made officers.” 

Fritz Kober laughed aloud. “ No, no, sir king, 
we know that old story already.” 

“ It is not necessary that you should promise us 
any thing, your majesty,” said Charles Henry; “ we 
do not go for a reward, but for. respect and love 
to our king.” 

“ But tell me, Fritz Kober, why you laughed so 
heartily ? ” said the king. 

“ Because this is not the first time that your 
majesty has promised to make us officers. Before 
the battle of Leuthen, you said if we were brave 
and performed valiant deeds, you would make us 
officers. Well, we were brave. Charles Henry 
took seven prisoners, and I took nine ; but we are 
not officers.” 

“ You shall be to-morrow,” said the kin". 
“Now, hasten off, and come back as quickly as 
possible.” 

“ We will leave our muskets here,” said Charles 
Henry ; “ we dare not visit our enemies in Prus- 
sian array.” 

They placed their arms at the house-door, and 
then clasping each other’s hands, and making a 
military salute, they hastened off 

The king looked after them till their slender 
forms were lost in the distance. 

“ With fifty thousand such soldiers I could con- 
quer the world,” murmured he ; “ they are of the 
true metal.” 

He turned, and stepping up to the two sleepers, 
touched them lightly on the shoulders. They 
sprang up alarmed when they recognized the 
king. 

“ You need not excuse yourselves,” said Fred- 
erick kindly, “ you have had a day of great fa- 
tigue, and are, of course, exhausted. Come into 
the house, the night air is dangerous ; we will 
sleep here together.” 

“ Where are the two grenadiers ? ” said Goltz. 

“I have sent them off on duty.” 

“ Then your majesty must allow us to remain 
on guard. I have slept well, and am entirely re- 
freshed.” 

“ I also,” said the second lieutenant. “ Will 
your majesty be pleased to sleep ? we will keep 
guard.” 

“Not so,” said the king, “the moon will watch 
over us all. Come in.” 

“ But it is impossible that your majesty should 
sleep thus, entirely unguarded. The first Cossack 
that dashes by could take aim at your majesty 
through the window.” 

Frederick shook his head gravely. “ The ball 


182 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


which will strike me wiU come from above,* and 
that you cannot intercept. No, it is better to 
have no watch before the door ; we will not draw 
the attention of troops passing by to this house* 
I think no one will suppose that this miserable 
and ruinous barrack, through which the wind 
howls, is the residence of a king. Come, then, 
messieurs.” He stepped into the hut, followed by 
the two adjutants, who dared no longer oppose 
him. “ Put out that light,” said the king, “ the 
moon will be our torch, and will glorify our bed 
of straw.” He drew his sword, and grasping it 
firmly in his right hand, he stretched himself upon 
the straw. “ There is room for both of you — lie 
down. Good-night, sirs.” 

Frederick slightly raised his three-cornered hat 
in greeting, and then laid it over his face as a pro- 
tection from the moonlight and the cold night air. 
The adjutants laid down silently at his feet, and 
soon no sound was heard in the room but the loud 
breathing of the three sleepers. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE RIGHT COUNSEL. 

Hand in hand the two grenadiers advanced di- 
rectly toward the battle-field. Before they could 
Approach the enemy’s camp they must borrow two 
Austrian uniforms from the dead upon the plain. 
It was not difficult, amongst so many dead bodies, 
to find two Austrian officers, and the two Prus- 
sian grenadiers went quickly to work to rob the 
dead and appropriate their garments. 

“I don’t know how it is,” said Charles Henry, 
shuddering, “ a cold chill thrills through me when 
I think of putting on a coat which I have just 
taken from a dead body. It seems to me the 
marble chillness of the corpse will insinuate itself 
into my whole body, and that I shall never be 
warm again.” 

Fritz Kober looked up with wide-open eyes ! 

“ You have such curious thoughts, Charles Henry, 
such as come to no other man ; but you are right, 
it is a frosty thing.” And now he had removed 
the uniform and was about to draw off his own 
iacket and assume the white coat of the Austrian. 

“ It is a great happiness,” said he, ‘‘ that we need 
not change our trousers, a little clearer or darker 
gray can make no difference in the night.” 

Charles Henry was in the act of drawing on 
the coat of the dead man, when Fritz Kober sud- 

* The king’s own words.— See Nicolai, p. 118. 1 


denly seized his arm and held him back. ‘Stop,” 
said he, “ you must do me a favor — ^this coat is 
too narrow, and it pinches me fearfully ; you are 
thinner than I am, and I think it will fit you 
exactly; take it and give me yours.” He jerked 
off the coat and handed it to his friend. 

“No, no, Fritz Kober,” said Charles Henry, iu 
a voice so soft and sweet, that Fritz was confused 
and bewildered by it. “ No, Fritz, I understand 
you fully. You have the heart of an angel ; you 
only pretend that this coat is too narrow for you 
that you may induce me to take the one you have 
already warmed.” 

It was well that Fritz had his back turned to 
the moon, otherwise his friend would have seen 
that his face was crimson ; he blushed as if de- 
tected in some wicked act. However, he tore the 
uniform away from Charles Henry rather roughly, 
and hastened to put it on. 

“Folly,” said he, “the coat squeezes me, that 
is all ! Besides, it is not wise to fool away our 
time in silly talking. Let us go onward.” 

“ Directly over the battle-field ? ” said Charles 
Henry, shuddering. 

“Directly over the battle-field,” said Kober, 
“ because that is the nearest way.” 

“Come, then,” said Charles, giving him his 
hand. 

It was indeed a fearful path ^ through which they 
must walk. They passed by troops of corpses — 
by thousands of groaning, rattling, dying men— 
by many severely wounded, who cried out to them 
piteously for mercy and help! Often Charles 
Henry hesitated and stood still to offer consola- 
tion to the unhappy wretches, but Fritz Kober 
drew him on. “We cannot help them, and we 
have far to go ! ” Often the swarming Cossacks,* 
dashing around pn their agile little ponies, called 
to them from afar off in their barbarous speech, 
but when they drew near and saw the Austrian 
uniforms, they passed them quietly, and were not 
surprised they had not given the pass-word. 

At last they passed the battle-field, and came 
on the open plain, at the end of which they per- 
ceived the camp-fires of the Russians and Aus- 
trians. The nearer they approached, the more 
lively was the scene. Shouts, laughter, loud calls, 
and outcries — from time to time a word of com- 
mand. And in the midst of this mad confusion, 
here and there soldiers were running, market- 
women offering them wares cheap, and exulting 
soldiers assembling around the camp-fires. From 
time to time the regular step of the patrouille was 
heard, who surrounded the camp, and kept a 
watchful eye in every direction. 

Arm in arm they passed steadily around tin 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


183 


eamp. “ One thing I know,” whispered Fritz 
Kober, “they have no thought of marching. 
They will pass a quiet, peaceful night by their 
camp-fires.” 

“ I agree with you,” said Charles Henry, “ but 
let us go forward and listen a little ; perhaps we 
can learn where the generals are quartered.” 

“Look, look! it must be there,” said Fritz 
Kober, hastily. “There are no camp-fires; but 
there is a brilliant light in the peasants’ huts, 
and it appears to me that I see a guard before 
the doors. These, certainly, are the headquarters.” 

“ Let us go there, then,” said Charles Henry ; 
“ but we must approach the houses from behind, 
and thus avoid the guard.” 

They moved cautiously around, and drew near the 
houses. Profound quiet reigned in this neighbor- 
hood ; it was the revei’ence of subordination — the 
effect which the presence of superior officers ever 
exercises upon their men. Here stood groups of 
officers, lightly whispering together — there sol- 
diers were leading their masters’ horses ; not far 
off orderlies were waiting on horseback — sentinels 
with shouldered arms were going slowly by. The 
attention of all seemed to be fixed upon the two 
small houses, and every glance and every ear was 
turned eagerly toward the brilliantly lighted win- 
dows. 

“We have hit the mark exactly,” whispered 
Fritz Kober; he had succeeded with his friend in 
forcing his way into the little alley which sepa- 
rated the two houses. “We have now reached the 
headquarters of the generals. Look I there is an 
Austrian sentinel with his bear’s cap. Both the 
Austrian and Russian generals are here.” 

“ Let us watch the Russians a little through the 
window,” said Charles Henry, slipping forward. 

They reached the corner, and were hidden by 
the trunk of a tree which overshadowed the huts. 
Suddenly they heard the word of command, and 
there was a general movement among the files of 
soldiers assembled about the square. The officers 
placed themselves in rank, the soldiers present- 
ed arms; for, at this moment, the Austrian 
General Loudon, surrounded by his staff, stepped 
from one of the small houses into the square. 
The Cossacks, who were crouched down on the 
earth before the door, raised themselves, and also 
presented arms. 

While Loudon stood waiting, the two Prussian 
grenadiers slipped slyly to the other hut. 

“ Let us go behind,” whispered Charles Henry. 
“ There are no sentinels there, and perhaps we 
may find a door, and get into the house.” 

Behind the hut was a little garden whose thick 
Bhrubs and bushes gave complete concealment to 


the two grenadiers. Noiselessly they sprang over 
the little fence, and made a reconnoissance of the 
terrain — unseen, unnoticed, they drew near the 
house. As they stepped from behind the bushes, 
Fritz Kober seized his friend’s arm, and with diffi- 
culty suppressed a cry of joy. 

The scene which was presented to them was 
well calculated to rejoice the hearts of brave sol- 
diers. They had reached the goal, and might now 
hope to fulfil the wishes of their king. The 
quarters of the Russian general were plainly 
exposed to them. In this great room, which was 
evidently the ball-room of the village, at a long 
oak-table, in the middle of the room, sat General 
Soltikow, and around him sat and stood the gen- 
erals and officers. At the door, half a dozen Cos- 
sacks were crouching, staring sleepily on the 
ground. The room was brilliantly illuminated with 
wax-lights, and gave the two grenadiers an op- 
portunity of seeing it in every part. Fate ap- 
peared to favor them in every way, and gave them 
an opportunity to hear as well as see. The win- 
dow on the garden was opened to give entrance 
to the cool night air, and near it there was a 
thick branch of a tree in which a man could con- 
ceal himself. 

“ Look there,” said Charles Henry, “ I will hide 
in that tree. We will make our observations from 
different stand-points. Perhaps one of us may 
see what escapes the other. Let us attend closely, 
that we may tell all to our king.” 

No man in this room guessed that in the silent 
little garden four flashing eyes were observing all 
that passed. 

At the table sat the Russian commander-in- 
chief, surrounded by his generals and officers. Be- 
fore him lay letters, maps, and plans, at which he 
gazed from time to time, while he dictated an ac- 
count of the battle to the officer sitting near him, 
Soltikow was preparing a dispatch for the Empress 
Elizabeth. A few steps farther off, in stiff military 
bearing, stood the officers who were giving in 
their reports, and whose statements brought a 
dark cloud to the brow of the victorious com- 
mander. Turning with a hasty movement of the 
head to the small man with the gold-embroidered 
uniform and the stiffiy-frizzed wig, he said — 

“ Did you hear that, sir marquis ? Ten thou- 
sand of my brave soldiers lie dead upon the battle- 
field, and as many more are severely wounded.” 

“ It follows then,” said the Marquis Montalem- 
bert, the French commissioner between the courts 
of Vienna, Petersburg, and Paris, “ it follows then, 
that the king of Prussia has forty thousand dead 
and wounded, and, consequently, his little army is 
utterly destroyed.” 


184 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Who knows ? ” said Soltikow ; “ the king of 
Prussia is accustomed to sell his defeats dearly. I 
should not be at all surprised if he had lost fewer 
soldiers than we have.” * 

“ Well, I think he has now nothing more to 
lose,” said the marquis, laughing ; “ it rests with 
you to give the last coup de grace to this conquered 
and flying king, and forever prevent — ” 

The entrance of an oflicer interrupted him. The 
officer announced General von Loudon. 

Soltikow arose, and advanced to the door to 
welcome the Austrian general. A proud smile 
was on his face as he gave his hand to Loudon ; 
he did this with the air of a gracious superior who 
wished to be benevolent to his subordinate. 

The quick. Arm glance of Loudon seemed to 
read the haughty heart of his ally, and, no doubt 
for this reason, he scarcely touched Soltikow’s 
hand. With erect head and proud step he ad- 
vanced into the middle of the room. 

• “I resolved to come ^ to your excellency,” said 
Loudon, in a sharp, excited tone ; “ you have a 
large room, while in my hut I could scarcely find 
accommodation for you and your adjutants.” 

“You come exactly at the right hour,” said 
Soltikow, with a haughty smile ; “ you see, we were 
about to hold a council of war, and consider what 
remains to be done.” 

A dark and scornful expression was seen in 
Loudon’s countenance, and his eyes rested fierce- 
ly upon the smiling face of Soltikow. 

“ Impossible, general ! you could not have held 
a council of war without me,” said he, angrily. 

“Oh, be composed, general,” said Soltikow, 
smiling, “ I would, without doubt, have informed 
you immediately of our conclusions.” 

“ I suppose you could not possibly have come 
to any conclusion in my absence,” said Loudon, 
the veins in whose forehead began to swell. 

Soltikow bowed low, with the same unchanged 
and insolent smile. 

“ Let us not dispute about things which have not 
yet taken place, your excellency. The council of 
war had not commenced, but now that you are 
here, we may begin. Allow me, however, first to 
sign these dispatches which I have written to my 
gracious sovereign, announcing the victory which 
the Russian troops have this day achieved over 
the army of the King of Prussia.” 

“Ah, general, this time I am in advance of 
you,” cried Loudon ; “ the dispatches are already 
sent off* in which I announced to my empress the 
victory which the Austrian troops gained over the 
Prussians.” 


Soltikow threw his head back scornfully, and 
his little gray eyes flashed at the Austrian. 

Loudon went on, calmly : “ I assure your excel- 
lency that enthusiasm at our glorious victory has 
made me eloquent. I pictured to my empress the 
picturesque moment in which the conquering 
Prussians were rushing forward to take possession 
of the batteries deserted by the flying Russians, 
at which time the Austrian horsemen sprang, as 
it were, from the ground, checked the conquerors, 
and forced them back ; and by deeds of lionlike 
courage changed the fate of the day.” 

While Loudon, seeming entirely cool and care- 
less, thus spoke, the face of the Russian general 
was lurid with rage. Panting for breath, he 
pressed his doubled fist upon the table. 

Every one looked at him in breathless excite- 
ment and horror — all knew his passionate and 
unrestrained rage. But the Marquis Montalembert 
hastened to prevent this outburst of passion, and 
before Soltikow found breath to speak, he turned 
with a gay and conciliating expression to Loudon. 

“ If you have painted the battle of to-day so 
much in detail,” said he, “ you have certainly not 
forgotten to depict the gallant conduct of the Rus- 
sian troops to describe that truly exalted move- 
ment, when the Russians threw themselves to the 
earth, as if dead, before the advancing columns 
of the Prussian army, and allowed them to pass 
over them ; then, springing up, shot them in the 
back.” * 

“ Certainly I did not forget that,” said Loudon, 
whose noble, generous heart already repented his 
momentary passion and jealousy ; “ certainly, I am 
not so cowardly and so unconscionable as to deny 
the weighty share which the Russian army merit 
in the honor of this day ; but you can well under- 
stand that I will not allow the gallant deeds of the 
Austrians to be swept away. We have fought 
together and conquered together, and now let us 
rejoice together over the glorious result.” 

Loudon gave his hand to Soltikow with so 
friendly an expression that he could not withstand 
it. “You are right, Loudon ; we will rejoice to- 
gether over this great victory,” cried he. “ Wine, 
here ! We will first drink a glass in honor of the 
triumph of the day ; then we will empty a glass 
of your beautiful Rhine wine to the friendship of 
the Austrians and Russians. Wine here! The 
night is long enough for council ; let us first cele- 
brate X)ur victory.” 

The Cossacks, at a sign from the adjutants, 
sprang from the floor and drew from a corner of 
the room a number of bottles and silver cups, 


♦ Soltikow’B own words.— See Archenholtz, p. 306. • 


* Archenholtz, Seven Years’ War p. 267 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


185 


which they hastened to place upon the table. The 
secretaries moved the papers, maps, etc.; and the 
table, which a moment before had quite a busi- 
ness-like aspect, was now changed into an enticing 
buffet. 

Soltikow looked on enraptured, but the marquis 
cast an anxious and significant look upon the 
Austrian general, which was answered with a slight 
shrug of the shoulders. Both knew that the brave 
General Soltikow, next to the thunder of cannon 
and the mad whirl of battle, loved nothing so well 
as the springing of corks and the odor of wine. 
Both knew that the general was as valiant and 
unconquerable a soldier as he was a valiant and 
unconquerable drinker — who was most apt while 
drinking to forget every thing else but the glad- 
ness of the moment. The marquis tried to make 
another weak attempt to remind him of more 
earnest duties. 

“ Look you, your excellency, your secretaries 
appear very melancholy. Will you not first hold a 
council of war ? and we can then give ourselves 
undisturbed to joy and enjoyment.” 

“ Why is a council of war necessary ? ” said 
Soltikow, sinking down into a chair and handing 
his cup to the Cossack, behind him to be filled for 
the second time. “ Away with business and scrib- 
bling ! The dispatches to my empress are com- 
pleted ; seal them, Pietrowitch, and send the 
courier off immediately ; every thing else can wait 
till morning. Come, generals, let us strike our 
glasses to the healths of our exalted sovereigns.” 

Loudon took the cup and drank a brave pledge, 
then when he had emptied the glass he said : 
“We should not be satisfied with sending our ex- 
alted sovereigns the news of the day’s victory — 
it lies in our hands to inform them of the com- 
^plete and irrevocable defeat of the enemy.” 

“How so?” said Soltikow, filling up his cup 
■ for the third time. 

“If now, in place of enjopng this comfortable 
rest, and giving our enemy time to recover him- 
self, we should follow up the Prussians and cut 
off the king’s retreat, preventing him from taking 
possession of his old camp at Reutven, we would 
then be in a condition to crush him completely 
and put an end to this war.” 

“ Ah, you mean that we should break up the 
camp at once,” said Soltikow ; “ that we should not 
grant to our poor, exhausted soldiers a single hour 
of sleep, but lead them out again to battle and to 
death? No, no, sir general; the blood of my 
br.ave Russians is worth as much as the blood of 
other men, and I will not make of them a wall 
behind which the noble Dutchmen place them- 
•elves in comfortable security, while we offer up 


for them our blood and our life. I think we Rus- 
sians have done enough ; we do not need another 
victory to prove that we are brave. When I fight 
another such battle as I have fought to-day, with 
my staff in my hand and alone I must carry the 
news to Petersburg, for I shall have no soldiers 
left.’'^ I have nothing to say against you. General 
Loudon. You have been a faithful ally; we have 
fought, bled, and conquered together, although 
not protected by a consecrated hat and sword like 
Field-Marshal Daun, who ever demands new vic- 
tories from us while he himself is undecided and 
completely inactive.” 

“ Your excellency seems to be somewhat em- 
bittered against Daun,” said Loudon, with a smile 
he could not wholly suppress. 

“ Yes,” said Soltikow, “ I am embittei’ed against 
this modern Fabius Cunctator, who finds it so 
easy to become renowned — who remains in Vien- 
na and reaps the harvest which belongs rightly to 
you. General Loudon. You act, while he hesi- 
tates — ^you are full of energy and ever ready for 
the strife ; Daun is dilatory, and while he is re- 
solving whether to strike or not, the opportunity 
is lost.” 

“ The empress, my exalted sovereign, has hon- 
ored him with her especial confidence,” said Lou- 
don ; “ he must therefore merit it.” 

“Yes; and in Vienna they have honored you 
and myself with their especial distrust,” said Sol- 
tikow, stormily, and swallowing a full cup of 
wine. “You, I know, receive rare and scanty 
praise ; eulogies must be reserved for Daun. W e 
are regarded with inimical and jealous eyes, and 
our zeal and our good-will are forever suspected.” 

“This is true,” said Loudon, smiling; “it is 
difficult for us to believe in the sincere friendship 
of the Russians, perhaps, because we so earnestly 
desire it.” 

“ Words, words ! ” said Soltikow, angrily. “ The 
German has ever a secret aversion to the Russian 
— you look upon us as disguised tigers, ever ready 
to rob and devour your glorious culture and ac- 
complishments. For this reason you gladly place 
a glass shade over yourselves when we are in your 
neighborhood, and show us your glory through a 
transparent wall that we may admire and envy. 
When you are living in peace and narmony, you 
avoid us sedulously ; then the German finds him- 
self entirely too educated, too refined, for the bar- 
baric Russian. But when you quarrel and strive 
with each other, and cannot lay the storm, then 
you suddenly remember that the Russian is youi 
neighbor and friend, that he wields a good sword, 


“ Frederick the Great.”— Qeschow, p. 200. 


186 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


and knows how to hew away with it right and 
left. You call lustily on him for help, and offer 
him your friendship — that means, just so long as 
hostilities endure and you have use for us. Even 
when you call us your friends you distrust us and 
suspect our good-will. Constant charges are 
brought against us in Vienna. Spresain lan- 
guishes in chains — Austria charges him with 
treachery and want of zeal in the good cause ; 
Fermor and Butterlin are also accused of great 
crimes — they have sought to make both their sin- 
cerity and ability suspected by the empress, and 
to bring them into reproach. This they have not 
deserved. I know, also, that they have charged 
me with disinclination to assist the allies — they 
declare that I have no ardor for the common 
cause. This makes bad blood, messieurs ; and 
if it were not for the excellent wine in your beau- 
ful Germany, I doubt if our friendship would 
stand upon a sure footing. Therefore, sir gener- 
al, take your cup and let us drink together — drink 
this glorious wine to the health of our friendship. 
Make your glasses ring, messieurs, and that the 
general may see that we mean honorably with our 
toast, empty them at a draught.” 

They all accepted the challenge and emptied a 
cup of the old, fiery Rhine wine, which Soltikow 
so dearly loved ; their eyes flashed, their cheeks 
were glowing. 

Loudon saw this with horror, and he cast an 
*nxious glance at Montalembert, who returned it 
with a significant shrug of the shoulder. 

“And now, your excellency,” said Loudon, “ that 
we have enjoyed the German wine, let us think a lit- 
tle of Germany and the enemy who can no longer 
disturb her peace, if we act promptly. Our troops 
have had some hours’ rest, and will now be in a 
condition to advance.” 

“Always the same old song,” said Soltikow, 
laughing ; “ but I shall not be waked up from my 
comfortable quarters ; I have done enough ! mv 
troops also ! ” 

“ I have just received a courier from Daun,” 
said Loudon, softly ; “ he makes it my duty to en- 
treat your excellency to follow up our victory and 
crush the enemy completely.” 

“ That will be easy work,” said Montalembert, 
in a flattering tone. “ The army of the King of 
Prussia is scattered and flying in every direction ; 
they must be prevented from reassembling ; the 
scattering troops must be harassed and more 
widely separated, and every possibility of retreat 
cut off for Frederick.” 

“Well, well, if that mmt 6e,” said Soltikow, 
apathetically, placing the cup just filled with wine 
Jo his lips, “let Field-Marshal Daun undertake 


the duty. I have won two battles ; I will wail 
and rest ; I make no other movements till I hear 
of tw’O victories won by Daun. It is not reason- 
able or just for the troops of my empress to act 
alone.” * 

“ But,” said the Marquis Montalembert, giving 
himself the appearance of wishing not to be heard 
by Loudon, “ if your excellency now remains inac- 
tive and does not press forward vigorously, the 
Austrians alone wUl reap the fruits of your victory.” 

“ I am not at all disposed to be jealous,” said 
Soltikow, laughing ; “ from my heart I wish the 
Austrians more success than I have had. For my 
part, I have done enough.f Fill your glasses, 
messieurs ; fill your glasses ! We have w^on a 
few hours of happiness from the goddess Bellona; 
let us enjoy them and forget all our cares. Let 
us drink once more, gentlemen. Long live our 
charming mistress, the Empress Elizabeth ! ” The 
Russian officers clanged their glasses and chimed 
in zealously, and the fragrant Rhine wine bubbled 
like foaming gold in the silver cups. Soltikow 
swallowed it wdth ever-increasing delight, and he 
became more and more animated. 

The officers sat round the table with glowing 
cheeks and listened to their worshipped general 
who, in innocent gayety, related some scenes from 
his youth, and made his hearers laugh so loud, so 
rapturously, that the walls trembled, and Fritz 
Kober, who was crouching down in the bushes, 
could with difficulty prevent himself from joining 
in heartily. 

The gayety of the Russians became more im- 
petuous and unbridled. They dreamed of their 
home ; here and there they began to sing Russian 
love-songs. The Cossacks, on the floor, grinned 
with delight and hummed lightly the refrain. 

The wine began to exercise its freedom and 
equality principles upon the heart, and all dif- 
ference of rank was forgotten. Every counte- 
nance beamed with delight ; every man laughed 
and jested, sang and drank. No one thought of 
the King of Prussia and his scattered army ; they 
remembered the victory they had achieved, but 
the fragrant wine banished the remembrance of 
the conquered.:): 

Montalembert and Loudon took no part in the 
general mirth. They had left the table, and 
from an open window watched the wild and 
frenzied group. 

“ It is in vain,” whispered Loudon, “ we cannot 
influence him. The German wine lies nearer his 
heart than his German allies.” 

♦ Soltikow’s own words.— See Archenholtz, p. 266. 

t Historical. 

t See Prussia ; Frederick the Great.— Gebhard, p 7.<t 


187 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 

ears, and the great point arrived at jou know as 


“But you, general, you should do what Soltikow 
omits or neglects. You should draw your own 
advantage from this tardiness of the Russian 
general, and pursue and crush the King of Prus- 
sia.” 

“ I would not be here now,” said Loudon, pain- 
fuUy, “ if I could do that. My hands are bound. 
I dare not undertake any thing to which the 
aUies do not agree; we can only act in concert.” 

A loud roar of laughter from the table silenced 
the two gentlemen. Soltikow had just related a 
merry anecdote, which made the Cossacks laugh 
aloud. One of the Russian generals rewarded 
1 them by throwing them two tallow-eandles. This 
1 dainty little delicacy was received by them with 
I joyful shouts. 

j “ Let us withdraw,” whispered Montalembert, 

I “ the scene becomes too Russian.” 

“Yes, let us go,” sighed Loudon; “if we must 
j remam here inactive, we can at least employ the 
time in sleep.” 

No one remarked the withdrawal of the two 
gentlemen. The gay laughter, the drinking and 
singing went on undisturbed, and soon became a 
scene of wild and drunken confusion. 

“ We can now also withdraw,” whispered Charles 
Henry to Fritz Kober. “ Come, come ! you 
know we are expected.” 

With every possible caution, they hastened 
away, and only after they had left the camp of 
tlie Russians and Austrians far behind them, and 
pa.ssed again over the battle-field did Fritz Kober 
break silence. “Well,” said he, sighing, “ what 
have we to say to the king ? ” 

“ All that we have heard,” said Charles Henry. 
“Yes, but we have heard nothing,” murmured 
Fritz. “ I opened my ears as wide as possible, but 
it was all in vain. Is it not base and vile to come 
to Germany and speak this gibberish, not a word 
of which can be understood ? In Germany men 
should be obliged to speak German, and not Rus- 
sian.” 

“They did not speak Russian, but French,” 
said Charles Henry ; “ I understood it all.” 

Fritz Kober stopped suddenly, and stared at his 
friend. “ You say you understood French ? ” 

“ Yes, I was at home on the French borders. 
My mother was from Alsace, and there I learned 
French.” 

“ You understand every thing,” murmured Fritz, 

“ but for myself, I am a poor stupid blockhead, 
and the king will laugh at me, for I have nothing 
to tell. I shall not get my commission.” 

“Then neither will I, Fritz; and, besides, as to 
what we have seen, you have as much to tell as I. 
Fou heard with your eyes and I with my 


much about as I do. The Russians and Austrians 
are sleeping quietly, not thinking of pursuing us 
That’s the principal point.” 

“ Yes, that’s true; that I can also assure the 
king — that will please him best. Look ! Charles 
Henry, the day is breaking ! Let us hasten on 
to the king. When he knows that the Austrians 
and Russians sleep, he will think it high time for 
the Prussians to be awake.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

A HERO IN MISFORTUNE. 

The two grenadiers returned unharmed to the 
village where the king had at present established 
his headquarters. The first rays of the morning 
sun were falling upon the wretched hut which was 
occupied by his majesty. The peaceful morning 
quiet was unbroken by the faintest sound, and, as 
if Nature had a certain reverence for the hero’s 
slumber, even the birds were hushed, and the 
morning breeze blew softly against the little win- 
dow, as if it would murmur a sleeping song to the 
king. There were no sentinels before the door • 
the bright morning sun alone was guarding the 
holy place where the unfortunate hero reposed. 

Lightly, and with bated breath, the two grena- 
diers crept into the open hut. The utter silence 
disturbed them. It seemed incredible that they 
should find the king in this miserable place, alone 
and unguarded. They thought of the hordes of 
Cossacks which infested that region, and that a 
dozen of them would suffice to surround this little 
hut, and make prisoners of the king and his adju- 
tants. 

“I have not the courage to open the door,” 
whispered Fritz Kober. “ I fear that the king is 
no longer here. The Cossacks have captured 
him.” 

“ God has not permitted that,” said Charles 
Henry, solemnly ; “ I believe that He has guarded 
the king in our absence. Come, we will go to his 
majesty.” 

They opened the door and entered, and then 
both stood motionless, awed and arrested by what 
they beheld. 

There, on the straw that was scantily scattered 
on the dirty floor, lay the king, his hat drawn 
partially over his face, his unsheathed sword in 
his hand, sleeping as quietly as if he were at his 
bright and beautiful Sans-Souci. 

“ Look ! ” whispered Charles Henry ; “ thuf 


188 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


sleeps a king, over whom God watches ! But now 
we must awaken him.” 

He advanced to the king, and kneeling beside 
nim, whispered: “Your majesty, we have re- 
turned ; we bring intelligence of the Russians and 
Austrians.” 

The king arose slowly, and pushed his hat back 
from his brow. 

“ Good or bad news ? ” he asked. 

“ Good news ! ” said Fritz. “ The Austrians 
and Russians have both gone to bed ; they were 
sleepy.” 

“ And they have no idea of pursuing your ma- 
jesty,” continued Charles Henry. “ Loudon wished 
it, but Soltikow refused ; he will do nothing until 
Daun acts.” 

“ So you sat with them in the council of war ? ” 
asked the king, smiling. 

“ Yes, we were present,” said Fritz Kober, with 
evident delight ; “ I saw the council, and Charles 
Henry heard them.” 

The king stood up. “ You speak too loud ! ” 
he said ; “ you will waken these two gentlemen, 
who are sleeping so well. We will go outside, 
and you can continue your report.” 

He crossed the room noiselessly, and left the 
hut. Then seating himself before the door, on a 
small bench, he told the two grenadiers to give 
him an exact account of what they had seen and 
heard. 

Long after they had finished speaking, the king 
sat silent, and apparently lost in thought. His 
eyes raised to heaven, he seemed to be in holy 
communion with the Almighty. As his eyes 
slowly sank, his glance fell upon the two grena- 
diers who stood before him, silently respectful. 

. “ I am pleased with you, children, and this time 

the promise shall be kept. You shall become 
subordinate officers.” 

“ In the same company? ” asked Fritz Kober. 

“In the same company. That is,” continued 
the king, “ if I am ever able to form companies 
and regiments again.” 

“ We are not so badly off as your majesty 
thinks,” said Fritz Kober. “Our troops have 
already recovered from their first terror, and as 
we returned we saw numbei’s of them entering 
the village. In a few hours the army can be re- 
organized.” 

“ God grant that you may be right, my son ! ” 
said the king, kindly. “ Go, now, into the village, 
and repeat the news you brought me to the sol- 
diers. It will encourage them to hear that the 
enemy sleep, and do not think of pursuing us. I 
will prepare your commissions for you to-day. 
Farewell, my children ! ” 


He bent his head shghtly, and then turned tc 
reenter the hut and awaken his two adjutants. 
With a calm voice be commanded them to go into 
the village, and order the generals and higher offi- 
cers to assemble the remnants of their regiments 
before the hut. 

“ A general march must be sounded,” said the 
king. “ The morning air will bear the sound into 
the distance, and when my soldiers hear it, per- 
haps they will return to their colors.” 

When the adjutants left him, th*" king com- 
menced pacing slowly up and down, his hands 
crossed behind him. 

“ All is lost, all ! ” he murmured ; “ but I must 
wait and watch. If the stupidity or rasliness of the 
enemy should break a mesh in the net within 
which I am enclosed, it is my duty to slip through 
with my army. Ah ! how heavily this crown 
presses upon my head ; it leaves me no moment 
of repose. How hard is life, and how terribly are 
the bright illusions of our earlier years destroyed ! ” 

At the sound of the drum, the king shivered, 
and murmured to himself : “ I feel now, what I 
never thought to feel. I am afraid my heart 
trembles at the thought of this encounter, as it 
never did in battle. The drums and trumpets call 
my soldiers, but they will not come. They are 
stretched upon the field of battle, or fleeing before 
the enemy. They will not come, and the sun wid 
witness my shame and wretchedness.” 

The king, completely overcome, sank upon the 
bench, and buried his face in his hands. He sat 
thus for a long time. The sounds before the door 
became louder and louder, but the king heard i 
them not; he still held his hands before his face. 
He could not see the bright array of uniforms that U 
had assembled before the window, nor that the ^ 
soldiers were swarming in from all sides. He did ; 
not hear the beating of drums, the orders to the j 
soldiers, or military signals. Neither did he hear I 
the door, which was gently opened by his adju- 
tants, who had returned to inform him that hia 
orders had been obeyed, and that the generals and 
staff officers were awaiting him outside the hut. 

“ Sire,” whispered at length one of the adju 
tants, “ your commands have been fulfilled. The 
generals await your majesty’s pleasure.” 

The king allowed his hands to glide slowly from { 
his face. “ And the troops ? ” he asked. 

“ They are beginning to form.” ' 

“ They are also just placing the cannon,” said 
the second adjutant. 

The king turned angrily to him. “ Sir,” ^het ju 
cried, “you lie! I have no cannon.” jjtf 

“ Your majesty has, God be praised, more than jj 
ty cannon,” said tl^ adjutant, firmlv. ^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


189 


A ray of light overspread the countenance of 
the king, and a slight flush arose to his pale cheek. 
Standing up, he bowed kindly to the adjutants, 
and passed out among the generals, who saluted 
him respectfully, and pressed back to make way 
for their king. The king walked silently through 
their ranks, and then turning his head, he said : 

“ Gentlemen, let us see what yesterday has left 
us. Assemble your troops.” 

The generals and staff officers hurried silently 
away, to '’e themselves at the head of their re- 
giments, and lead them before the king. 

The king stood upright, his unsheathed sword 
m his right hand, as in the most ceremonious pa- 
rade. The marching of the troops began, but it 
was a sad spectacle for their king. How little 
was left of the great and glorious army which he 
had led yesterday to battle ! More than twenty 
thousand men were either killed or wounded. 
Thousands were flying and scattered. A few re- 
giments had been formed with great trouble; 
barely five thousand men were now assembled. 
The king looked on with a firm eye, but his lips 
were tightly compressed, and his breath came 
heavily. Suddenly he turned to Count Dolmer, the 
adjutant of the Grand Duke Ferdinand of Bruns- 
wick, who had arrived a few days before with the 
intelligence of a victory gained at Minden. The king 
had invited him to remain. “I am about to over- 
power the Russians ; remain until I can give you 
a like message.” The king was reminded of this 
as he saw the count near him. 

“ Ah,” he said, with a troubled smile, “ you are 
waiting for the message I promised. I am dis- 
tressed that I cannot make you the bearer of bet- 
ter news. If, however, you arrive safely at the 
end of your journey, and do not find Daun already 
in Berlin, and Contades in Magdeburg, you can as- 
sure the Grand Duke Ferdinand from me that all 
is not lost. Farewell, sir.” 

I Then, bowing slightly, he advanced with a firm 
: step to the generals. His eyes glowed and flashed 
once more, and his whole being reassumed its 
usual bold and energetic expression. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, in a clear voice, “ for- 
j tune did not favor us yesterday, but there is no 
j reason to despair. A day will come when we shall 


repay the enemy with bloody interest. I at least 
expect such a day ; I will live for its coming, and 
all my thoughts and plans shall be directed tow- 
ard that object. I strive for no other glory than 
to deliver Prussia from the conspiracy into which 
the whole of Europe has entered against her. I 
will obtain peace for my native land, but it shall 
be a great and honorable peace. I will accept no 
other ; I would rather be buried under the ruins 
of my cannon, than accept a peace that would 
bring no advantages to Prussia, no fame to us. 
Honor is the highest, the holiest possession of in- 
dividuals, as it is of nations ; and Prussia, who has 
placed her honor in our hands, must receive it 
from us pure and spotless. If you agree with me, 
gentlemen, join me in this cry, ‘ Long live Prussia ! 
Long live Prussia’s honor ! ’ ” 

The generals and officers joined enthusiastically 
in this cry, and like a mighty torrent it spread 
from mouth to mouth, until it reached the regi- 
ments, where it was repeated again and again. 
The color-bearers unfurled their tattered banners, 
and the shout arose from thousands of throats, 
“ Long live Prussia’s honor ! ” 

The king’s countenance was bright, but a tear 
seemed to glitter in his eye. He raised his glance 
to heaven and murmured : 

“ I swear to live so long as there is hope, so 
long as I am free ! I swear only to think of death 
when my liberty is threatened.” Slowly his glance 
returned to earth, and then in a powerful voice, 
he cried : “ Onward ! onward ! that has ever been 
Prussia’s watchword, and it shall remain so — On- 
ward! We have a great object before us — we 
must use every effort to keep the Russians out of 
Berlin. The palladium of our happiness must not 
fall into the hands of our enemies. The Oder ana 
the Spree must be ours — we must recover to-mor- 
row what the enemy wrenched from us yesterday 1 ” 

“ Onward I onward ! ” cried the army, and the 
words of the king bore courage and enthusiasm to 
all hearts. 

Hope was awakened, and all were ready to fol- 
low the king ; for however dark and threatening 
the horizon appeared, all had faith in the star of 
the king, and believed that i* could never be extin 
guished. 


t 


book: V. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THK TERESIANI AND THE PRUSSIANI. 

At the splendid hotel of the ” White Lion,” sit- 
aated on the Canale Grande^ a gondola had just 
arrived. The porter sounded the great house-bell, 
and the host hastened immediately to greet the 
stranger, who, having left the gondola, was briskly 
mounting the small white marble steps that led to 
the beautiful and sumptuous vestibule of the hotel. 

The stranger returned the host’s profound and 
respectful salutation with a stiff military bow, and 
asked in forced and rather foreign Italian if he 
could obtain rooms. 

Signor Montardo gazed at him with a doubtful 
and uncertain expression, and instead of answer- 
ing his question, said : 

“ Signor, it appears to me that you are a for- 
eigner ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the stranger, smiling, “ my Italian 
has betrayed me. I am a foreigner, but hope that 
will not prevent your showing me comfortable and 
agreeable rooms.” 

“ Certainly not, signor ; our most elegant and 
sumptuous apartment is at your command,” said 
the host, with a flattering smile. In the mean 
time, however, he did not move from the spot, but 
gazed with a confused and anxious countenance 
first at the stranger, and then at his large trunk, 
which the men were just lifting from the gondola. 

“ Will you please show me the rooms ? ” cried 
the stranger, impatiently advancing into the hall. 

The host sighed deeply, and threw a questioning 
glance at the head waiter, who returned it with 
a shrug of his shoulders. 

“ I will first show you into the dining-saloon,” 
murmured the host, hastening after the stranger. 
“ Will you please step in here, excellency,” and 
with humble submission he opened the large fold- 


ing doors before which they stood, and conducted 
the stranger into the magnificent saloon which 
served as dining-saloon and ball-room. “Now, 
excellency,” continued the host, after he closed 
the door, and had convinced himself by a rapid 
glance that they were alone, “ forgive my curios- 
ity in asking you two questions before I have the 
honor of showing you your rooms. How long do 
you intend to remain here ? ” 

“A few days, sir. Well, your second ques- 
tion ? ” 

The host hesitated a moment; then looking 
down, he said : 

“ Your excellency is a German ? ” 

“ Yes, a German,” said the stranger, impa- 
tiently. 

“ I thought so,” sighed the host. 

“ Will you show me my rooms or not. Decide 
quickly, for I know there are other handsome ho- 
tels on the Canale Grande where I would be will- 
ingly received.” 

The host bowed with an aggrieved expression. 
“ Signor, I will show you rooms. Will you have 
the kindness to follow me ? 

Like one who had come to a desperate decision, 
he advanced and pushed open a door which led to 
a long passage, with rooms on each side; he 
passed them all hastily, and entered a small, dark, 
side-passage, which was little in keeping with the 
general elegance of the building ; the walls were 
not covered with tapestry, as those of the large 
halls, but with dirty whitewash ; the floor had no 
carpet, and the doors of the rooms were low and 
small. 

The host opened one of them and led the 
stranger into a small, simply-furnished room, with 
a little dark closet containing a bed. 

“ Signor,” he said, with a profound bow 
“ these are, unfortunately, the only two rooms ^ 
can offer you.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


101 


“ They are small and mean,” said the stranger, 
angrily. 

“ They are quiet and remote, and you will have 
the advantage of not being disturbed by the ball 
which the club of the Prmsiani are to hold in my 
grand saloon to-night.” 

As he finished, he looked at the stranger hast- 
ily and searchingly, to see what impression his 
words had upon him. He was decidedly aston- 
ished and confused. 

“ The Prussian Club ? ” he said. “ Are there 
so many Prussians here, and are they to celebrate 
a gay feast, when it appears to me they have 
every reason to mourn for their king’s misfor- 
tune ? ” 

It was now the stranger who gazed searchingly 
at the host, and awaited his answer with impa- 
tience. 

“ You ask if there are many Prussians here ? ” 
said the host, pathetically. “ Yes, there are a 
great many in la hella Venezia^ eccellenza^ chi non 
e huon Prussian/)^ non e huon Veneziano. You say 
further, that the Prussians have no reason to cele- 
brate a festival, but should mourn for their king’s 
misfortunes. No, your excellency, the Prussians will 
never have reason to despair, for a hero like the 
great Frederick can never succumb. His sun is 
clouded for a moment, but it will burst forth 
again brilliant and triumphant, and blind all his 
enemies. The Prussians celebrate this feast to 
defy the Teresiani. They have their club at the 
hotel of the ‘Golden Fleece,’ and held a grand 
ball there yesterday in honor of their victory at 
Mayen. ’Tis true the king has lost two battles, 
the battles of Kiinersdorf and Mayen, but the Prus- 
sians do not despair ; for if the king has lost two 
battles, he will win four to make up for them, and 
the Austrians, French, and Russians will flee be- 
fore him, as they did at Zorndorf and Rossbach. 
The Prussians wish to celebrate this feast to con- 
vince the Teresiani that they are not disturbed by 
the king’s apparent misfortune, and are now cele- 
brating the victories that their great king is still 
to achieve.” 

The stranger’s face beamed with delight. “ The 
Prussians have great confidence in their king,” he 
said, with forced composure ; “ but you have not 
yet told me why so many Prussians are stopping 
here ? ” 

The host laughed. “ Signor does not occupy 
himself with politics ? ” 

“No,” answered the stranger, with hesitation. 

“ Well, otherwise you would have known that 
there are many Prussians in the world, and that 
idl the world takes an interest in this war in 
which a single hero battles against so many pow- 


erful enemies. Yes, yes, there are Prussians in 
all Europe, and the great Frederick is joyfully 
welcomed everywhere; but nowhere more joy- 
fully than in our beautiful Italy ; and nowhere in 
Italy is he more welcomed than in our beautiful 
Venice. The nobles and the gondoliers decide for 
or against, and Venice is divided into two great 
parties : the first for the King of Prussia, the lat- 
ter for the Austrian empress, Maria Theresa. But 
I assure you the Teresiani are mean and despica- 
ble, bought enthusiasts, and cowardly fools.” 

“ Consequently, you do not belong to them, sig- 
nor,” said the stranger, smiling ; “ you are a good 
PrussianoP 

“ I should think so,” cried the host, proudly ; 
“ I am a good patriot, and our watchword is, ‘ Oh% 
non e huon Prussiano^ non ehuon Veneziano P' 

“ If that is so,” cried the stranger, gayly, as he 
kindly offered the host his hand, “ I congratulate 
myself for having stopped here, and these small, 
mean rooms will not prevent my remaining. I 
also am a Prussian, and say, like yourself, what 
care we for the battles of Kiinersdorf and Mayen ? 
Frederick the Great will still triumph over his en- 
emies.” 

“ Ah, signor, you are a Prussian ! ” cried the 
host, with a true Italian burst of joy. “ You are 
heartily welcome at my hotel, and be convinced, 
sir, that I shall do every thing to deserve your ap- 
proval. Come, sir, these rooms are too small, too 
mean, for a follower of Frederick ; I shall have 
the honor of showing you two beautiful rooms on 
the first floor, with a view of the Canale Chrande, 
and you shall pay no more for them. Follow me, 
sir, and pardon me that you were not at once 
worthily served. I did not know you were a Prus 
siano^ and it would have been most dangerous and 
impolitic to have received a stranger who might 
have been a Teresiano ; It might have deprived 
me of all the Prussian custom. Have the good- 
ness to follow me.” 

He stepped forward briskly, and conducted the 
stranger across the passage through the grand sa- 
loon into the hall. The head waiter was standing 
there engaged in an excited conversation with the 
gondoliers who, having placed the traveller’s trunk 
in the hall, were cursing and crying aloud for their 
money. While the waiter was assuring them, 
that it was not decided whether the stranger 
would remain with them or not, and perhaps they 
would have to carry his trunk farther, the host 
nodded smilingly at the head waiter and said, 
proudly, “ His excellency is not only a German, 
but a Prussian.” 

The clouded faces of the waiters and gondoliers 
cleared immediately, and they gazed at the trav- 


192 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


slier with a significant smile as he mounted the 
splendid steps with the host. 

“ He is a Prussian !” cried the waiters. '■'‘Evviva 
il Re di Prussia ! ” cried the gondoliers, as they 
raised the trunk and carried it nimbly up the 
steps. 

The saloon into which the host conducted his 
guest was certainly different from the small, un- 
clean rooms he had shown him before. All was 
elegance, and with a feeling of pride he led the 
stranger to the balcony which offered a splendid^ 
view of the imposing and glorious Canale Grande^ 
with its proud churches and palaces. 

“ And now, signor,” said the host, humbly, 
“ command me. If I can serve you in any man- 
ner, I shall do so with pleasure. Any information 
you desire, I am ready to give. Perhaps your ex- 
cellency has — ? ” 

“ No,” said the stranger, quickly, “ I have no 
political mission, and my letter to the prior is of 
a very innocent nature. I am a merchant, and by 
chance have become possessed of several costly 
relics, and hope that the prior of the cloister may 
purchase them.” 

“ Ah, relics,” said the host, with a contemptu- 
ous shrug of his shoulders ; “do you know, sir, 
that no one now is enthusiastic about such things ? 
Politics leave us no time for piety; the Pope 
has lost his influence, and even the Romans are 
good Prussianiy and care not for Frederick the 
Great being a heretic. The Pope blesses his ene- 
mies and celebrates their victories with brilliant 
masses and costly presents. The Romans are in- 
different to all this, and pray for their hero-king, 
the Great Frederick, and in spite of the Pope de- 
sire him to triumph.” 

“Ah,” said the traveller, with apparent sad- 
ness, “ then I shall certainly not succeed with my 
relics, but I hope I shall do better in the city with 
my fans; for them I desire your advice. Will 
you please tell me the names of a few large com- 
mercial houses where they might buy some of my 
beautiful fans? But they must be good Prussianiy 
as you will soon see.” He stepped to his trunk, 
unlocked it, and took from it an etui containing a 
number of fans. 

“ Look here, sir. I saw these fans in Geneva, 
and thinking I might perhaps do a good business 
with them in Italy, I bought several dozen. Ex- 
amine the charming and tasteful paintings.” He 
opened one of the fans ; it was of white satin, with 
quite an artistic painting of a large Prussian eagle 
about to devour a white lily. 

The host clapped his hands with delight. “De- 
licious ! ” he cried, laughing. “ The Prussian eagle 
devouring the French lily ; this is a charming 


prophecy, a wonderful satire. You bought these 
fans in Geneva ; there are Prussians in Geneva 
also, then.” 

“ Every lady in Geneva has such a fan, and 
there are no better Prussians in Berlin than in 
Geneva.” 

“ I am delighted, truly delighted,” cried the 
Italian, enthusiastically. “ The time will come 
when all the people of Europe will be Prussians 
and only princes TeresianiP 

“ Nevertheless, the people will have to obey 
their princes,” said the stranger, with a watchful 
glance ; “ and if they command it, will war against 
the great king.” 

“Not we, not the Italians,” cried the host, vio- 
lently ; “ our Doge would not dare to side with 
the Teresianiy for he knows very well that wmuld 
occasion a revolution in Venice and, perhaps, en- 
danger his own throne. No, no, signor; our 
exalted government is too wise not to adopt a 
neutral position, while secretly they are as good 
Prussians as we are.” 

“ But the Lombardians and the Sardinians ? ” 
asked the stranger, expectantly. 

“ They also are Prussians ; even if their king is 
a Tei'esianOy as they say, his people are Prussians 
like ourselves.” 

“ And the Neapolitans ? ” 

“ Well, the Neapolitans,” said the host, laugh- 
ing, “ the Neapolitans are, as you know, not re- 
nowned for their bravery ; and if they do not 
love the great Frederick, they fear him. The 
Neapolitans are the children of Italy, knowing 
only that Naples is a beautiful city, and fearing a 
barbarian might come and devour it. In their ter- ; 
ror they forget that no one is thinking of them, • 
and that they are separated by Italy and the Alps 
from all warlike people. The king of Naples 
thinks it possible that Frederick may one day', 
ascend Vesuvius with his conquering army and - 
take possession of Naples. Since the king’s last ' 
victories, Ferdinand has increased the number of' 
his troops and doubled the guard in his capital.” 

The host laughed so heartily at this account, 
that the stranger was irresistibly compelled to 
join him. 

“ The King of Naples is but a boy nine years ‘ 
old. His ministers are older than himself, and 
should know a little more geography, signor. But 
corpo di BaccOy here I am talking and talking 
of politics forgetting entirely that your excellency 
is doubtless hungry, and desires a strengthening 
meal.” 

“ ’Tis true, I am a little hungry,” said the stran- 
ger, smiling. 

“ In a quarter of an hour the most splendid 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


193 


dinner, Aat the celebrated White Lion can pre- 
pare, shall be ready for you, signor,” cried the host, 
as he rushed hastily from the room. 

The stranger gazed thoughtfully after him. “ It 
appears to me that I have been very fortunate in 
coming here ; the good host seems to be a good 
Prussian, and I have learned more from him in a 
quarter of an hour than I would have done In a 
long journey through Italy. I shall now be able 
to act with zeal and energy. But I must not 
] forget the role I have to play. I am a merchant 
trading with fans, curiosities, and relics, and very 
anxious to bring my wares to market.” 

The entrance of the waiter interrupted him, and 
soon the savory dishes invited the traveller to re- 
fresh himself. ■. ^ 


CHAPTER II. 

FREDERICK THE GREAT AS A SAINT. 

“ And now to business,” said the traveller, when 
he had finished dining. “ It is high time I were on 
my way, if I am to leave this place to-day.” He 
hastened to his trunk and took from it several 
bundles and packages, some of which he put in 
hU pockets and some, like a true merchant, he 
carried under his arm. Then putting on his large, 
black felt hat, he turned to leave the room. In 
passing the mirror he looked at himself, and 
broke out into a merry laugh at his appearance. 

“ Truly,” said he, “ I look like a veritable shop- 
keeper, and he who takes me for any thing else, 
must be of a more political turn of mind than my 
host. Signor Montardo, the Prussiano.^^ 

He turned and left the room to obtain the ad- 
dress of some merchants and a guide from his 
host. In spite of remonstrances Signor Montardo 
insisted on accompanying him. 

“ Otherwise,” said he, “ some one might ad- 
dress you w^ho is not on our side, and if you were 
then to show him your fans, there would be a fear- 
ful scandal ; tl e other party is quite as hot-headed 
as we arCy and many a pitched battle has taken 
place between the Teresiani and the Prussian^. 
Come, sir ; I must accompany you. We will not 
go by the canal, but through the small by-streets ; 
they will lead us quickest to the Riva di Schiavoni, 
and then to the Rialto, which is our destination.” 

“ Is that far from the convent of San Giovanni 
e Paolo ? ” asked the stranger. 

“ Ah, you are still determined to offer your 
yelics to the abbot ? ” said the host, laughing. 

“ Yes, and hope to sell them.” 


“ Well, I wish you luck. The Rialto is not far 
from there. I will go with you until within the 
vicinity of the convent, but not farther.” 

“ And why not ? ” 

“ Because the door-keeper is a raging Teresia- 
no^ and would undoubtedly close the door in your 
face, were I at your side.” 

“ But did you not tell me the abbot was a Prm- 
siano ? ” 

‘ Yes, the abbot, but the porter is not ; nor are 
many of the monks, I am sorry to say.” 

“ Ah, even the monks are occupied with poli- 
tics ? ” 

“ Signor,” cried the host, pathetically, “ every 
one here interests himself in politics ; and when you 
hear that our little children are divided into Tere~ 
siani and Pnmiani, you will credit me. There 
was a slight revolution yesterday in the Riva 
Peschiera. It was occasioned by a fish woman’s 
refusing to sell my cook some beautiful trout ; she 
declared God had not created fish for the Prussi- 
ani, which, in her opinion, was another name for 
heathen and unbeliever. My cook insisted on 
having the fish, and, as unfortunately there were 
many Prmdani among the fishwomen, it soon 
came to hard words and still harder blows, and 
was terminated by the arrest of the principal dis- 
turbers.” 

They were now entering the Riva di Schiavoni, 
and the talkative Signor Montardo was continu- 
ing his merry tales when he was interrupted by 
cries and shouts of laughter and derision, and 
they were almost surrounded by a large crowd 
of excited men. 

“ We are fortunately at the end of our walk,” 
said Signor Montardo, “ for there is the house of my 
worthy friend Cicernachi, dealer in fancy goods, 
and it is to him we are going. Let us press 
forward to see what this crowd means. I pre- 
sume my friend Cicernachi has prepared another 
surprise for the good people of Venice.” 

He made a way for himself and friend with his 
broad shoulders, and soon stood in front of the 
shop around which the crowd was collected. A 
cry of astonishment escaped the stranger, and he 
pointed to the entrance of the shop. “ You see 
there,” said he, “ a speaking likeness of Fred- 
erick the Great.” 

There hung at the front of the store a large 
engraving in a rich golden frame. It was the 
portrait of Prussia’s hero king— of Frederick the 
Great— and beneath burnt a bright lamp, its light 
shedding a rosy tint over Frederick’s noble coun- 
tenance. 

“ Ah ! I understand it now,” whispered tluj 
host. “ Cicernachi has done this to enrage the 


194 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Teresiani. To show his boundless reverence for the 
king, he has placed a burning lamp beneath his 
picture, an honor due only in our country to the 
saints. Let us hear what the people have to say 
of it.” 

Just then a Teresiano commenced a speech, ac- 
companied by violent gesticulations, against this 
insult to the Church. “ How can you suffer this 
heretic to be represented by you as a saint ? ” cried 
he, in a voice of rage. “ Do you not know that 
the Pope has excommunicated the King of Prus- 
sia? Do you not know that he is an enemy to 
God, to the Church, and to our holy Catholic 
religion ? Away, then, with this lamp ! The fires 
of hell will devour him, but no holy lamp shall 
enlighten his darkened soul.” 

“ He is right, he is right,” cried some among 
the crowd. “ Away with the lamp ! Break Cicer- 
nachi’s windows, for he is a Prmsiano. He 
makes a saint of a heretic ! Put out the lamp ! ” 

“Do not venture to touch the lamp,” cried 
others. “ Back ! back ! or our fists shall close 
your eyes until neither the lamp nor the great 
Frederick is visible to you.” 

“ Put out the lamp, in God’s name !” cried the 
infuriated Teresiani. And the cry was repeated 
by many of his party, as they pressed forward. 
But thePmssiam', amongst whom were our host 
and the stranger, had already formed a wall of 
defence before the store, and were energetically 
beating back the approaching Teresiani. And 
then there occurred a tumult, such as can only 
occur among passionate Italians. Wild shouts, 
curses, and threats were heard — eyes sparkling 
with rage, doubled fists, and here and there a 
dagger or a knife was seen. 

But the noise suddenly ceased, and a deep 
stillness prevailed. No sound was heard but the 
quiet even tread of the solemn silent forms that 
stood suddenly, as if they had risen from the 
earth in their midst. No one had seen them 
come — ^no word was spoken by them, and still 
many retreated timidly, fearfully from them ; their 
presence was enough to quiet these enraged 
masses, to silence their anger. Even Signor Mon- 
tardo deserted his prominent position before the 
lamp, and was gazing anxiously at the dark forms 
passing slowly through the crowd. 

“ The sbirri ! ” whispered he to the stranger. 
“The servants of the Council of Ten! Whom 
will they take with them ? ” 

But it seemed as if these much-feared men only 
desired to cause the people to remember them only, 
to threaten — not to punish. They wished to remind 
the people that the law was watcliing over them. 
Completely hid by their long jnantles, they passed 


with bowed heads through the crowd. Thus 
without addressing or noticing any one, they 
passed into one of the small by-streets leading 
from the Rialto. 

As the last one disappeared, life once more 
animated the crowd. All breathed more freely 
when relieved from their much-feared presence, 
and soon they commenced talking again of Cicer 
nachi’s new saint. 

“ You see,” whispered Montardo to the stran 
ger, “ that our government is neutral. It will 
punish neither the Prussiani nor the Teresiani ; 
only warns us not to carry our zeal too far, 
and reminds us that it is against the law to carry 
a dagger or a knife in the street. But now let us 
enter the shop, and I will introduce you to 
Cicernachi.” 

He took the stranger’s arm, and entered the 
shop, where a tall, slim man met him. His long 
black hair hung in wild disorder on both sides 
of his expressive countenance, his eyes sparkled 
with fire, and on his full red lip there was a 
proud, triumphant smile. 

“Well, Montardo,” said he, “you come un- 
doubtedly to congratulate me on this victory over 
these miserable TeresianV 

“ Certainly, sir,” cried Montardo, laughingly, 
“it was a most original idea.” 

“ Do you know why I have done it ? ” said 
Cicernachi; “yesterday the Teresiani placed be- 
fore their restaurants the bull of Pope Clement 
XL, which has just been confirmed and renewed 
by Clement XIII. It was printed on white satin, 
and enclosed in a beautiful gilt frame, and under- 
neath it burnt a sacred lamp.” 

“What are the contents of this bull?” said. 
Montardo. 

“ I will tell you the beginning,” said Cicernachi, 
“I do not recollect all. It sounded thus; ‘You 
have long known that Frederick, margrave of 
Brandenburg, in contempt for the authority of 
the Church, took to himself the name and in- 
signia of king, a profane and unheard-of act among 
Christians. He has thus unwisely enough become 
one of those of whom it is said in the Bible, 
They reigned, but not through Me; they were 
princes, but I did not know them.’ Do you con- 
ceive now why I placed the king’s picture be- 
fore my store? why I burnt a lamp beneath it? 

I think this glorious portrait is more deserving 
of a sacred lamp than the Pope’s nonsensical 
bull.” 

“ You are right, signor,” said the stranger, ad- 
vancing to Cicernachi and shaking hands with 
him. “ Permit me to thank you in the name of 
my great and noble king whom you have this da^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


195 


defended in so original a manner from the mali- 
1 cious charges of his enemies. I give you my 
I word of honor that the king shall hear of it 
I through me ; I know it will rejoice him.” 
j “ Ah, signor,” said Montardo, laughing, “ you 
! forget that you are an honest merchant who does 
i; not concern himself about politics.” 
j “ I can never forget I am a Prussian,” said the 
traveller ; “ and how could I forget it ? ” contin- 
ued he, laughing. “ My whole business consists 
of Prussian wares.” 

; “ Truly you have some very beautiful articles,” 

^ said Montardo. “ You will be charmed with them, 

: Cicernachi ; it will be another opportunity to an- 
: noy the Teresiani. Look at this merchant’s fans.” 

! The stranger opened several fans. Cicernachi’s 

j eyes sparkled with delight at the sight of the 
i painting. “ How many have you, signor ? ” said 
! he. 

j “ Twelve.” 

! “I take them all, and regret you have not 
more.” 

“But Cicernachi, where has all your wisdom 
gone to ? ” cried Montardo. “ You have not even 
asked the price ; or do you, perhaps, think the 
stranger gives them to you for nothing ? ” 

“ No, no ; I forgot it,” said Cicernachi, gazing 
with delight at the fans which the stranger was 
spreading out before him. “ What is their price, 
signor ? ” 

The stranger was silent for a moment, and then 
said, in a hesitating manner : “ I paid ten francs 
for each fan in Geneva.” 

“ I give twice that,” said Cicernachi, quickly. 

The stranger started up hastily, blushing with 
annoyance. “ Sir,” said he, “ I take from no one 
a higher price than I gave.” 

“ Ah, signor, signor,” cried Montardo, “ you 
have again forgotten that you are but a merchant. 
No merchant sells his goods for what he gave for 
them. Remember that.” 

“ I will make a good business with these fans,” 
said Cicernachi. “I give you twenty-four francs, 
and will ask fifty for them. The ladies of our no- 
hility, many of whom are JPrussiani, will be de- 
lighted to annoy their opponents in so elegant a 
manner. Are you content, sir ? ” 

“ I am satisfied,” said the stranger, blushing 
with embarrassment. 

“ Is this all you have for sale ? ” 

“ No, I have something else,” said the stranger, 
opening another package. “ As you are Prussiano, 
these neat little coins and medals, with pretty car- 
icatures of the enemies of the king on them, will 
no doubt please you.” 

“ Ah, let us see them,” cried both Italians. 


They examined with eagerness the medals upon 
which the enemies of Frederick were represented 
in various laughable situations and positions. 

“ I take them all ! ” cried Cicernachi, enrap* 
tured. 

The stranger laughed. “ I cannot seU you my 
whole business,” said he; “I must retain some- 
thing. I will give you one of each. You must 
accept them as a token of my esteem, and must 
not pay me for them.” 

“ Signor ! ” cried Montardo, in an imploring 
tone, “ remain at my hotel as long as you please, 
and when I bring you your bill lay some of these 
coins upon it, and I shall be richly paid.” 

The stranger promised ; then having received, 
with visible annoyance, the money for the fans, 
left the store with Montardo to pay his visit to 
the Convent Giovanni e Paolo. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE CLOISTER BROTHERS OP SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO 

The Prior of San Giovanni e Paolo had just re- 
turned from the second mass celebrated in the 
beautiful church of his cloister, the burial-place 
of the great Titiano Vicelli. With his arms 
folded across his back, he walked slowly and 
thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood 
before a large table at which a monk was occupied 
in unfolding letters and maps. 

“ This, your worship,” said the monk, opening 
a new paper, “is an exact plan of the region 
around Mayen ; we have just received it, and the 
positions of the two armies are plainly marked 
down. If agreeable to your worship, I will read 
the bulletins aloud, and you can follow the move- 
ments of the troops upon the map.” 

The prior shook his head softly. “No, Brother 
Anselmo, do not read again the triumphant bul- 
letins of the Austrians and Russians ; they pain 
my ears and my heart. Let us rather look at the 
map to see if the present position of the army of- 
fers any ground of hope.” 

“I have marked it all out with pins,” said 
Father Anselmo; “the black pins signify the ar- 
my of the allies, the white pins the army of the 
King of Prussia.” 

The prior bowed over the map, and his eye fid 
lowed thoughtfully the lines which Father Ansel- 
mo marked out. “ Your pins are a sad omen,” 
he said, shaking his head. “ The black ones sun 
round like a churchyard wall the white ones, 
which stand like crosses upon the solitary graves 
in the midst of their black enclosures.” 


190 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ But the white pins will break through the en- 
closure,” said Father Anselmo, confidently. “ The 
great king — ” Father Anselmo stopped speak- 
ing; suddenly the door opened, and the father 
guardian asked if he might enter. 

The prior blushed slightly, and stepped back 
from the table as the sharp eyes of the father 
guardian wandered around the room and fell at last 
with a sarcastic expression upon the table covered 
with maps and plans. 

“ Welcome, Brother Theodore,” said the prior, 
with a slight nod of the head. 

“ I fear that I disturb your worship in your fa- 
vorite occupation,” said the father guardian, point- 
ing to the maps. “ Your worship is considering 
the unfortunate condition of the heretical king 
whom God, as it appears, will soon cast down in 
the dust, and crush at the feet of the triumphant 
Church.” 

“We must leave results, at all events, to God,” 
said the prior, softly ; “ He has so often evidently 
lent his aid to the King of Prussia, that I think 
no one can count confidently upon Frederick’s de- 
struction now.” 

“ The Holy Father at Rome has blessed the 
weapons of his adversaries, consequently they 
must triumph,” cried Father Theodore, unctuously. 
“ But pardon, your worship, I forgot my errand. A 
stranger wishes to see the prior of the cloister ; he 
has rare and beautiful relics to sell, which he will 
only show to your worship.” 

“ Our church is rich enough in relics,” said the 
prior. 

“ Your worship does not attach any especial value 
to such things,” said the father guardian with a 
derisive smile; “ but I must allow myself to recall 
to you that the Holy Father in Rome has only late- 
ly addressed a circular to all the cloisters, recom- 
mending the purchase of rare relics to the awaken- 
ing and advancing of the true faith.” 

“ You, father guardian, must understand that 
matter best,” said Brother Anselmo, sticking four 
new pins into his map. “ I think you brought back 
this circular about six months since, when you re- 
turned to take the place of guardian.” 

The father was in the act of giving an angry 
answer, but the prior came forward, and pointing 
to the door, said, “Introduce the stranger with 
the relics.” 

A few moments later the traveller from the 
hotel of Signor Montardo entered the prior’s 
room. He received a kindly welcome, and was 
asked to show his treasures. 

The stranger hesitated, and looked significantly 
at the two monks. “ I begged to be allowed to 
shew them to your worship alone,” said he. 


“ These two fathers are consecrated priests, and 
may therefore dare to look upon these holy treas 
ures,” said the prior, with a scarcely perceptible 
smile. 

“ I solemnly swore to the man from whom I 
bought these relics, that I would only show 
them to the most worthy member of your order ; 
he was a very pious man, and bitter necessity 
alone forced him to sell his precious treasures ; h(i 
prayed to God to grant them a worthy place, and 
never to allow them to be desecrated by unholj 
eyes or hands. As the most holy and worthy 
brother is ever chosen to be the prior, I swore 
to show the relics only to the prior. Your 
worship will surely not ask me to break my 
oath ? ” 

The prior made no answer ; but nodded to the 
two monks, who silently left the room. 

“ And now, sir, show your treasures,” said the 
prior, as the door closed behind them. 

“ Your worship,” said the stranger, rapidly, “ I 
have nothing but a letter from the Abbe Basti- 
ani, which I was to give into your own hands.” 
He drew a letter from his bosom, which he handed 
to the prior, who received it with anxious haste 
and hid it in his robe ; then, with quick but noise- 
less steps he passed hastily through the room, 
and with a rapid movement dashed open the door ; 
a low cry was heard, and a black figure tumbled 
back upon the floor. 

“ Ah ! is that you, father guardian ? ” sa’d the 
prior, in a tone of sympathy. “ I fear that I hurt 
you.” 

“ Not so, your worship ; I only returned to 
say to you that it is the hour for dinner, and 
the pious brothers are already assembled in the 
haU.” 

“And I opened the door to call after you, 
father, and entreat you to take my place at the 
table. As I am in the act of looking at these 
holy relics, and touching them, I dare not soil 
my hands so soon afterward with earthly food. 
You will, therefore, kindly take my place, and I 
will not appear till the evening meal. Go, then, 
worthy brother, and may God bless you richly.” 
He bowed and raising his right hand, made the 
sign of the cross, while the father guardian slowly, 
and with a frowning brow, passed through the 
room. Having reached the opposite door, he 
paused and looked back ; but seeing the prior 
still standing upon the threshold of his room, and 
gazing after him, he dashed open the door and 
disappeared. 

“ Now, sir,” said the prior, entering and closing 
the door carefully, “ we are alone, and I am ready 
to listen to you.” 


197 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ I pray your worship to read first the letter of 
your brother, the Abbe Bastiani.” 

“ Ah ! he has told you that I am his brbther ? ” 
said the prior, eagerly. “ He trusts you then, 
fully? Well, I will read the letter.” He opened 
and read it impatiently. “ This is a very laconic 
and enigmatical letter,” said he. “ My brother 
refers me wholly to you; he assures me I can 
confide entirely in your silence and discretion, and 
entreats me to assist you in the attainment of 
your object. Make known to me then, signor, in 
what way I can serve you, and what aim you have 
in view.” 

“ First, I will give your worship a proof that I 
trust you fully and unconditionally. I will tell 
you who I am, and then make known my purpose ; 
you will then be able to decide how far you can 
give me counsel and aid.” 

“ Let us step into this window-niche,” said the 
prior ; “ we will be more secure from eavesdrop- 
pers. Now, signor, I am ready to listen.” 

The stranger bowed. “ First, I must pray your 
worship’s forgiveness, for having dared to deceive 
you. I am no merchant, and have nothing to do 
with relics ; I am a soldier ! my name is Cocceji, 
and I have the honor to be an adjutant of the 
King of Prussia. My royal master has intrusted 
me with a most important and secret mission, and I 
am commissioned by your brother, the Abbe Bas- 
tiani, to ask in his name for your assistance in 
this great matter.” 

“ In what does your mission consist ? ” said the 
prior, calmly. 

The Baron Cocceji smiled. “It is diflScult — 
yes, impossible to tell you in a few words. Your 
worship must allow me a wider scope, in order to 
explain myself fully.” 

“ Speak on ! ” said the prior. 

“ I see, by the maps and the arrangements of 
the pins, that your worship knows exactly the po- 
sition and circumstances of my royal master, whom 
all Europe admires and wonders at, and whom his 
enemies fear most when they have just defeated 
him. They know that my king is never so great, 
never so energetic and bold in action, as when he 
is seemingly at a disadvantage, and overwhelmed 
by misfortunes. The bold glance of the great 
Frederick discovers ever-new fountains of help ; 
he creates in himself both power and strength, 
and when his enemies think they have caught the 
royal lion in their nets, his bold eye has already 
discovered the weak spot ; he tears it apart, and 
jiakes his foes, bewildered with terror and aston- 
ishment, fly before him. It is true, the king has 
just lost three battles ! The Austrians and Rus- 
sians defeated him at Hochkirch, at Kiinersdorf, 


and at Mayen. But what have they gained ? 
They have, in these three battles, lost more than 
the king ; they have exhausted their resources— 
their own, and those of their allies ; but Frederick 
stands still opposed to them, full of strength and 
power. His army is enlarged; from every side, 
from every province, shouting crowds stream on- 
ward to join the colors of their king. Enthusiasm 
makes a youth of the graybeard, and changes boys 
to men. Each one of them will have his part in 
the experience and fame of the great Frederick, 
and demands this of him as a holy right. The 
king’s treasury is not exhausted; the people, with 
joy and gladness, have offered up upon the altar 
of the fatherland, their possessions, their jewels, 
and their precious things, and submit with enthu- 
siasm to all the restrictions and self-denials which 
the war imposes upon them. They desire nothing 
but to see their king victorious ; to help him to 
this, they will give property, blood — yes, life itself. 
It is this warm, enthusiastic love of his people 
which makes the king so fearful to his enemies ; 
it protects him like a diamond shield, steels him 
against the balls of his adversaries, and fills his 
proud, heroic soul with assurances of triumph. 
All Europe shares this enthusiasm and these con- 
victions of ultimate success with the Prussians 
and their dear-loved king. All Europe greets the 
hero with loud hosannas, who alone defies so 
many and such mighty foes, who has often over- 
come them, and from whom they have not yet 
wrung one single strip of the land they have 
watered with their blood, and in whose bosom 
their fallen hosts lie buried in giant graves. This 
has won for him the sympathy of all Europe, and 
the love and admiration of even the subjects of 
his great and powerful foes. In France — t’nat 
France, whose warriors suffered so shameful a de- 
feat at Rossbach, and whose government is filled 
with rage and thirsty for revenge against this he- 
roic king — even in France is Frederick admired 
and worshipped. Even in the palace of the king, 
they no longer refuse to acknowledge his worth 
and glory. But lately, the young Duke de Belle- 
isle exhorted the Marquise de Pompadour to im- 
plore King Louis to prosecute the war with* ear- 
nestness and ardor, otherwise King Frederick 
might soon be expected in Paris with his army. The 
Marquise de Pompadour cried out warmly, ‘ Good I 
then I shall at last see a king ! ’ In Germany, his 
enemies seek in vain to arouse the fanaticism of 
the people against the heretical king. Catholic 
Bavaria — the Palatinate — Main — enter murmur- 
ingly and reluctantly into this war against this 
Protestant king, although they wear the beads iu 
their pockets, and the scapular over their shoul* 


198 


FEEDERIOK THE OREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


dera. Eren if Frederick the Second is now over- 
come by his enemies, in the public opinion he is 
the conqueror, and the whole world sympathizes 
with him. But public opinion is liis only ally, and 
the sympathy of the people is his only source of 
revenue, outside of the subsidy from England, 
which will soon be exhausted. Frederick, there- 
fore, must look after other allies, other friends, 
who will render him assistance, in so far as not to 
unsheathe the sword against him, and to prepare 
some difficulties for his adversaries, and occupy a 
portion of their attention. Such friends the king 
hopes to find in Italy; and to attain this object, I 
would ask counsel and help of your worship.” 

“ And in how far is it thought that I can be 
useful in this matter ? ” said the prior, thought- 
fully. 

“ Your worship has a second brother, who is 
minister of the King of Sardinia, and it is well 
known he is the king’s especial confidant and fa- 
vorite.” 

“ And my noble brother, Giovanni, merits fully 
the favor of his king ! ” said the prior, heartily. 
“ He is the most faithful, the most exalted servant 
of his master ! ” 

“ In all his great and good characteristics, he 
resembles his brother, the Prior of San Giovanni, 
and I hope, in this also, that he is the friend of 
the King of Prussia ! ” said the stranger. 

“ But I fear neither the friendship of my broth- 
er Giovanni nor my own can be useful to the King 
of Prussia. I am a poor and powerless monk, 
suspected and watched. My offence is, that I 
have not, like the fanatical priests of the Church, 
wished for the destruction and death of the great 
Frederick. My brother is the minister of a king, 
whose land is neither rich enough in gold to pay 
• subsidies, nor in men to place an army in the 
field.” 

“Well, then, we must take occasion to increase 
the territory of the King of Sardinia ! ” said Baron 
CocceJL “We must give him so large a realm, 
that he will be a dangerous neighbor to France 
and Austria. This is the plan and the intention 
of my king. Upon these points turn the propo- 
sals -I will make in Turin, for the furtherance of 
which, I pray your assistance. The King of Sar- 
dinia has well-grounded claim to Milan, to Mantua, 
and to Bologna, by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle ; 
why not make himself King of Lombai’dy ? Un- 
happy Italy is like unhappy Germany — torn to 
pieces. In place of obeying one master, they 
must submit to the yoke of many. The dwellers 
in Italy, instead of being Italians, call themselves 
Milanese, Venetians, Sardinians, Tuscans, Ro- 
mans, Neapolitans, and I know not what All 


this weakens the national pride, and takes from 
the people the joyful consciousness of their great- 
ness. Italy must be one in herself, in order to be 
once more great and powerful. Let the King of 
Sardinia take possession of Upper Italy, and he 
will, with his rightful inheritance, and aa King of 
Lombardy, be a powerful prince — feared by ha 
enemies, and welcomed by his allies.” 

“And do you think that Naples would look 
quietly on and witness this rapid growth of Sar- 
dinia ? ” said the prior, laughing. 

“ We will give to Naples an opportunity at the 
same time to enlarge her borders. The young 
King of Naples has energy; he has proved it. 
When his father, Don Carlos, was called by right 
of succession to the Spanish throne, he had him- 
self declared King of Naples, not regarding the 
right of the Duke of Parma, to whom, according to 
the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, the Neapolitan throne 
rightly belonged. King Ferdinand is already a 
usurper ! Let him go on, even as successfully in 
the same path — he has taken Naples — let him 
take Tuscany and the States of the Church, and, as 
King of Lower Italy, he will be as powerful as the 
King ot Sardinia. In order that both may obtain 
possession of these lands uninterrupted and unin- 
jured, will the King of Prussia so completely oc- 
cupy the attention of Austria and France in 
Germany and Flanders as to make it impossible 
for them to interfere with Naples and Sar- 
dinia ? ” * 

“By Heaven! a great and bold idea; alto- 
gether in harmony with the energetic spirit of 
Frederick,” cried the prior. “ If the two Ii-alian 
kings resemble the great Frederick, they will 
adopt this plan with enthusiasm.” 

He had risen, and stepped hastily backward 
and forward, now and then murmuring a few 
disconnected words ; he then drew near the table 
and stood earnestly regarding the maps. 

Cocceji did not dare to interrupt him by word 
or sound ; he watched him, however, closely. At 
last, however, the inward struggle seemed to be 
over ; he stood quietly before the baron, and, 
fixing his dark, earnest eyes with a thoughtful ex- 
pression upon him, he said, softly : “ You have 
confided to me a great and dangerous enterprise. 
If I did my duty as the unconditional subject of 
the Pope, and as a priest of the holy Church, of 
which Frederick is the bitter antagonist, I should 
arrest you here, as a dangerous negotiator and 
enemy, and above all, I should give speedy notice 
of this conspiracy, which not only threatens Clem- 
ent as head of the Church, but as sovereign of the 

♦ Pi-euss, “ History of Frederick the Great” 


199 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


States of the Church. Hut — what would you have ? 
; — I was not born a priest, and my heart and 
my spirit have never been able to accommodate 
themselves fully to the discipline of my order. I 
j have always remained, I fear,” said he, with a 
* graceful smile, “the true brother of the free- 
; thinking Abb6 Bastiani ; and it appears to me, 
it lies in our blood to love and pay homage to 
■ the great and intellectual King of Prussia. I will, 
therefore, listen to and follow the voice of my 
blood and of my heart, and forget a little that I 
! am a priest of the only church in which salvation 
can be found. As far as it lies in my power, I 
will promote your object. I will give yoii letters 
to Turin, not only to my brother Giovanni, but to 
Father Tomaseo, the king’s confessor. He is my 
most faithful friend, and sympathizes fully with 
me. If you can win him and my brother 
Giovanni, you have won the king, and he will 
lend a willing ear to your proposals. Your plans 
are bold, but my brother and Father Tomaseo 
are daring, undaunted men ; the progress of Italy 
and the greatness of their king lies nearest their 
hearts. They are both influenced by my judg- 
ment, and when you hand them my letters, you 
will at least be a most welcome guest.” 

He gave the baron his hand, and listened with 
a kindly smile to the enthusiastic thanks of the 
over-happy soldier, whose fir^t diplomatic mission 
seemed to promise so favorably. 

“Be, however, always prudent and discreet, 
signor,” said the prior, laughing. “ Play your 
role as merchant ; do not lay it aside for one 
moment while in Turin. Leave V enice as quickly as 
possible; no doubt the brother guardian,, who was 
sent from Rome as a spy, who watches not only 
all my actions, but my words and thoughts, has 
remarked our long interview, and is already suspi- 
cious. As he has a fine nose^ he may soon discover a 
part of your secret ! Do not return to the cloister. 
During the day I will send you the promised 
letters by a faithful brother. As soon as you 
receive them, be off! My best wishes and my 
prayers accompany you. Without doubt, you are, 
like your great king, a heretic. I cannot, there- 
fore commend you to Mary Mother, and the 
saints, but I will pray to God to watch over 
you.” 

The prior stopped suddenly and listened 1 Loud 
cries of wild alarm forced themselves upon his 
ear ; the sounds appeared to come from directly 
under his feet, and waxed louder and fiercer 
every moment. 

“It is in the dining-room,” said the prior, 

* follow me, sir, I beg you, we may need your 
help — some one h murdering my monks ! ” They 


hastened from the room with flying feet ; they 
passed through the long corridors and down the 
steps ; the cries and roars and howls and curses 
became ever clearer. 

“I was not mistaken,” said the prior, “this 
comes from the refectory.” He rushed to the 
door and threw it hastily open, then stood, as if 
chained to the threshold, and stared with horror 
at the mad spectacle before him. 

There were no murderous strangers there play- 
ing wild havoc amongst his monks ; but the 
worthy fathers themselves were making the fierce 
tumult which filled the prior with alarm. The 
saloon no longer resembled the ascetic, peace- 
ful refectory of cloister brothers. It was changed 
into a battle-field, upon which the two hosts 
thirsting for blood stood opposed. 

The table upon which the glasses, plates, and 
dishes seemed to have been thrown together in 
wild disorder, was shoved to one side, and in the 
open space the monks stood with flashing eyes, ut- 
tering curses and imprecations ; not one of them 
remarked that the prior and Cocceji stood at the 
door, astonished spectators of this unheard-of 
combat. 

“ Silence !” said the father guardian, making fran- 
tic gesticulations toward the monks who stood op- 
posed to him and his adherents — “ silence ! no one 
shall dare within these sacred walls to speak of 
the Prussian heretical king in any other way tliar 
with imprecations. Whoever wishes success tc 
his arms is an apostate, a traitor, and heretic. God 
has raised the sword of His wrath against him, and 
He will crush him utterly; He has blessed the 
weapons of his adversaries as Clement has also 
done. Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic 
majesty I ” 

The monks by his side roared out, “ Long live 
Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty ! ” 

“ She will not be victorious over Frederick of 
Prussia,” cried Father Anselmo, the leader of the 
opposite party. “ The Pope has blessed the arms 
of Daun, but God himself has blessed the weapons 
of Frederick. Long live the King of Prussia ! 
Long five the great Frederick I ” 

“ Long live the great Fi'ederick ! ” cried the 
monks by the side of Father Anselmo. 

The party of the father guardian rushed upon 
them with doubled fists ; the adversaries followed 
their example. “ Long live Theresa ! ” cried the 
one. “ Long live Frederick 1 ” cried the other — 
and the blows and kicks fell thickly right and left, 
with the most lavish prodigality. 

It was in vain that the prior advanced among 
them and commanded peace — no one regarded 
him. In their wild and indiscriminate rage they 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


iJOO 

pressed him and shoved him from side to side, and 
in the heat of the battle several powerful blows 
fell upon his breast ; so the poor prior took refuge 
again at the door near Cocoeji, who was laughing 
merrily at the wild disorder. 

The cries of “ Long live Theresa ! ” “ Hmg /ive 
Frederick ! ” were mingling lustily* in the bloody 
strife, 

The father guardian was enraged beyond bear- 
ing, and his flashing eye looked around for some 
sharp weapon with which to demolish Father An- 
selmo, who had just exclaimed, “ Long live Fred- 
erick, the victor of Leuthen and Zorndorf ! ” He 
seized a large tin cup, which was near him upon 
the table, and with a fierce curse he dashed it in 
the face of Father Anselm o, and the blood burst 
from his nose. This was the signal for a new or. 
der of attack. Both parties rushed to the table 
to arm themselves ; the cups whizzed through the 
air and wounded severely the heads against which 
they were well aimed. Here and there might be 
heard whimperings and piteous complaints, mixed 
with curses and frantic battle-cries — “ Long live 
Theresa ! ” “ Long live Frederick ! ” Some of the 
warriors crept from the contest into the corners 
to wdpe the blood from their wounds and return 
with renewed courage to the contest. A few 
cowards had crept under the table to escape the 
cups and kicks which were falling in ' every direc- 
tion. 

Father Anselmo remarked them, and with loud, 
derisive laughter he pointed them out. 

“ The Teresiani live under the table, no Prus- 
siano has crept there. All the Teresiani would 
gladly hide as they have often done before.” 

The Prussiani acconjpanied these words of their 
leader with joyous shouts. 

The father guardian trembled with 'rage; he 
seized a large dish from the table and dashed it 
at Anselmo, who dodged in time, and then with a 
powerful arm returned the compliment. It was a 
well-directed javelin. The tin dish struck the 
father guardian exactly in the back — ^he lost his 
balance, and fell to the earth. The Prussiani 
greeted this heroic deed of their chief with shouts 
of triumph. 

“ So shall all the Teresiani perish ! ” 

The battle waxed hotter and fiercer, the air was 
jhick with missiles. 

“ They will murder each other ! ” cried the prior, 
turning to the Baron Cocceji. ^ 

“Not so, your worship ; there will only be a 
few blue swellings and bleeding noses — ^nothing 
more,” said Cocceji, laughing. 

“ Ah, you laugh young man ; jou laugh at this 
isad spectacle ! ” 


“ Forgive me, your worship ; but 1 swear to 
you, I have never seen warriors more eager in the 
fray, and I have never been more curious to wit 
ness the result of any battle.” 

“ But you shall not witness it,” eaid the prior, 
resolutely. “You shall no longer be a spectator 
of the unworthy and shameful conduct of my 
monks. I pray you to withdraw instantly ; in a 
few hours I will send you the letters, and if you 
believe that I have rendered you the least service, 
I ask in return that you will tell no one what you 
have seen.” 

“ I promise, your worship,” said Cocceji, wtth 
forced gravity. “ If the people without shall ask 
me what all this tumult means, I will say that the 
pious fathers in the cloister are singing their 
‘ Horas^ ” * 

Baron Cocceji bowed to the prior, and returned 
with gay and hopeful thoughts to the hotel of the 
“ White Lion.” 

A few hours later, a monk appeared and desired 
to speak with the stranger about the holy relics. 

Cocceji recognized in him the worthy Father 
Anselmo, the victor over the father guardian. 

“ Will you do me a great pleasure, worthy fa- 
ther? ” said he. “Tell me which party remained 
in possession of the field after your great battle.” 

An expression of triumphant joy flashed in 
Father Anselmo’s eyes. 

“ The Prussiani were victorious, and I think 
the Teresiani will never dare to recommence the 
strife ; four of their monks lie in their cells with 
broken noses, and it will be some weeks before 
the father guardian will be capable of performing 
his duties as spy; he is sore and stiff, and his 
mouth is poorer by a few teeth. May all the ene- 
mies of the great Frederick share his fate ! May 
God bless the King of Prussia and be gracious to 
his friends ! ” 

He greeted the baron with the sign of the cross, 
and withdrew. 

The baron remembered the warning of the prior, 
and hastened quietly from Venice. Already the 
next morning he was on the highway to Turin, j*. 


* Baron Cocceji did not keep his word, as this whole 
scene is historic. 

t This diplomatic mission failed, because of the faint 
heart of the King of Sardinia. He rejected the bold prop- 
ositions of Frederick entirely, and said, in ustification of 
himself, that since the alliance between the powers of 
France and Austria, he had his head between a pair of 
tongs, which were ever threatening to close and cruBl 
him. 

Baron Cocceji was not more fortunate in Naples, and 
after many vain efforts he was forced to return homo 
having accomplished nothing. — Duten’s “ Memoirs of a 
Traveller.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


201 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE RETURN FROM THE ARMY. 

It was a sunny, summer day — one of those 
Jays which incline the heart to prayer, and bring 
I tears of happiness to the eyes. There are no such 

I days in cities ; if we would enjoy them we must 
go into the country — we must seek them in peace- 
f ful valleys, in fragrant forests, where the silence 
I is unbroken, except by the fluttering leaves and 
' the singing of birds. We must understand the 
' eloquent silence of Nature in order to enjoy the 
holy Sabbath quiet of a summer day ; and we must 
be able to hear the language which the flowers 
1 breathe forth, to understand the sighing of the 
wind, and the rustling of the trees. 

' V ery few can do this, but few would care for it. 

! God has not opened the eyes of the hearts of many 
I of us to this extent ; these things are hidden by a 
: thick veil from the many ; they cannot see the 
t heavenly beauty of Nature — they do not under- 
i stand the fairy tale which she is ever telling. This 
I is gentle, idyllic, fairy lore, unsought by the 
i learned. It whispers of roses, of dancing elves, 
i of weeping clouds, of dreaming violets. 

Happy are those who listen to these fables, who 
: are not called by the necessities of life to hear 
the roar of cannon — ^to find all these sweet and 
holy songs overpowered by the noise of war, the 
horrors of bloodshed I 

War, destructive war, still' held a lighted torch 
over unhappy Germany ; cities and villages were 
in ruins — even the peace of Nature w^as destroyed. 
The valleys, usually so quiet, now often resounded 
with the roar of cannon. The fields remained 
uncultivated, the meadows uncared for ; there were 
no strong hands to work. The men and youths 
were gone, only the old grayheads and the wo- 
men were in the villages, and the work advanced 
: but slowly under their trembling hands. Unhap- 
piness and want, care and sorrow were in the 
land. 

Even in the once peaceful and happy village of 
Briinen on the Rhine, misery had made itself felt. 
Grief and anguish dwelt with the bereaved moth- 
ers, with the forsaken brides, and the weak old 
men ; with the useless cripples, who had returned 
from the war, and who spent their time in relating 
the dangers through which they had passed, in 
telling of the sons, the brothers, the husbands, 
and the fathers of those who listened to their 
tales — those dear ones who were, perhaps, now 
itretched upon the battle-field. 

But on this bright day no one in the vil- 
lage gave a thought to the beauties of Nature, 


for a new misfortune weighed heavily upon the 
hearts of the unhappy inhabitants. They were no 
longer the subjects of the hero-king, who was so 
worshipped by all ; under whose colors their fathers 
and sons still fought. The French army, led by 
the Duke de Broglie and the Count de St. Ger- 
main, had taken possession of all that part of the 
country, and held it in the name of their king. It 
was declared a French province, and the inhabi- 
tants, helpless and forsaken, were compelled to 
acknowledge the French as their masters, and to 
meet the taxes which were imposed upon them. 

It was a most bitter necessity, and no one felt it 
more deeply than the old shepherd Buschman, 
the father of Charles Henry. He sat, as we first 
saw him, on the slope of the field where his flock 
was grazing, guarded and kept in order by the 
faithful Phylax. His eye was not clear and bright 
as then, but troubled and sorrowful, and his counte- 
nance bore an expression of the deepest grief. He 
had no one to whom he could pour forth his sor- 
rows — no one to comfort him — he was quite alone. 
Even his youngest son, Charles Henry, the real 
Charles Henry, had been compelled to leave him. 
The recruiting officers of the king had come a 
short time before the French troops had taken 
possession of the province, and had conscripted 
the few strong men who were still left in the vil- 
lage of Briinen. 

But this time the men of Briinen had not 
answered joyfully to the demand. Even old 
Buschman had wished to keep his son Charles 
Henry with him. Had he not sent six sons to 
the field of battle, and had they not all died as he- 
roes? Charles Henry was his last treasure, his 
one remaining child ; his grief-torn heart clung to 
him with the deepest devotion. To be parted from 
him seemed more bitter than death itself. When 
the recruiting officer came into the hut of Busch- 
man and summoned Charles Henry to follow him 
as a soldier, the eyes of the old man tilled with 
tears, and he laid his hands upon the arm of his 
son as if he feared to see him instantly torn from 
his sight. 

“ Captain,” he said, with a trembling voice, “ * 
have sent the king six sons already ; they have aL 
died in his service. Tell me truly, is the king in 
great need ? If so, take me as well as my son — 
if not, leave me my son.” 

The officer smiled, and extended bis hand to the 
old man. “ Keep your son,” he said. “ If you 
have lost six sons in the war, it is right that you 
should keep the seventh.” 

Buschman uttered a cry of joy, and would have 
embraced his son, but Charles Henry pushed him 
gently back, and his father read in his counto- 


202 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


nance a determination and energy that he had 
rarely seen there. 

“ No, father,” he said, “ let me go — ^let me be a 
soldier as my brothers were. I should have gone 
four years ago, when I was prevented, and Anna 
Sophia — Ah, let me be a soldier, father,” he 
said, interrupting himself. “ All the young men 
of the village are going, and I am ashamed to re- 
main at home.” 

The old man bent his head sadly. “ Go then, 
my son,” he said ; “ God’s blessing rest upon 
you ! ” 

•Thus Charles Henry went ; not from a feeling 
of enthusiasm for the life of a soldier — ^not from 
love to his king — ^but merely because he was 
ashamed to remain at home. 

He had now been absent several months, and 
his father had not heard from him. But the news 
of the lately lost battle had reached the village, 
and it was said that the Prince Royal of Bruns- 
wick, in whose corps Charles Henry was, had been 
defeated. The old shepherd remembered this as 
he sat in the meadow this bright summer morn- 
ing. His thoughts were with his distant son, and 
when he raised his eyes to heaven it was not to 
admire its dazzling blue, or its immeasurable 
depth, but to pray to the Almighty to spare his 
son. The peaceful tranquillity of Nature alarmed 
the old man — she speaks alone to those who have 
an ear attuned to her voice — she says nothing to 
those who listen with a divided heart. Buschman 
could endure it no longer ; he arose and started to- 
ward the village. He longed to see some human 
being — to encounter some look of love — to receive 
sympathy from some one who understood his 
grief, who suffered as he did, and who did not 
wear the eternal smile that Nature wore. 

He went to the village, therefore, and left the 
care of his flock to Phylax. It comforted his 
heart as he passed through the principal street of 
Briinen and received kind greetings from every 
hut he passed. He felt consoled and almost hap- 
py when here and there the peasants hurried tow- 
ard him as he passed their huts, and begged him 
to come in and join them at their simple mid-day 
meal, and were quite hurt when he refused 
because his own dinner was prepared for him at 
home. These men loved him — they pitied his 
loneliness — they told him of their own cares, 
their own fears — and as he endeavored to console 
and encourage them, he felt his strength increase 
— he was more hopeful, more able to bear what- 
ever God might send. 

“We must be united in love,” said Buschman ; 
“ we will help each other to bear the sorrows that 
may come upon us. To-morrow is Sunday; in 


the morning we will go to the house of God, and 
after we have whispered to Him the prayers which 
He alone must hear, we will assemble together 
under the linden-tree in the square and talk of 
the old times and those who have left us. Do you 
not remember that it was under the linden-tree 
we heard of the first victory that our king gained 
in this fearful war ? It was there that Anna So- 
phia Detzloff read the news to us, and we rejoiced 
over the battle of Losovitz. And I also rejoiced 
and thanked God, although the victory had cost 
me the lives of two of my sons. But they per- 
ished as heroes. I could glory in such a death ; 
and Anna Sophia read their praises from the pa- 
per. Ah, if Anna lived, I would at least have a 
daughter.” 

He could speak no more, emotion arrested the 
words on his lips ; he bowed to his friends and 
passed on to his lonely hut. His little table was 
spread, and the young girl who served him, and who 
slept in his hut at night, was just placing a dish 
of steaming potatoes before his plate. The old 
man sat down to his solitary meal ; he ate only to 
sustain his body ; his thoughts were far away — he 
took no pleasure in his food. In the middle of 
his meal he started up ; a shadow had fallen across 
the window, and two loving, well-known eyes had 
seemed to look in on him. Buschman, as if par- 
alyzed with delight, let fall his spoon and looked 
toward the door. Yes, the bolt moved, the door 
opened, and there stood the tall figure of a Prus- 
sian soldier. 

The old man uttered a cry and extended his 
arms. “ Oh, my son, my beloved son, do I indeed 
see you once more ? ” 

“ Yes, father, I am here ; and God willing, we 
will never again be parted.” And Charles Henry 
hastened to the outstretched arms of his father, 
and kissing him tenderly, pressed him to his 
heart. 

“ The thought of you, dear father, has led me 
here,” he said ; “but for you I would not have re- 
turned to Briinen ; I should have wandered forth 
into the world — the world which is so much greater 
and more beautiful than I ever dreamed. But 
your dear old eyes were before me ; I heard your 
loved voice, which called to me, and I returned to 
you.” 

“ God be praised ! ” said his father, folding his 
hands, and raising his eyes gratefully toward 
heaven. “ Oh how kind and merciful is God, to 
give me back my last, my only son, the support 
of my old age, the delight of my eyes ! You will 
not leave me again. This is not merely a leave 
of absence ; you have obtained your release, the 
war is ended, the king has declared peace.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


203 


The eyes of the old man were dimmed with 
tears ; he did not perceive how Charles Henry 
trembled, and that a deep flush mounted to his 
brow. 

“No, father,” he said, with downcast eyes, “I 
will never leave you again. We have all returned 
home. It will be bright and gay once more in 
the village, and the work will go forward, for 
there is a great difference between a dozen old 
men and as many yo\mg ones. It was most need- 
ful for us to return. The corn is ripe, and should 
have been already gathered. We must go to work. 
To-morrow shall be a happy day for the village ; 
the whole neighborhood shall perceive that the 
twelve young men of Briinen have returned. We 
met a violinist on the way, and we engaged him 
for to-morrow. He must play for us ninder the 
linden-tree, and our fathers and mothers, and sis- 
ters and sweethearts must join us, and we will 
dance and sing and make merry.” 

“ What a coincidence ! ” said the old shepherd, 
with a bright smile. “We had already decided 
that we would meet together to-morrow under the 
linden. We wished to sit there and mourn to- 
gether over our lost sons. To sing and dance is 
much better, and perhaps the old grayheads will 
ioin you.” 

“ You must dance with me, father,” said Cha'^'es 
Henry, laughing. “ I will take no refusa*.’ 

“I will, my son, I will ; joy has made me young 
Kgain, and if Phylax, the old graybeard, does not 
mind, and will allow me, I will dance with you ; 
but you know he is always jealous of you. I am 
sure the whole village will envy you your gay 
young partner. But now, my son,” he continued, 
gravely, “ tell me of our king, and how is it that 
he has declared peace so suddenly, and whether 
he has been victorious or the reverse.” 

“ I know nothing of the king,” said Charles 
Henry ; “ I was not near him, but in the division 
of the Duke of Brunswick.” 

“ I know that, my son ; but the duke would 
not proclaim peace without the knowledge and 
consent of the king.” 

“ Oh, father, they will compel the king to make 
peace,” cried Charles Henry. “And as for the 
Duke of Brunswick, he has given up the attack 
against Wesel and has withdrawn to Westphalia, 
and the French are in possession of the entire 
lowlands, which, it is to be hoped, they will re- 
tain.” 

“You hope that?” asked his father, with as- 
tonishment. 

“ Well, yes, father. The French king is now, 
and perhaps will always be, the lord of Cleve ; 
and, as his subjects, we must wish him success, 


and hope that he will always conquer the King of 
Prussia.” 

“ What do you say, my son ? ” asked the old 
man, with a bewildered expression. “ I fear you 
are right. The French are our masters now, and, 
as our king has declared peace with France, we 
have the unhappiness of being French subjects. 
May God protect us from such a fate ! It would 
be fearful if we dared not call the great hero-king 
our king, and, if we should live to see the day 
when our sons should be compelled, as French 
soldiers, to go to battle against their king. Only 
think, Charles Henry, you w’ould not be allowed 
to wear your fine Prussian uniform on Sundays, 
and it is so becoming to you, and is as good as 
new. But how is it, my son, that they have left 
you the uniform ? They are usually taken from 
the released soldiers and put amongst the army 
stores.” 

“We all came home in our Prussian uniforms,” 
said Charles Henry, “but of course we will lay 
them aside to-day.” 

“ Why to-day ? ” 

“ Because we are French subjects, and therefore 
it is not proper for us to wear the uniform of the 
enemy, the King of Prussia. That is also the 
reason why we have returned home. When we 
learned that Cleve had fallen into the possession 
of the French, we knew that we were no longer 
the subjects of the King of Prussia, and we dared 
not fight under his flag against the French, whose 
subjects we had become. We considered that, 
and we thought how much it would injure you all 
here in Briinen if it were known that your sons 
were in the army of the Prussian king. Princi- 
pally on that account we determined to return 
home, and we left our regiment yesterday morn- 
ing, which was on the point of marching off to 
Minden, and Ave walked the entire day and half 
the night. We slept a few hours in a forest, and 
at the break of day we recommenced our journey. 
And now, father, that I have seen you, and you 
know every thing, I will go to my room and take 
off this uniform, and become a peasant once more.” 
He sought to leave the room hastily, for the 
amazed, horror-struck expression of his father was 
most disagreeable to him. 

But Buschman placed his hand so heavily upon 
his son’s arm that he was compelled to remain. 
“ Say it is a jest, Charles,” he cried, in an excited 
voice. “ It is not possible for my son, the broth- 
er of my six hero-boys, to speak thus ! It is 
merely a jest, Charles. You wished to joke with 
your old father. It is not true that you have de- 
serted the flag of our king ; put an end to this 
cruel jest, Charles Henry, and show me your leave 


204 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


of absence, which every honest soldier obtains 
before leaving his regiment. Do you hear, Charles 
Henry ? Show it to me quickly.” He extended 
his trembling hand toward his son, while with 
the other he still held his arm in a powerful grasp. 

“Father,” said Charles Henry, fiercely, “I have 
no such paper. It is as I told you ; we have left 
the Prussian army because we are no longer the 
subjects of the King of Prussia, and it is not 
necessary for us to remain in the service. We 
wish to become peasants once more.” 

“You lie! you lie!” cried his father. “You 
are no deserter — it is impossible that my son 
should be a deserter.” 

“No, father, I am no deserter,” returned his 
son, defiantly, as he freed his arm from the old 
man's grasp. “ I am no deserter — I have only 
done my duty as a subject of the French king. I 
have left the flag of the enemy, and I am here 
ready and willing to obey my new master as a true 
subject. That is all I have to say, father, and I 
believe when you consider, you will see that I was 
right, and that you will be pleased for me to take 
off* the Prussian uniform and remain with you.” 
He did not wait for his father’s answer, but left 
the room hastily, as if he feared to be again de- 
tained. 

The old man arose to follow him, but his feet 
refused their accustomed office; with a deep 
groan, he sank upon his chair, and as the scald- 
ing tears streamed from his eyes, he murmured ; 
“Oh, my God ! my son is a deserter ! Why did 
)ou permit me to live to see this shame? Why 
aid you not close my eyes that they might not 
meet this disgrace ? ” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE BRAVE FATHERS AND THE COWARDLY SONS. 

The clear bell of the village church was sound- 
ing for mass, calling the pious inhabitants of 
Briinen to worship in the temple of God. All the 
hut-doors were opening, and men and women in 
Sunday attire wending their way in solemn still- 
ness to church. They were followed by their chil- 
dren — the maidens with downcast, modest eyes, 
the boys with bright and joyous faces, proud of 
the thought that they were old enough to go to 
church. 

From the distant farm came the servants, two 
and two, up the broad chestnut alley, greeting 
here and there the church-goers, and walking on 
with them, chatting softly. They all remained 


standing a short time under the g.*eat linden, wait- 
ing until the bell ceased, until the church-doof 
was opened and the minister appeared with tiu 
sacristan and the four choir-boys. Not until then 
were they allowed to enter the church. 

A bright-looking crowd was assembled undor 
the linden; it seemed as if all the inhabitants of 
the village were there. All felt the necessity of 
visiting God’s house to-day to thank Him for the 
safe return of their sons, brothers, and lovers. 
The twelve boys who had returned were under the 
linden in their handsomest Sunday attire. But 
why did they stand alone ? Why was such a wide 
space left between them and the other villagers ? 
Why did the men avoid looking at them ? Why 
did the maidens step timidly back and remain si- 
lent when they approached and tried to speak with 
them ? Why were they all whispering together, 
pointing at the boys and turning their backs upon 
them when they drew near? 

“ Leave them alone,” whispered one of the boys 
to the others; “ they will be more friendly this 
afternoon when the music is playing and the wine 
and cake is handed.” 

“ There is my father, and I must go and meet 
him,” said Charles Henry, as he hastened toward 
the old man who was appi*oaching the square. 

All drew back from Charles Henry, and as he 
stood opposite his father, like actors upon the 
stage they found themselves alone amongst the 
spectators, who were gazing at them with breath- 
less expectation. 

“ Good-morning, father,” said Charles Henry, 
with forced gayety, as he offered his hand to his 
father. “ You slept so late to-day, and went to 
bed so early yesterday, that I have not been able 
to speak to you since our first greeting. So I bid 
you good-morrow now.” 

The old man looked quietly at him, but he did 
not take the proffered hand, and tried to pass 
him. 

“ Father,” continued Charles Henry, “ you must 
be tired; our hut lies at the other end of the vil- 
lage, and that is a Icng walk for your old legs. 
Rest yourself on me, father, and allow your son 
to lead you to church.” He stretched forth his 
hand to take the old man’s arm, but Buschman 
pushed it back, and passed him, without looking, 
without even speaking to him. 

Charles Henry sprang after him. “Father,” 
he cried, “ do you not hear me ? Can you — 

The old man did not really appear to hear him, 
for he walked toward the village justice with a 
quiet, unmoved face, as the latter advanced to 
meet him. 

“ Friend,” said Buschman, in a loud, firm voire. 




205 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


■ I am fatigued with my walk ; will you lend me 
jour arm ? ” 

He leaned heavily upon the offered arm, and 
walked quickly onward. All heard these words, 
but only the justice saw the tears which rolled 
down his pale, sunken cheeks. 

“ You were very harsh, father,” murmured the 
justice, as they walked on. 

“ Were you more forgiving?” said the old man, 
with a trembling voice. “Was not your son 
amongst the twelve, and did you speak to him, or 
look at him ? ” 

“ He did not pass the night in my house ; I 
drove him away ! ” said the justice, gloomily. 

“Oh, ohl” sighed the old man; “how bitter 
is our grief! We love our children most Avhen 
tney give us most sorrow; but it must be so, 
friend, we cannot act otherwise. Let us enter the 
church, and pray God to give us strength to do 
what is right.” 

Supported by the justice, he entered the church- 
yard, while from the other side the minister, fol- 
lowed by the sacristan and the choir-boys, was 
just appearing. 

“ See,” murmured .the justice, “ our good old 
minister has not come to-day to preach to us, but 
has sent his assistant. There is certainly some 
disagreeable order of the archbishop to read to 
i us, and our pastor is not willing to read it ; he is 
i a good Prussian, and loves the great king.” 

' The young minister advanced smilingly to meet 
the two old men. 

“Well,” said he, with sanctimonious friendli- 
ness, as he offered both of them a hand, “ allow 
me to congratulate you.” 

“ For what ? ” asked both of them, astonished. 
“For the happiness of yesterday. Can there 
be a greater joy for fathers than to receive their 
sons safe and sound from the tumult of battle ? 
Your sons have returned home, faithfully fulfilling 
their duty to their new master, his Catholic ma- 
jesty of France. They abandoned the flag of the 
heretic king, laid aside his uuiform, and are again 
simple peasants, ready to assist their fathers in 
the field. Come, my young friends, that I may 
give you the blessing of the Church, for so reso- 
lutely fulfilling your duty.” 

He held out his hand to the young men, who were 
just entering the churchyard. They obeyed his 
call the more readily, as it was the first welcome 
they had received — the first kind word they had 
heard since their return. As they approached the 
minister, the other men drew back, and entered 
the church hastily, followed by their wives and 
children. 

“ You will see, father,” murmured the justice, 

14 


as they seated themselves together in the pew 
“that there is an order to-day. Whenever the 
assistant is so delighted and friendly, there is 
something wrong. They are certainly medita 
ting some villanous trick against Frederick, and 
therefore our good pastor is not here.” 

The justice had prophesied aright. When the 
services were over, and the congregation about to 
leave the church, the assistant again mounted tho 
pulpit, and desired them to remain for a while, and 
hear what he had to communicate, in the name 
of the archbishop. Sir Clement Augustus of Ba- 
varia. 

“ His eminence, the most honorable archbishop, 
sends his dear and faithful children the holy bless- 
ing and salutation of the Church. These are his 
words: ‘We, Clement Augustus, archbishop of 
Bavaria, entreat and command our children in 
Christ to be faithfui to their new government and 
their new kiug, Louis XV. of France, whose apos- 
tolic majesty has taken the sword of the Lord into 
his blessed hand, to fight the enemies of the 
Church, and to chastise and punish the rebellious 
heretic prince who has arbitrarily named himself 
King of Prussia. God’s anger is against him, and 
He will crush and destroy the presumptuous mock- 
ers of the Lord. Woe unto them who will not 
listen to God's voice, who in their mad blindness 
cling to this heretic ! Woe unto you if, in the de- 
lusion of your hearts, you still offer him love and 
faith ! You are released from all duty to him as 
subjects, and you now have the blessing of the 
Church. I, as your shepherd, made so by the 
holy Pope of Rome, command you, therefore, to 
be faithful to your new master — ^pray that God 
may bless his arms, and grant him victory over 
his ungodly enemy. My anger and dire punish- 
ment shall reach any one who refuses to obey this 
command. He who dares to stand by the heretic 
king, is himself a heretic, and a rebellious subject 
of the Church. Be on your guard ; heavy pun- 
ishment shall meet those who dare to rejoice over 
the fame of the so-called great Frederick. Such 
rejoicing will be regarded as blasphemy against 
the holy Mother Church. To conclude, we re- 
main your loving father, and send our dear chil- 
dren in Christ our most gracious love and greet- 
ing.’ ” 

The men listened to the message of the fanatic 
archbishop with gloomy faces and downcast eyes ; 
but the twelve boys, who at first stood alone in 
the aisle, not daring to seat themselves with the 
others, now gazed boldly and triumphantly around, 
seeming to ask if the villagers did not now ac- 
knowledge that they had acted wisely in re 
turning. 


206 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


With renewed courage, and somewhat proudly, 
they were the first to leave the church, and placed 
themselves in two rows at the door. While the 
congregation w'as passing by they invited their 
dear friends and relations to meet them that after- 
noon under the great linden, where they would 
hold a little festival to celebrate their safe re- 
turn. 

“We shall come,” said the men, with earnest, 
solemn voices. “We will be there,” said the 
mothers, gazing with tearful eyes at the tri- 
imphant faces of their sons. The young maidens 
vhom the boys invited to dance, passed them in 
silence. 

Old Buschman, alone, did not answer his son’s 
invitation, nor did he follow the rest to the vil- 
lage, but turned to the side of the churchyard 
where his wife was buried. He seated himself 
upon her grave, and murmured a few words with 
trembling lips, raising his face toward heaven. 
A sob escaped him every now and then, and the 
tears rolled slowly from his eyes. From time 
to time he wrung his hands, as if bewailing his 
sorrow to God and beseeching His mercy, then 
brushed- away his tears — angry with himself for 
being so moved. 

* He sat there a long, long time, struggling with 
his grief — alone with God and his shame. Ap- 
proaching steps aroused him ; he looked up. 
The village justice stood before him, and gazed at 
him with a melancholy smile. 

“ I knew I would find you here, Father Busch- 
raan, and I came for you. The time is come ; we 
are all assembled on the square awaiting you.” 

“I come !” said the old man, as he stood up 
resolutely, giving a last loving farewell glance at 
his wife’s grave. 

The old man no longer needed his friend’s arm 
to support him, his steps were firm ; his form 
manly and erect, his venerable countenance glowed 
with energy. 

By the side of the village justice he walked to 
the square, under the great linden. There every 
thing looked bright and gay. The boys had taken 
advantage of the dinner hour to make worthy 
preparations for their festival. They had brought 
fresh evergreens from the woods, and had made 
wreaths and festooned them from tree to tree 
around the square. The ground was covered 
prettily with flowers and leaves, and the bench 
under the tree was decorated with a wreath of 
field-flowers. 

On one side of the square stood several tables 
covered with bottles of wine and beer and cake 
and bread ; not far from the tables was a throne 
adorned with flowers, where sat the fiddler, gazing 


proudly around him, like a king who knows he is 
the crowning point of the feast. 

It certainly had been, a long time since the 
merry sound of the fiddle had been heard in the 
village of Briinen. The throne was surrounded 
by little boys and girls listening with wondering 
delight at the gay music. But the grown girls 
stood afar off and did not look even once at the 
enticing fiddler, but hid themselves timidly behind 
the mothers, who were standing with stem faces 
gazing at the groups of men waiting anxiously on 
the other side of the square. 

The stillness and universal silence b^an at last 
to make the boys uneasy. They had tried in vain 
to engage the men in conversation. They received 
no answer to their questions, and when they 
turned to the women and the maidens, they also 
remained dumb. The returned soldiers then 
went to the other side of the square to talk 
to the fiddler and the children ; but when they 
began to fondle and play with the little ones, 
they were called by their fathers and mothers and 
bade to remain at their side. 

The boys gazed qiiestioningly at one another. 

“ I am curious to know what this means ; are 
we to remain standing here all night ? ” mut- 
tered one of them. 

“ It appears to me that they are waiting for 
some one,” murmured another. 

“ They are expecting my father,” said Charles 
Henry ; “ and see, there he comes from the church- 
yard. The justice went for him.” , 

When the old man arrived at the square the 
men advanced to meet him, conducted him 
gravely to the bench under the great linden, and 
assisted him to stand upon it. There he towered 
above them, and his pale, venerable face, his sil- 
ver hairs were visible to all. Every eye was di- 
rected to him, and breathless silence ensued. The 
old man raised his arm and pointed toward the 
side where the twelve boys stood. 

“ Come to me, Charles Henry Buschman,” he 
said, solemnly ; and as his son advanced rapidly 
to him, he continued : “ I ask you in the name of 
God, if what you told me yesterday is true ? Have 
you secretly left the flag of your king, our sover- 
eign — the great King Frederick of Prussia ? Is 
it true that you have forsaken your regiment and 
the flag to which you swore to be faithful ? ” 

“ It is true,” said Charles Henry, with assumed 
daring, “ but we were not only justified in doing 
so — our duty compelled us. We are no longer 
Prussian subjects, but subjects of the King of 
France. You all heard to-day what the minister 
read to us in church — how the archbishop com- 
manded us to be faithful to our new sovereign 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


We could no longer wear the Prussian uniform or 
be Prussian soldiers, therefore we returned to our 
village.” 

“ You returned as dishonored, faithless sol- 
diers ! ” cried the old man, looking angrily at his 
son — “ you returned covered with shame — miser- 
able deserters — to the disgrace of your fathers, 
mothers, your brothers, sisters, sweethearts, and 
your friends. You have deserted the flag of 
your rightful king, to whom you swore the oath 
of allegiance — an oath which God received, and 
which no man can annul. Men of Briinen ! shall 
we stand this shame that our sons bring upon 
IS ? Shall the world point their Angers at us and 
say : ‘ These are the fathers of soldiers who de- 
serted their regiment, and were false to their 
king ? ’ ” 

“ No ! ” cried they all, as with one voice — “ no, 
we will not stand this — we will have no deserters 
as sons ! ” 

The old man bowed his head in silence ; then 
turned slowly to the side where the women stood. 

“Women and maidens of Briinen! Will you 
allow your sons and brothers who are covered 
with shame, to stay amongst you? WiU you re- 
ceive the deserters in your houses and at your ta- 
bles ? Will you open your arms to them and call 
them sons and brothers ? ” 

“No, no I ” cried the women and maidens, si- 
multaneously; “ we will not receive them in our 
houses, or at our tables. We will have no de- 
serters for sons or brothers 1 ” 

The old man stood erect, and, as if inspired 
with a mighty enthusiasm, raised his arm toward 
heaven, and his countenance beamed with holy 
light. 

“ They must return to their flag,” he cried, in a 
commanding voice. “ With your blood you must 
wash the shame from your brows, and from ours. 
If God preserves your lives, and you redeem your 
honor as brave soldiers of the King of Prussia, 
then and then only we will receive you as our 
sons and welcome you to our arms.” 

“ So shall it be 1 ” cried the men and the women, 
and the maidens murmured their acquiescence. 

The old man stepped from the bench and walked 
torward slowly to the other side of the square 
where the twelve young men were standing gazing 
at him with terrified faces. 

“ Return I ” cried the old man, stretching his 
arm toward them — “ return to the flag of your 
king ; we want no deserters amongst us ; away 
with you I ” 

“Away with you!” cried the men— “away 
from our village ! ” 

The children, influenced by their parents, cried 


207 

out with shrill voices : “ Away from our village— 
away ! ” 

The youths were at first stunned, and gazed 
with staring eyes at the crowd of angry faces and 
flashing eyes which menaced them, then seized 
with terror, they fled. 

“ Away with you ! away with the deserters ! ” 
was thundered after them. “Away with you!” 
cried their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and 
friends. 

This fearful cry sounded to them like the peal 
of the ’ast judgment. With trembling knees, 
and faces pale as death, they rushed down the 
principal street of the village. The crowd started 
after them, and like the howling of a storm, 
shouted behind them : “ Away with you ! — away 
with the deserters ! ” 

On they ran, as if pursued by furies, farther, 
farther down the street, but the villagers still 
chased them. Once only Charles Henry dared to 
look around at the pursuers. It was a fearful 
sight. At the head of the rest he saw his old 
father, with his pale face, his white hair fljing in 
the wind ; raising his arms threateningly toward 
him, he died out in a thundering voice ; “ Away 
with you ! — away with the deserters ! ” 

Charles Henry rushed onward — a cry of terror 
escaped his lips, and he fled like a madman. 

They had passed the borders of the village — it 
was quiet behind them — they dared to look back 
— they were alone. But on the boundary-line the 
villagers stood — their faces turned toward the 
fugitives — ^and like the distant croakings of a ra- 
ven there sounded in the air : “ Away with you ! 
— away with the deserters ! ” 

Breathless, with tottering knees, the boys sank 
down — with hollow eyes, speechless with terror, 
sorrow, and humility, they gazed at each other. 
They did not dare return to the village. Perhaps 
to appease the anger of their relations, perhaps 
because they repented of their cowardice, they 
returned to their regiment, acknowledged their 
crime, and prayed for forgiveness. 

Thus the brave fathers of the village of Brii- 
nen punished their cowardly sons, and drove the 
dishonored and faithless boys to their duty, per- 
haps to their death.* 

» — 

CHAPTER VI. 

the tr.4Itor’s betrayal. 

Count Ranuzi was alone in his apartments. 
He sat at his writing-table reading over the two 


♦ This account Is hIstoricaL 


208 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


letters he had just written; a triumphant smile 
was upon his lip as he finished. “ It will succeed,” 
murmured he, softly ; “ we will take Magdeburg 
without a blow, and thus deprive the King of 
Prussia of bis most valuable fortress. The plan 
cannot miscarry; and then I have only to con- 
vince the empress that I w as the soul of this un- 
dertaking — that I led the intrigue. Ah, I shall 
succeed at last — ^I shall occupy a position worthy 
of me — and as general of our order I shall rule 
the world. I shall earn this title at Magdeburg — 
there I will build my throne — there I will reign ! 
But I must consider it all once more, to see if no 
error, no mistake, has escaped me. I first formed 
a connection with the officer Yon Kimsky, an 
Austrian prisoner, because through him I could 
make connections between the town and the cita- 
del. Kimsky, at my wish, made some of his town 
friends acquainted with the officers of the cita- 
del. It was then necessary to give these new 
friends some clew, some aim that would appear in- 
nocent to them, and conceal the real plan. I chose 
Trenck as the protecting shield for my underta- 
king. To inspire him with confidence in my agents, 
I obtained a sort of credential letter from Princess 
Amelia, and interested her in my cause. She pro- 
vided me with money, and gave me, besides the one 
to Trenck, a letter of recommendation to a sure, 
trustworthy friend in Magdeburg. 'I was now 
much nearer my design. On the pretence of 
working for Trenck, I worked for myself, for my 
position of general of the Jesuits, and for a for- 
tress for my empress. And thus far aU my plans 
have succeeded. Trenck has formed a connection 
with three Prussian officers of the citadel. These, 
touched with sympathy for his pitiful condition, 
have determined to do all in their power to release 
him, and are, therefore, in constant companion- 
ship with those whom Trenck calls his friends. 
These, in the mean time, are my agents and sub- 
ordinates ; they act for me while acting for Trenck ; 
the Prussian officers do not anticipate that, in help- 
ing Trenck to his freedom, they are helping the Em- 
press of Austria to a new fortress. But so it is. 
There is no error in my plan, it will succeed. I 
can rely on Trenck ; he is a subject of Maria The- 
resa, and his thirst for revenge is mighty. He 
will gain a fortress for his empress. The avenger, 
through whom God has chosen to punish this arro- 
gant, heretical king, will arise from the depths of 
a subterranean prison. All that is now left to be 
done is to acquaint Vienna with the information 
of this undertaking, so that we may be assured 
that an Austrian regiment will be in the vicinity 
of Magdeburg at the proper time, and storm the 
citadel at a sign from us, and not have that, which 


we had taken by strategy, tom from us by the 
King of Prussia’s superior force. Now is a favor- 
able time for this. For Frederick, the humiliated, 
defeated king, is many miles from Magdeburg ; he 
has been compelled to raise the siege of Dresden, 
and the Austrian troops are lying there like the 
Russians at Frankfort. Nor are the French far 
off. All these armies will be prepared to hasten 
to our aid. All that now remains to be done is 
to get this news safely to Vienna. But how to 
accomplish this is a hard question. It were well 
could I go myself. But I am a prisoner of war, 
and, until Magdeburg is in our power, this chain 
will clog me. Another must be sent — a messenger 
full of courage, determination, and hardihood. I 
have said. this in my letter to Captain von Kim- 
sky ; he must seek such a man amongst our sworn 
friends of the citadel, and give him the sheet of 
paper I send in my letter. How harmless, how 
insignificant this sheet of paper seems ! and still, 
were it to fall in the King of Prussia’s hands, it 
would save him a strong fortress and several mil- 
lions of thalers, for all the money of the Dresden 
treasury was brought to Magdeburg for safe-keep- 
ing. Ah ! ah ! how much would Frederick give 
for these two lines of writing, and how richly 
would he reward him who gave him the key to it ! 

I will send the key by a different messenger, and 
therefore this second letter. But even if both my 
messengers were intercepted, all is not lost. I 
have notified Trenck also to write to Vienna for 
money and help. He must continue to be the 
shield behind which we intrench ourselves. Should 
the undertaking miscarry, we will lay it upon 
Trenck ; should it succeed, it will be through me, 
and I will not be tardy in claiming my reward. 
The general of our order is old ; should he, how- 
ever, persist in living, his tenacious nature must — ” 
He did not dare to finish the sentence ; but a wild, 
demoniac smile supplied the words his lips dared 
not utter. He arose and walked several times up 
and down his chamber, completely lost in ambi- 
tious dreams of the future, for whose realization, 
as a true Jesuit, he shunned no means, mindful 
of the motto of their order : “ The end sanctifies 
the means.” 

He saw a ring upon his hand — that ring, full of 
significance, before which kings had often bowed, 
which was to the Jesuits what the crown is to the 
king — the sacred sign of power and glory — the 
indisputable sign of invisible but supreme power 
He saw himself, fnis ring upon his hand, subju 
gating nations, rewarding his friends, punishing 
his enemies. He suddenly awoke from his dreams, 
and remembered the present with a weary smiled { 

“ I must not forget, in dreams of the future, the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAJtILY 


209 


necessity for action. I have many important 
things to do this day. I must take these letters 
to Marietta, see her address and post them ; then 
I must seek La Trouffle and receive from her 
leave of absence, on the plea of visiting a sick 
friend at Magdeburg. This will be a tedious un- 
dertaking, for she will not agree willingly to a 
separation without great persuasion. I have much 
influence over her, and a woman in love cannot 
refuse a ret^uest to the object of her tenderness. 

I will obtain, through Madame du Trouffle, a 
near and influential relative of the commandant 
of Berlin, permission to visit Magdeburg, and 
through Marietta Taliazuchi I will post my two 
important letters.” He laughed aloud as he 
thought of these two women, so tenderly devoted 
to him, both so willing to be deceived by him. 

“ They love me in very different ways,” said he, 
as he finished his toilet preparatory to going out. 
“ Marietta Taliazuchi with the humility of a slave, 
Louise du Trouffle with the grateful passion of 
an elderly coquette. It would be a problem for a 
good arithmetician to solve, which of these two 
loves would weigh most. Marietta’s love is cer- 
tainly the more pleasant and comfortable, because 
the more humble. Like a faithful dog she lies at 
my feet ; if I push her from me, she comes back, 
lies humbly down, and licks the foot that kicked 
her. Away, then, to her, to my tender Marietta.” 

Hiding his letters in his breast, he took his hat 
and hastened in the direction of Marietta’s dwell- 
ing. She received him in her usual impassioned 
manner ; she told him how she had suffered in 
their long separation ; how the thought that he 
miffht be untrue to her, that he loved another, had 
filled her with anguish. 

Ranuzi laughed. “Still the same old song. 
Marietta; always full of doubt and distrust? 
Does the lioness still thirst after my blood ? would 
she lacerate my faithless heart ? ” 

Kneeling, as she often did, at his feet, she rested 
her arms on his knees ; then dropping her head 
on her folded hands, she looked up at him. 

“ Can you swear that you are true to me ? ” 
said she, in a strange, sharp tone. “ Can you 
swear that you love no other woman but me ? ” 

“ Yes, I can swear it ! ” said he, laughing. 

“ Then do so,” cried she, earnestly. 

“ Tell me an oath, and I will repeat it after 
you.” 

She looked at him firmly for several moments, 
and strange shadows crossed her emotional coun- 
tenance. 

Ranuzi did not perceive them ; he was too in- 
attentive, too confident of success, to entertain 
doubt or distrust. 


“ Hear the oath ! ” said she, after a pause. “ ‘ I, 
Count Carlo Ranuzi, swear that I love no other 
woman but Marietta Taliazuchi ; I swear that, 
since I have loved her, I have not nor ever shall 
kiss or breathe words of love to any other woman. 
May God’s anger reach me, if my oath is false ! ’ ” 

The words fell slowly, singly from her lips, and 
»she gazed with unflinching eyes up at him. 

Not a muscle in his countenance moved. Laugh- 
ing gayly, he repeated her words ; then bent and 
kissed her black, shiny hair. “ Are you satisfied 
now, you silly child ? ” 

“ I am satisfied, for you have sworn,” said she, 
rising from her knees. 

“ Will this quiet you now. Marietta ? ” 

“ Yes, forever.” 

“ Well, then, now a moment to business. There 
are two important letters, my beautiful darling. 
You see how boundless my love for you is — -I con- 
fide these letters to your care, and entreat you to 
post them as usual. My heart and my secrets are 
in your lovely hands.” 

He kissed the hands, and gave her the letters. 

Marietta took and looked at them in a timid, 
fearful manner. 

“ Do they contain dangerous secrets ? ” said she. 

“ Dangerous in the extreme, my lovely one.” 

“Were they intercepted and opened, would you 
be liable to death ? ” said she, in a low, trembling 
voice. 

He saw in these words only her solicitude and 
love for him. 

“ Certainly, I would be lost — I would have to 
die were these letters opened. But fear not, my 
beauteous Marietta — they will not be opened ; no 
one would dream of intercepting the harmless let- 
ters you direct to your friends at Magdeburg. 
Apart from that, no one is aware of our close 
connection. We have carefully guarded the holy 
secret pf our love ; when your husband returns 
from Italy, this bad world will have no evil ru- 
mors to tell of us, and you will be enclosed in his 
arms as his faithful wife. When does he come ? ” 

“ I expect him in three weeks.” 

“ Many glorious, quiet evenings will we enjoy 
together before his return. And now, farewell — I 
must leave you.” 

“You must leave me ? ” 

“ I must. Marietta.” 

“ And where are ,► ou going ? ” said she, looking 
at him earnestly. 

“Jealous again,” said he, laughing. “Calm 
yourself. Marietta, I go to no woman. Besides 
this, have you not my oath ? ” 

“ Where are you going ? ” said she, with a sharp, 
questioning look. 


ElO 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ I have an engagement to meet some friends — 
the meeting takes place in the house of a Catholic 
priest. Are you satisfied, Marietta ? or do you 
Btill fear that some dangerous rendezvous calls me 
from you ? ” 

“I fear nothing,” said she, smiling ; “you have 
reassured me.” 

“ Then, my beloved, I entreat you to command 
me to go, for if you do not, though I know I 
ought, I cannot leave you. But, no — first I will 
Bee you direct these letters.” 

“ You shall,” said she, taking a pen and direct- 
ing them. 

Ranuzi took the letters and examined them. 

“ This simple feminine address is the talisman 
that protects me and my secret. And this I owe 
to you, my darling, to you alone. But will you 
finish your work of mercy ? Will you post these 
letters at once ? ” 

“ I will do so. Carlo.” 

“ Will you swear it ? ” said he, laughing ; 
“ swear it to me by our love.” 

“ I swear it — swear it by my love.” 

“ And now, farewell. Marietta ! — farewell for to- 
day. To-morrow I hope to see you again.” 

He took her in his arms and whispered words 
of love and tenderness in her ear. He did not 
notice, in his impatience to leave, how cold and 
quiet she was, He took his hat, and bowing gayly 
left the room. 

She stood where he had left her, her arms hang- 
ing listlessly at her side, her head bowed upon her 
breast. She hstened intently to his every move- 
ment. Now he was on the last stair, now in the 
hall — when he had crossed it he would be at the 
street door. With a wild shriek she fled from the 
room, and hastened down the steps. 

“ Carlo ! Carlo ! wait a moment ! ” 

His hand was on the door-knob ; he stood still 
and looked back. She was by his side — pale, with 
burning eyes and trembling lips, she threw her 
arms around him and kissed him passionately. 

“Farewell, my Carlo! — ^farewell, thou lover of 
my soul, thou light of my eyes I ” 

She kissed his mouth, his eyes, his hands ; she 
pressed him to her heart, and then she pushed him 
from her, saying, in cold, rough tones, “ Go ! go, I 
Bay 1 ” 

Without again looking at him she hurried up 
the stairs. Ranuzi, laughing and shaking his 
head at her foolishness, left the house with a con- 
tented and assured heart. 


CHAPTER YII. 

THE ACCUSATION. 

This time Marietta did not call him back ; she 
did not gaze after him from the window, as she 
was accustomed to do ; she stood, pale as death, 
in the middle of the room, with panting breath, 
with flashing eyes ; motionless, but with eager and 
expectant mien, as if listening to sometliing afar 
off. 

To what was Marietta listening ? Perhaps h 
the echo of his step in the silent, isolated street ; 
perhaps to the memories which, like croaking 
birds of death, hovered over her head, as if to 
lacerate and destroy even her dead happiness; 
perhaps she listened to those whispering voices 
which resounded in her breast, and accused Ra- 
nuzi of faithlessness and treachery. And was he, 
then, really guilty ? Had he committed a crime 
worthy of death ? 

Marietta was still motionless, hearkening to 
these whispered voices in her breast. 

“I will deliberate yet once more,” said she, 
walking slowly through the room, and sinking 
down upon the divan. “ I will sit again in judg- 
ment upon him, and my heart, which in the fury 
of its pain still loves him, my heart shall be his 
judge.” 

And now she called back once again every thing 
to her remembrance. The golden, sunny stream 
of her happy youth passed in review before her, 
and the precious, blissful days of her first inno- 
cent love. She recalled all the agony w'hich this 
love had caused her, to whose strong bonds she 
had ever returned, and which she had never been 
able to crush out of her heart. She thought of 
the day in which she had first seen Ranuzi in Ber- 
lin ; how their hearts had found each other, and 
the old love, like a radiant Phoenix, had risen from 
the ashes of the past, to open heaven or hell to 
them both. She remembered with scornful agita- 
tion those happy days of their new-found youthful 
love ; she repeated the ardent oaths of everlasting 
faith and love which Ranuzi had voluntarily of- 
fered ; she remembered how she had warned him, 
how she had declared that she would revenge his 
treachery and inconstancy upon him ; how indolent- 
ly, how carelessly he had laughed, and called her his 
tigress, his anaconda. She then recalled how sud- 
denly she had felt his love grow cold, how anx- 
iously she had looked around to discover what had 
changed him — she could detect nothing. But an 
accident came to her assistance — bad, malicious 
accident. During the war there were no operas 
given in Berlin, and Marietta was entirely '.inocciB 


FKEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


211 


pied ; for some time she had been giviug singing 
iCssons — ^perhaps for distraction, perhaps to in- 
crease her income; she had, however, carefully 
preserved this secret from Ranuii — in the unself- 
ishness of her love she did not wish him to know 
that she had need of gold, lest he might offer her 
assistance. 

One of her first scholars was Camilla von Kleist, 
the daughter of Madame du TroufiQe, and soon 
teacher and scholar became warm friends. Ca- 
milla, still banished by her mother to the solitude 
of the nursery, complained to her • new friend of 
the sorrows of her home and the weariness of her 
life. Carried away by Marietta’s sympathy and 
flattering friendship, the young girl had com- 
plained to the stranger of her mother ; in the de- 
sire to make herself appear an interesting sacrifice 
to motherly tyranny, she accused that mother re- 
lentlessly ; she told Madame Taliazuchi that she 
was always treated as a child because her mother 
still washed to appear young; that she was never 
allowed to be seen in the saloon in the evening, lest 
she might ravish the worshippers and lovers of her 
mother. Having gone so far in her confidences, 
the pitiable daughter of this light-minded mother 
went so far as to speak of her mother’s adorers. 
The last and most dangerous of these, the one she 
hated most bitterly, because he came most fre- 
quently and occupied most of her mother’s time 
and thoughts, she declared to be the Count 
Ranuzi. 

This was the beginning of those fearful torments 
which Marietta Taliazuchi had for some months 
endured — tortures which increased with the con- 
viction that there was truly an understanding be- 
tween Ranuzi and Madame du Trouffle ; that Ra- 
nuzi, under the pretence of being overwhelmed 
with important business, refused to pass the even- 
ing with her, yet went regularly every evening to 
Madame du Trouffle. 

Marietta had endured this torture silently ; she 
denied herself the consolation of complaining to 
any one ; she had the courage, with smiling lips, 
to dispute the truth of Camilla’s narratives, and to 
accuse her of slander ; she would have conviction, 
she longed for proof, and Camilla, excited by her 
incredulity, promised to give it. 

One day, with a triumphant air, she handed Ma- 
rietta a little note she had stolen from her moth- 
er’s writing-desk. It was a poem, written in 
French, in which Ranuzi, with the most submissive 
love, the most glowing tenderness, besought the 
beautiful Louise to allow him to come in the even- 
ing, to kneel at her feet and worship as the faith- 
ful w'orshif the mother of God. 

Marietta read the poem several times, and then 


with quiet composure returned it to Camilla ; but 
her cheeks were deadly pale, and her lips trembled 
so violently, that Camilla asked her kindly if she 
w^as not suffering, 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ I suffer, and we will post, 
pone the lesson. I must go home and go to 
bed.” 

But Marietta did not go home. Beside herself, 
almost senseless with pain and rage, she wandered 
about through the streets, meditating, reflecting 
how she might revenge herself for this degrada- 
tion, this faithlessness of her beloved. 

At last she found the means ; with firm' step, 
with crimson cheeks, and a strange smile upon her 
tightly-compressed lips, she turned toward the 
castle. There she inquired for the Marquis d’Ar- 
gens, and Ranuzi’s evil genius willed thatD’Argens 
should be found at that time in Berlin — ^he was 
generally only to be seen at Sans-Souci. Marietta 
did not know the marquis personally, but she had 
heard many anecdotes of the intellectual and 
amiable Proven9al ; she knew that the marquis 
and the king were warmly attached, and kept up a 
constant correspondence. For this reason, she 
addressed herself to D’Argens ; she knew it was 
the easiest and quickest way to bring her commu- 
nication immediately before the king. The mar- 
quis received her kindly, and asked her to make 
known her request. 

At first Marietta was mute, regret and repent- 
ance overcome her; for a moment she almost 
resolved to be silent and to go away. Soon, 
however, her wrath was awakened, and armed 
her with the courage of despair : with panting 
breath, with strange disordered haste, she said: 
“ I have come to tell you a secret — an important 
secret, which concerns the king.” 

The good marquis turned pale, and asked if it 
related to any attempt upon the life of the king ? 

“Not to his life; but it was a secret of the 
greatest importance,” she replied. Then, how- 
ever, when the marquis asked her to make a full 
disclosure, she seemed suddenly to see Ranuzi’s 
handsome face before her ; he looked softly, re- 
proachfuly at her with his great fathomless eyevS, 
whose glance she ever felt in the very depths of her 
heart ; she was conscious that the old love was 
again awake in her, and by its mighty power 
crowding out the passion of revenge. A linger- 
ing hesitation and faint-heartedness overcame her 
— confused and stammering, she said she would 
only confide her secret to the king himself, or to 
that person whom the king would authorize to 
receive it. 

The marquis, in a vivacious manner, pressed 
her to speak, and made conjectures as to tho 


212 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


quality of her secret. Marietta found herself in- 
volved in a net of cross-questions and answers, 
and took refuge at last in absolute silence. She 
rose and told the marquis she would return in 
eight days, to know whom the king had selected 
to receive her communication. 

The eight days had now passed, and Marietta 
had, during this time, many struggles with her 
own heart — her ever newly awakening love pleaded 
eloquently for forgiveness — ^for the relinquishment 
of all her plans of vengeance.* She had almost 
resolved not to seek the marquis again, or if she 
did so, to say that she had been deceived — that 
the secret was nothing — that she had only been 
bantered and mystified. But now, all these 
softer, milder feelings seemed burnt out in the 
wild fire of revenge and scorn which blazed 
through her whole being. “He is a traitor — a 
shameless liar ! ” she said, pressing her small teeth 
firmly and passionately together; “he is a coward, 
and has not the courage to look a woman in the 
face and confess the truth when she demands it ; 
he is a perjurer, for he took the oath which I ex- 
acted from him — he swore to love me alone and 
no other woman ; he had the impudent courage to 
call down the vengeance of God upon himself if 
he should break this oath. Why do I hesitate 
longer ? ” cried she, springing from her seat ; “ the 
perjured traitor deserves that my betrayed and 
crushed heart should avenge itself. He called 
down the vengeance of God upon himself. Let it 
crush him to atoms ! ” 

Now all was decision, courage, energy, and cir- 
cumspection. She took the two letters she had 
received from Ranuzi and concealed them in her 
bosom, then dressed herself and left her dwelling. 

With a firm step she passed through the 


* The marquis, in one of his letters to the king, de- 
scribed his interview with Madame Taliazuchl, with 
great vivacity and minuteness, and expressed his own 
suspicions and conjectures; which, indeed, came very 
near the truth, and proved that, where he was warmly 
interested, he was a good inquisitor. He entreated Fred- 
erick not to look upon the matter carelessly, as in all 
probability there was treason on foot, which extended to 
Vienna Madame Taliazuolii had much intercourse in 
Berlin with the captive Italian oflQcers, and it might be 
that one of these officers was carrying on a dangerous 
correspondence with Vienna. In closing his letter, the 
marquis said: “ Enfln, sire, quand il serait vrai que tout 
ceci ne fut qu’une bete italienne qui se serait 6chauff6e, 
et qui aurait pris des chim^res pour des v6rites, ce qui 
pourrait encore bien 6tre, cette femme ne parait rien 
moins que prudente et tranquille. Je crois, cependant, 
que la peine qu’on aurait prise de savoir ce qu’elle veut 
declarer serait si 16gdre, qu’on ne la regretterait pas, 
quaud memo on d^couvrirait que cette femme n’est 
qu’une folle.”--“(Euvres deFr6d6ric le Grand,” voL xix. 
p. 91. 


streets which led to the castle. As she drew neat 
the house of Madame du Trouffle, she hesitated, 
stood still, and looked up at the windows. 

“If only this once he did not deceive me! If 
he is not here ; if he told me the timth ! ” His 
countenance had been so open, so calm, so smiling 
when he said to her that he had a rendezvous with 
some friends at the Catholic priest’s ; and in a 
graceful, roguish mockery, asked her if she was 
jealous of that meeting. No, no 1 this time he was 
true. He could not have played the hypocrite with 
such smiling composure. Scarcely knowing what 
she did. Marietta entered the house, and asked 
if Camilla was at home — ^then hastened on to the 
door of Camilla’s room. 

The young girl advanced to meet her with a 
joyous greeting. “I am glad you have come, 
Marietta. Without you I should have been con- 
demned to pass the whole evening shut up in my 
room, wearying myself with books. But I am re- 
solved what I will do in future. If mamma in- 
sists upon my being a child still, and banishes 
me from the parlor when she has company, I will 
either run away, or I wdll invite company to amuse 
me. My cousin. Lieutenant Kienhause, is again 
in Berlin ; his right arm is wounded, and the king 
has given him a furlough, and sent him home. 
When mamma is in the saloon, I will invite my 
cousin here.” She laughed merrily, and drew 
Marietta dancing forward. “Now I have com- 
pany, we will laugh and be happy,” 

“ Who is in the saloon ? ” said Marietta, “ and 
why are you banished to-day ? ” 

“ Well, because of this Italian count — this in- 
sufferable Ranuzi. He has been here for an hour, 
and mamma commanded no one to be admitted, 
as she had important business with the count.” 

“And you believe that he will remain the whole 
evening ? ” said Marietta. 

“ I know it ; he remains every evening.” 

Marietta felt a cold shudder pass over her, but . 
she was outwardly calm. 

“ Poor child !” said she, “ you are indeed to be 
pitied, and, if you really desire it, you shall have 
my society ; but first, I have a commision to exe- 
cute, and then I will bring some notes, and we 
will sing together.” She kissed Camilla upon the 
brow, and withdrew. 

The last moment of respite had expired for Ra- 
nuzi; there was no longer a ray of mercy in Mari- 
etta’s heart. Rushing forward, she soon reached 
the castle, and announced herself to the marquis. 
She was introduced into his study, and the mar- 
quis advanced to meet her, smiling, and with an 
open letter in his hand. 

“ You come at the right time, madame,” said ho 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


213 


au hear since I received this letter from his ma- 
jesty.” 

“ Has the king named the person to whom I am 
to confide my secret ? ” she said, hastily. 

“ Yes, madame, his majesty has been pleased to 
appoint me for that purpose.” 

“ Let me see the letter,” said Marietta, extend- 
ing her hand. 

The marquis drew back. “Pardon me,” said 
he, “ I never allow the king’s letters to pass out 
of my own hands, and no one but myself can see 
them. But I will read you what the king says in 
relation to this affair, and you will surely believe 
my word of honor. Listen, then : ‘ Soyez, mar- 
quis, le depositaire de mes secrets, le confidant 
des mysteres de Madame Taliazuchi, I’oreille du 
tr6ne, et le sanctuaire oh s’annonceront les corn- 
plots de mes ennemis.’ * Madame, you see that I 
am fully empowered by the king to receive your 
confidence, and I am ready to hear what you will 
have the goodness to relate.” He led her to a 
divan, and seated himself opposite to her. 

“ Tell the king to be on his guard ! ” said Mari- 
etta, solemnly, “ A great and wide-spread con- 
spiracy threatens him. I have been made a tool 
by false pretences ; by lies and treachery my con- 
fidence was surreptitiously obtained. Oh, my 
God ! ” cried she, suddenly springing up ; “ now 
all is clear. I was nothing but an instrument of 
his intrigues ; only the weak means made use of 
to attain his object. He stole my love, and made 
of it a comfortable, convenient robe with which 
to conceal his politics. Alas ! alas ! I have been 
his postilbn de politique.'''’ With a loud, wild cry, 
she sank back upon the divan, and a torrent of 
tears gushed from her eyes. 

The marquis sprang up in terror, and drew near 
the door; he was now fully convinced that the 
woman was mad. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ allow me to call for as- 
sistance. You appear to be truly suffering, and in 
a state of great excitement. It will be best for 

* “ I will give the conclusion of this letter which the 
polite marquis did not read aloud: ‘Pour quitter le style 
oriental, je vous avertis que vous aurez I’oreille rebattue 
de mis^res et de petites intrigues de prisonniers obscurs 
et qui ne vaudront pas le temps que vous perdrez a les en- 
tendre, Je connais ces esp^ces de personnes du genre de 
Madazne Taliazuchi — elles envisagent les petites choses 
comme tr6s-importantes ; elles sent chai m6es de figurer 
en politique, de jouer un role, de falre les capables d’eta- 
ler avec faste le z^lo de leur fid61it6. J’ai vu souvent que 
ces beaux secrets r6v616s n’ont 6t6 que des intrigues pour 
aulre au tiers ou au quart a des gens auxquelles ces sortes 
de personnes veulent du mal. Ainsi, quoique cette femme 
Tons jiuisse dire, gardez-vous bien d’y ajouter foi, et que 
votre cervelle provenjal ne s’dchaufTe pas au premier 
bruit de ces r6cits,’ CEuvres, vol. xix., p. 92. 


you, without doubt, to forget all these political in 
terests, and attend to your physical condition.” 

Marietta, however, had again recovered her 
presence of mind ; she glanced with a wan smile 
into the anxious countenance of the marquis. 

“ Fear nothing, sir, I am not mad ; return to 
your seat. I have no weapons, and will injure no 
one. The dagger which I carry is piercing my 
own heart, and from time to time the wound 
pains; that is all. I promise you to make no 
sound, to be gentle and calm — come, then.” 

The marquis returned, but seated himself some- 
what farther from the signora. 

“ I tell you,” said Marietta, panting for breath, 
“ that he made use of my credulity — made me a 
tool of his political intrigues — these intrigues 
which threaten the lands if not the life of the 
king. The treason I will disclose would place an 
important fortress in the hands of the Aus- 
trians.” 

“ And you are convinced that this is no chi- 
mera ? ” said the marquis, with an incredulous 
smile. 

“ I am convinced of it, and I have the incontes- 
table proof with me.” She took the two letters 
which she had received from Ranuzi, and gave 
them to the marquis. “Take them, and send 
them to the king; but, not to-morrow, not when 
it is convenient, but to-day ; even this hour. If 
you are not prompt, in eight days King Frederick 
will be a fortress the poorer. Besides this, say to 
his majesty to be ever on his guard against the 
captive oflScers in Berlin, especially on his guard 
against my countryman. Count Ranuzi. He is the 
soul of this enterprise ; he has originated this 
daring undertaking, and, if this falls to pieces, he 
will commence anew. He is a dangerous enemy — 
a serpent, whose sting is most deadly, most to be 
feared when he seems most gentle, most quiet. 
Say to King Frederick he will do well to protect 
himself from the traitor, the Austrian spy, Ra- 
nuzi.” Marietta stood up, and bowing to the 
marquis, she advanced to the door. D’Argens 
held her back. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ if these things are really 
so. Count Ranuzi is a man to be feared, and we 
should make sui’e of him.” 

“ He is indeed a dangerous man,” said Marietta, 
with a peculiar smile. “ Ask the beautiful Madame 
du TrouflBe; she will confirm my words.” 

The black, flashing eyes of the marquis fixed 
themselves searchingly upon the face of the sig- 
nora. He remembered that the king had warned 
him to be upon his guard as to the communication 
of Madame Taliazuchi, that such mysteries were 
often nothing more than feigned intrigues, by 


214 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


which the discoverer sought to bring sorrow and 
downfall to an enemy. 

“Ah, signora! I understand now,” said the 
marquis ; “ you did not come here for patriotism 
or love for Prussia or her king, but from frantic 
jealousy; not to serve King Frederick, but to 
overthrow Ranuzi.” 

Marietta shrugged her shoulders with a con- 
temptuous expression. 

“ I am an Italian,” said she, laconically. 

“ And the Italians love revenge,” said the mar- 
quis. 

“ When one dares to injure them — yes.” 

“ This Count Ranuzi has dared to injure you ? ” 

A flash of scorn flamed for a moment in her 
eyes, then disappeared. “Would I otherwise 
have betrayed him ? ” said she. “I am an 
Italian, and you cannot ask that I shall feel 
patriotism for King Frederick or for Prussia. 
Count Ranuzi is my countryman ; judge, then, 
bow deeply I have been injured when I be- 
tray him, and give him over to death.” 

“ To death ? it is also then a crime worthy of 
death which these letters will disclose to the king ? 
You do not deceive yourself? Your thirst for 
revenge does not make these things appear 
blacker, more important than they really are ? ” 

“ No, I do not deceive myself. I speak but the 
simple truth.” 

“ Then,” said the marquis, with horror, “ it is 
dangerous to leave Ranuzi at liberty. I must ap- 
ply to the commandant of Berlin, and ask that he 
be arrested upon my responsibility.” 

Marietta was already at the door, but these 
words of the marquis arrested her. With her 
hand resting upon the bolt, she stood and turned 
her pale face back to D’Argens. “ Certainly, it 
would be best and surest to arrest him instantly,” 
said she ; and her heart bounded with delight 
when she said to herself, with cruel pleasure : 
“When once arrested, he can go no more to 
Madame du Troufifle.” 

The marquis did not reply, but he stepped 
thoughtfully through the room. Marietta’s eyes 
followed every movement with a fiery glance. At 
length the marquis stood before her. 

“ I cannot take upon myself the responsibility 
of arresting this man. I do not know that these 
letters, which I shall send to the king, are really 
as dangerous as you say. The king must decide ; 
I will send them off by a courier to-day. But, in 
every event, Ranuzi must be watched, and you 
shall be his guard. You must see that he does 
not escape. I make you answerable. Ranuzi 
must not leave Berlin; and when the king’s 
answer is received, he must be found here.” 


“ You shall find him with me,” said she ; “ and 
if not, I shall at least be able to tell you where he 
is. Fear nothing ; he shall not escape ! I am his 
guard I When you receive the reply of the king, 
have the goodness to inform me. This is the only 
reward I demand.” * 

“ I will inform you, madame,” said the marquis, 
opening the door ; “ and, as to the Count Ranuzi, 
I read in your features that you hate him with a 
bitter hatred, and will not allow him to escape ’’ 


OHAPTER VIII. 

REVENGE. 

Five days had passed since Marietta’s interview 
with the marquis. They had wrought no change 
in her heart; not for a single instant had her 
thirst for revenge been allayed. Her hatred of 
Ranuzi seemed to have become more intense, more 
passionate, since she understood his plans — since 
she had learned that he had never loved her, and 
that she was merely the instrument of his in- 
trigues. Since that time she had watched his ev- 
ery thought and deed. 

One day while apparently embracing him, and 
whispering words of endearment in his ear, she 
had secretly drawn a folded paper from his pock- 
et, which had just been brought to him by a 
strange servant who, having vainly sought him at 
his own house, had followed him to that of Mari- 
etta. Having thus obtained the paper, she made 
an excuse for leaving the room in order to inspect 
it. She carefully closed the door of the room in 
which Rauuzi sat, and then examined the paper. 
After reading it, she drew her note-book from her 
pocket, and hastily tearing out a leaf, she wrote 
upon it with a pencil; “Lose no time, if you do 
not wish him to escape. He has received to-day, 
through the agency of Madame du Trouffle, the 
necessary passport and permission to go to Mag- 
deburg. I have no longer the powder to detain 
him. What is done must be done quickly.” 

She folded the paper and passed cautiously 
through the hall and into the kitchen where her 

♦ D’Argens wrote to the king: “81 votre majest6 ne 
m’avait point 6cilt en propres temaes. Quolque cette 
femme puisse vous dire, gardez-vons bien d’y ajouter foL 
J’aurai pri6 le commandant de faire arreter le nomm6 
Eanuzi jusqu’^ ce qu’elle eut mand6 ce qu’elle vent qu’on 
en fasse; cet homme me paraissaut un espion do plus 
a6r6s. Mais je me suls contents de dire a Madame Talia- 
zuchi que si cet homme sortait de Berlin, avant la r^pons* 
de votre majest6 elle en repondrait, et elle m’a assur^ 
qu’elle le retiendrait.”— CEuvres, vol. six., p. 98, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


maid was. “Listeii, Sophie,” she said; “take 
this note and go as quickly as you can to the cas- 
tle and ask for the Marquis d’Argens. You must 
give the note into his own hands, and if you bring 
me an answer within the hour, I will reward you 
as if I were a queen. Do not speak, only go.” 

The maid hurried down the steps, and Marietta 
returned, smilingly, to Ranuzi, who received her 
with reproaches for her long absence. 

“ I have arranged a little supper for us, and 
have sent my maid to obtain some necessary arti- 
cles. You will not leave me to-day, as you al- 
ways do, to go to your conference with the Cath- 
olic priest.” 

“ I would not. Marietta, but I must,” said Ranuzi. 
“Believe me, my dear child, if I followed the dic- 
tates of my heart, I «rould never leave this room, 
which in my thoughts I always call my paradise, 
and in which I enjoy my only bright and happy 
moments. But what would you have, my angel ? 
It is not ordained that men should have undis- 
turbed possession of the joys of paradise. Mother 
Eve sinned, and we must expiate her misdeeds. I 
must leave you again to-day to join that confer- 
ence which you so heartily detest.” 

“ But not yet,” she said, tenderly, putting her 
arms about his neck. “You will not leave me 
yet ? ” 

Thus besought, he promised to remain. Never 
was he more amiable, more brilliant, more atten- 
tive, or more tender. Never was Marietta gayer, 
more excited, or more enchanting. Both had their 
reasons for this — ^both had their intentions. Love 
smiled upon their lips, but it was not in their 
hearts — each wished to deceive the other. Ranu- 
zi wished to quiet every suspicion by his tender- 
ness — she must not dream that this was their last 
meeting, and that he intended leaving Berlin this 
night, perhaps forever. Marietta wished to chain 
him to her side and prevent his departure. 

Time flew by amid gay laugliter and tender 
jests, and at length Marietta heard the house-door 
open and hurried steps mounting the stairway. It 
was the maid who had returned. Marietta’s heart 
beat so violently that she could scarcely conceal 
her emotion. 

“The maid has returned with her purchases,” 
she said, hastily ; “ I will go out and tell her that 
you cannot remain with me to-day.” She left the 
room and met Sophie in the hall, who was quite 
out of breath with her hurried walk, and who 
handed her a note. Marietta broke the seal with 
trembling hands. It contained only these words : 

“ Keep him but a few moments longer, and one 
will arrive who will release you from your watch, 
ind relieve you forever from your enemy by bear- 


ing him to prison. The answer of the one to 
whom I sent your paper has come; he is con- 
demned.” 

“ V ery well, Sophie,” said Marietta, concealing 
the paper in her bosom. “When the count leaves, 
you shall receive your reward. Now listen ; the 
soldiers are coming. As soon as you hear them 
on the steps, you must tap at my door, that I may 
know they have arrived.” 

She hastened back to Ranuzi, but she no longer 
smiled — she no longer approached him with open 
arms — ^but she advanced toward him with flash- 
ing eyes, with her arms folded haughtily across 
her breast, and her countenance pale with pas- 
sion. 

“ Ranuzi, the hour of revenge has come ! You 
have most shamefully betrayed and deceived me 
— you have mocked my love — ^you have trodden 
my heart under foot. Lies were upon your lips — 
lies were in your heart. And whilst yom swore to 
me that you loved no other, you had already be- 
trayed me to a woman. I am acquainted with 
Madame du Trouffle, and I know that you visit 
her every evening. This was the conference with 
the Catholic fathers, for whose sake you left me. 
Oh, I know all — all ! I will not reproach you ; I 
will not tell you of the martyrdom I suffered — of 
the wretched days and nights through which I 
wept and sighed, until at length I overcame the 
love I had borne you. That suffering is passed. 
But you have not forgotten that I once said to 
you : ‘ Should you forsake me, or turn faithlessly 
from me, I will be revenged.’ ” 

“I have not forgotten,” said Ranuzi, “and 1 
know that you will fulfil your promise ; but before 
you do so — before you point me out to the gov- 
ernment as a dangerous spy — you will listen to 
my defence, and only then if you are not satisfied, 
will you condemn me, and revenge yourself.” 

“ I have all-sufficient proof,” she said. “ Day 
by day, hour by hour, have these proofs been 
forced upon me, as the contents of the' poisoned 
cup are forced upon the condemned man. My love 
and happiness are dead, but you also shall die — 
you also shall suffer as I have done. My love was 
insufficient to keep for me a place in your memo- 
ry ; perhaps my revenge will do so. When you 
are wretched and miserable, think of me and re- 
pent.” 

“ Repent of what ? ” he asked, proudly. “ I have 
done nothing of which I am ashamed — nothing of 
which I repent. I have offered up my entire life, 
my every thought and desire, to a holy, a noble 
cause. To it I have subjected all my feelings, 
wishes, and hopes, and had it been necessary, I 
would without tears have sacrificed all that was 


216 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


dearest to me on earth. It became necessary for 
the good of this cause that I should appear to 
betray your love. A plan had been formed in 
which this woman you have just named could 
alone aid me. I dared not ask my heart what it 
suffered, for my head told me that tliis woman 
was necessary to me, and it became my duty to 
obtain her assistance by any means. So I became 
the daily companion of Madame du Trouffle, so — ' ’ 

A light tap at the door interrupted the count, 
and startled him inexplicably. 

“ What does that mean ? ” he asked, turning 
pale. 

Marietta laughed aloud. “ That means,” she 
said, slowly and scornfully, “ that you will not go 
to Magdeburg to-morrow — that you cannot make 
use of the passport which your beloved Madame 
du Trouffle obtained for you. Ah, you wished to 
leave me secretly — you did not wish me to suspect 
your intended departure. You were mistaken, 
Ranuzi. You will remain in Berlin, but you will 
never go to her again. I will prevent that.” 

At this moment loud knocking was heard at the 
door, and two policemen entered the room with- 
out waiting for an invitation, and through the 
open door armed soldiers might be seen in the 
hall guarding the entrance. 

When Ranuzi first beheld these servants of jus- 
tice, he shuddered and became deathly pale, but 
as they approached him, he recovered his wonted 
composure, and advanced proudly and coldly to 
meet them. 

“ Are you Count Ranuzi ? ” asked one of the 
policemen. 

“ I am,” he said, calmly. 

“ I arrest you in the name of the king ; you are 
our prisoner.” 

“ With what offence am I charged ? ” asked 
he, as he slowly placed his hand in his bosom. 

“The court-martial will inform you.” 

“ Ah, I am to be tried by a court-martial. Spies 
and conspirators are always thus tried. I am 
charged then with spying and conspiring,” cried 
Ranuzi, and then slowly turning to Marietta, he 
asked : “ And this is your work ? ” 

“ Yes ; this is my work,” she said, triumphantly. 

“You must come now,” said the policeman, 
roughly, as he stepped nearer to Ranuzi, at the 
game time giving his companion a sign to do the 
game. “Come immediately and quietly. Do 
not compel us to use force.” 

“ Force,” cried Ranuzi, shrugging his shoulders, 
as he drew his hand from his bosom and pointed a 
pistol toward the policemen, from which they 
ghrunk back terrified, “ You see that I need not 
fear force,” he said. ” If you dare to approach 


nearer or lay your hand on me I will fire on both 
of you, for happily my pistol has more than one 
ball, and it never fails. You see that we are 
playing a dangerous game, upon whose issue may 
depend your lives as well as mine. I can slioot 
you if I desire it, or I can direct this weapon 
against my own brow if I wish to avoid investi- 
gation or imprisonment. But I promise you to do 
neither the one nor the other, if you will give me 
the time to say a few words to this lady.” 

“ Be quick, then,” said the policeman, or I will 
call in the soldiers, “ and they can shoot you as 
easily as you could shoot us.” 

Ranuzi shrugged his shoulders. “ You will be 
very careful not to shoot me. The dead do not 
speak, and it is very important for my judges that 
I should speak. Go to that door; I give my 
word that I will follow you.” 

As if to strengthen his words, he raised the 
hand which held the pistol, and the two men 
withdrew with threatening glances, to the door. 

Ranuzi then turned again to Marietta, who 
turned her great flashing eyes upon him with an 
expression of anger and astonishment, mixed with 
hatred and admiration. 

“ Marietta,” he said, gently. She trembled at 
the sound of his voice. He perceived this, and 
smiled. “ Marietta,” he repeated, “ you have be- 
trayed me ; your have revenged your love ! I do 
not reproach you, my anaconda, but I pray yon 
to teU me one thing ; did you send the last let- 
ters which I gave you to the post ? ” 

“ No,” she replied, compelling her eyes, with a 
mighty effort, to meet his. 

“Wretch! What did you do with them.” 

“ I sent them to the King of Prussia.” 

Ranuzi uttered a shriek, and fell back a step. 
“ Then I am indeed lost,” he murmured, “ as well 
as that unhappy creature, who pines for light and 
freedom. Poor Trenck! Poor Amelia! All is 
lost; all through the jealousy of this wretched 
woman. I tell you, Marietta,” he continued aloud, 
as he placed his hand heavily on her shoulder, 
“it is not necessary that I should curse you, 
you will do that yourself. This hour will act as 
a deadly poison on your heart, of which you will 
die. It is true, you have revenged yourself. To- 
day you rejoice in this, for you believe that you 
hate me, but to-morrow you will repent ; to-mor- 
row grief will overtake you, and it will grow with 
every day — you will feel that you must love me 
for ever and ever; you must love me, because 
you have wrought my ruin. Yes, you are right — 
you have discovered the means to keep yourself 
in my remembrance. In my dungeon I will think 
of YOU. I will do so, and curse you ; but you 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


also will think of me ; and when you do, you will 
wring your hands and curse yourself, for revenge 
will not kill the love in your heart. Be that your 
punishment. Farewell ! ” 

He passed before her, and quietly approached 
the policemen. “ Come, gentlemen, I am quite 
ready to follow you ; and that you may be entirely 
at ease, I will leave my pistol here. It is my 
legacy to that lady — my last souvenir. Perhaps 
she may use it in the future.” 

He placed the pistol upon her writing-table and 
hastily approached the door. “ Come, gentlemen ; 
I am your prisoner ! ” 

He signed to them to follow him, and walked 
proudly through the hall. 

Marietta stood there trembling and deadly pale 
— lier eyes dilated, her lips opened, as if to utter 
a shriek. Thus she watched him, breathless, and 
as if enchained with horror. 

Now she saw him open the door of the hall, 
and throwing back at her one cold, flashing 
glance, he went out, followed by the police and 
the soldiers. 

“ He is gone ! he is gone ! ” she shrieked, as 
if in a frenzy. “ They are leading him to im- 
prisonment — perhaps to death. Oh, to death ! 
It is I who have murdered him. He is right. I 
am indeed cursed. I have murdered him, and 
— I love him.” And with a wild shriek she sank 
fainting to the ground. 


OHAPTEK IX-. 

TRENCK. 

Trenck Still lived; neither chains nor years 
of loneliness had broken his strength or bowed 
his spirit. His tall, gigantic form had shrunk 
to a skeleton ; his hair had whitened and hung 
around his hollow face like an ashen veil. Heavy 
chains clasped his feet and his throat ; a broad 
iron band encircled his waist, which was attached 
to the wall by a short chain — a thick bar held 
his hands apart ; but still he lived. For years 
he had paced, with short, restless steps, this little 
space that covered his grave ; but he smiled de- 
risively at the coarse stone which bore his name. 

Trenck still lived. He lived because he had a 
fixed desire, a grand aim in view — he thirsted for 
freedom, and believed it attainable. Trenck could 
not die, for without was liberty, the sun, life, and 
honor. He would not die ; for to be willing to 
die, he must first have lived. His life had been 
BO short — a few fleeting years of youth, of cai®- 


• 217 

less enjoyment — a joyous dream of love and 
ambition ! This had been his fate. Then came 
long, weary years of imprisonment — a something 
which he knew not, but it was not life — had crept 
to him in his prison, and with a cruel hand marked 
years upon his brow — years through which ho 
had not lived, but suffered. And still he re- 
mained young in spite of gray hairs and wrinkles. 
He glowed with hope and defiance ; his sluggish 
blood was warmed from time to time with new 
hopes, new expectations. His imagination painted 
wonderful pictures of future happiness. This 
hope always remained smiling and vigorous; 
notwithstanding his many disappointments — his 
many useless attempts to escape, Trenck still hoped 
for freedom. As often as the subterranean passages 
which he dug were discovered, he recommenced 
his work, and dug new ones ; when the sentinels 
whom he had won by gold and flattery were de- 
tected and punished, he found means to obtain 
other friends. 

Truly, friends did not fail ; the buried but still 
living prisoner had friends who never forgot him ; 
bold, loving friends, risking their lives for him. 
The mighty power of his great misfortunes won 
him friends. The soldiers who guarded him were 
seized with shuddering horror and pity at the 
sight of this sunken form, reminding them of the 
picture of the skeleton and the hour-glass, which 
hung in the village church. Trenck knew how to 
profit by this. The officers, who came every day 
to inspect his prison, were charmed and amazed 
by the freshness of his spirit, his bright conver- 
sation, and gay remarks. These interviews were 
the only interruption to the dulness of their 
garrison life. They came to him to be cheered. 
Not being willing to sit with him in the dark, they 
brought their lights with them ; they opened the 
door of his cell that they might not be obliged to 
remain with him in the damp, putrid air. They 
wondered at his firmness and courage ; they sym- 
pathized with his youth and loneliness, and this 
sympathy made for him earnest, useful friends, 
who revelled in the thought that Trenck’s renewed 
attempts at escape would at last be crowned with 
happy results, that he would obtain his freedom. 

He was on the eve of a great day. To-morrow 
he would live again, to-morrow he would be free ; 
this time it was no chimera, no dream— he must 
succeed. 

“ Yes, my plan cannot fail,” murmured Trenck, 
as he sat upon his stone seat and gazed at the 
iron door, which had just closed behind the Com- 
mandant Bruckhausen. “ My cruel jailer has dis- 
covered nothing, carefully as he searched my cell , 
this time I have dug no mines, broken no walls •, 


218 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


this time I shall pass through that door, my com- 
rades will greet me joyfully, and the poor prisoner 
shall be the mighty commander of the fortress. 
Only one night more, one single night of patience, 
and life, and love, and the world shall again be- 
long to me. Oh, I feel as if I would go mad with 
joy. I have had strength to endure misfortunes, 
but perhaps the rapture of freedom may oe fatal. 
My God ! my God ! if I should lose my senses ! if 
the light of the sun should scorch my brain I if 
the hum of the busy world should crush my 
spirit ! ” 

He lifted his hands in terror to his brow ; he 
felt as if wrapped in flames, as if fire were rising 
from his brain ; the chains rattled around him 
with unearthly sounds. “ The slightest error, the 
least forgetfulness would endanger my plan. I 
will be quiet — I will repeat once more all that we 
have agreed upon. But first away with these 
slavish chains, to-morrow I shall be a freeman ; I 
will commence my rdle to-day.” 

He removed the handcuffs, and with his free 
right hand loosened the girdle from his waist, at 
the point where the blacksmith, who fastened it 
upon him, told him it might be opened by a pres- 
sure light as a feather. Now he was free ; he 
stretched with delight his thin, meagre form, and 
let his arms swing in the air as if to prove their 
muscle. 

This was a sweet, a wonderful prelude to free- 
dom ; many weeks and months he had worked 
upon these chains to prepare for the moment of 
freedom. Now these chains had fallen. He was 
already a free man ; he cared not for these dark, 
damp walls. He did not see them ; he was already 
without, where the sun was shining, the birds 
were singing ; where the blue arch of heaven 
looked down upon the blooming earth. What did 
he care for the death-like stillness which surround- 
ed him ? he heard the noise in the streets ; he saw 
men running here and there in busy haste ; he 
listened to their bright conversation, their merry 
laughter ; he mixed among them with lively greet- 
ing, and shared their joys and cares. 

Suddenly he again pressed his brow fearfully, 
and cried : “ I shall go mad ! A thousand dan- 
cing pictures and happy faces are swarming around 
me ; I shall go mad ! But no, I will control my- 
self ; I will be calm.” He raised his head with 
his accustomed bold defiance. “ I will look free- 
dom in the face ; my eyelids shall not quiver, and 
my heart shall beat calmly. I will be quiet and 
thoughtful. I will think it all over once more. 
Listen to me, oh friend ! you, who have heard all 
my sighs and my despair ; you, who know my 
misery ; listen to me, oh gloomy cell. You have 


always been faithful ; you have never wished tc 
forsake or leave me ; and when I struggled to es- 
cape, you called me always back. But this is our 
last day together; you shall hear my confession, 
I will tell you all my plans, by what means I shall 
escape from you, my true friend, my dark, dreary 
cell. Know first that this garrison is composed 
of nine hundred men, who are much dissatisfied. 
It will not be difficult to win them, particularly if 
they are well bribed. Besides this, there are two 
majors and two lieutenants conspiring with me , 
they will tell their soldiers what to do. The guard 
at the star-port, is composed of but fifteen men, 
and if they do not obey me willingly, we will know 
how to compel obedience. At the end of the star- 
port lies the city gate. At this only twelve men 
and one officer are stationed ; these we shall easily 
overpower. On the other side, close to the gate, 
the Austrian Captain von Kimsky is awaiting me 
with the remainder of the prisoners of war. All 
the officers, who have pledged themselves to as- 
sist my undertaking, are concealed in a safe house 
rented for this purpose. At my first call they 
will rush forward and fall upon the guard ; we 
will overpower them and enter the city. There 
other friends await us ; one of them, under some 
pretext, holds in his quarters arms for his company, 
and at my call he will join me with his armed 
band. Oh my God ! my God ! I see every thing so 
plainly and clearly before me. I see myself rush- 
ing joyfully through the streets, dashing into the 
casemates, which contain nine thousand prisoners. 
I call to them : ‘Up, comrades, up ; I am Freder- 
ick von Trenck, your captain and your leader ; 
arm yourselves and follow me.’ I hear them greet 
me joyfully and cry, ‘ Long live Trenck ! ’ They 
take their arms and we rush to the other case- 
mates, where seven thousand Austrian and Rus- 
sian prisoners are confined. We free them, and I 
head a little army of sixteen thousand men. Mag- 
deburg is mine ; the fortress, the magazine of the 
army, the treasury, the arsenal, all is in our power. 
I shall conquer all for Maria Theresa. Oh, King 
Frederick ! King Frederick ! I shall avenge my- 
self on you for these long years of misery, for the 
martyrdom of this fearful imprisonment. Trenck 
will not be obliged to leave Magdeburg ; he will 
drive away the Prussians, and make himself mas- 
ter.” 

He laughed so loudly that the old walls echoed 
the sound, and a wailing sigh seemed to glide 
along the building. Trenck started and looked 
timidly around him. 

“ I am still alone,” he murmured, “ no one has 
heard my words ; no, no one but you,” he con> 
tinned cheerfully, my old silent friend, my faith 


219 


FREDERICK THE GREAT 

ful prison. To-morrow morning the officer on 
guard will enter and order the sentinels to remove 
the bed ; as soon as they enter I shall rush out 
and lock the door. The sentinels being locked up, 

I put on the clothes which are lying in readiness 
for me in the passage, and then forward to' my sol- 
diers. I shall distribute gold freely among them 
— a friend will meet me with the money at the 
house of Captain von Kleist, and if he has not 
sufficient, Amelia has richly supplied me. Arise, 
arise from your grave, my secret treasures.” 

He crouched close to the wall and removed the 
mortar and chalk carefully ; he then drew out a 
stone and took from under it a purse full of gold. 

His eye, accustomed to the darkness, saw the gold 
through the silk net ; he nodded to it and laughed 
with delight as he poured it out and played madly 
with it. His countenance suddenly assumed an 
earnest expression. 

“ Poor Amelia,” he murmured softly, “ you have 
sacrificed your life, your beauty, and yc«r youth 
for me. With never-failing zeal you have moved 
around me like my guardian angel, and how am I 
repaying you ? By taking from your brother. 

King Frederick, his finest fortress, his money, his 
provisions; by compelling you and yours to fly 
from a city which no longer belongs to you, but to 
the Empress of Austria, your enemy. With your 
money I have taken this city ; Amelia, you are 
ignorant of this now, and when you learn it, per- 
haps you will curse me and execrate the love 
which has poisoned your whole life. Oh, Amelia ! 
Amelia, forgive me for betraying you also. My 
unfortunate duty is forcing me onward, and I must 
obey. Yes,” he said, springing from his seat, “ I 
must yield to my fate, I must be free again — I 
must be a man once more ; I can sit no longer 
like a wild animal in his cage, and tell my grief 
and my despair to the cold walls. I must recon- 
quer life — I must again see the sun, the world, and 
mankind — must live, suffer, and act.” 

He walked violently to and fro, his whole being 
was in feverish expectation and excitement, and 
he felt alarmed. Suddenly he remained standing ; 
pressing his two hands against his beating tem- 
ples, he murmured : 

“ I shall indeed go mad. Joy at my approach- 
ing deliverance confuses my poor head ; I will try 
to sleep, to be calm— collect my strength for to- 
niorrow.” 

He lay down upon his miserable couch, and 
forced himself to be quiet and silent — ^not to speak 
aloud to himself in his lonely cell, as he was ac- 
customed to do. Gradually the mad tension of 
his nerves relaxed, gradually his eyes closed, and 
a soft, beneficial slumber came over him. 


AND HIS FAMILY. 

All was still in the dark cell; nothing was to 
be heard but the loud breathing of the sleeper; 
but even in sleep, visions of life and liberty re- 
joiced his heart— his face beamed with heavenly 
joy ; he murmured softly, “ I am free !— free at 
last ! ” 

The hours passed away, but Trenck still slum- 
bered — ^profound stillness surrounded him. The 
outer world had long since been awake — the sun 
was up, and had sent a clear beam of its glory 
through the small, thickly-barred window, even 
into the comfortless, desolate cell, and changed 
the gloom of darkness into a faint twilight. 


CHAPTER X. • 

“ TRENCK, ARE YOU THERE ? ” 

Trenck slept. Sleep on, sleep on, unfortunate 
prisoner, for while asleep you are free and joyous ; 
when you awake, your happy dreams will vanish ; 
agony and despair will be your only companions. 

Listen ! there are steps in the passage ; Trenck 
does not hear them — he still sleeps. But now a 
key is turned, the door is opened, and Trenck 
springs from his pallet. 

“ Are you there, my friends ? Is all ready ? ” 

Buf he totters back with a fearful shriek, his 
eyes fixed despairingly upon the door. There 
stood Von Bruckhausen, the prison commandant, 
beside him several officers, behind them a crowd 
of soldiers. 

This vision explained all to Trenck. It told him 
that his plan had miscarried — that again all had 
been in vain. It told him that he must remain 
what he was, a poor, wretched prisoner — more 
wretched than before, for they would now find out 
that when alone he could release himself from his 
chains. They would find his gold, which he had 
taken from its hiding-place, and was now lying 
loosely upon the floor. 

“ I am lost ! ” said he, covering his face with his 
hands, and throwing himself upon his bed. 

A malignant smile brightened up Von Bruck- 
hausen’s disagreeable countenance, as his eye took 
in the broken chains, the glittering gold, and the 
despairing prisoner. He then ordered the sol- 
diers to raise the chains and fasten them on him. 

Trenck made no resistance. He suffered them 
quietly to adjust this iron belt, to faiten the chain 
around his neck. He seemed insensible to all that 
was passing. This fearful blow had annihilated 
him ; and the giant who, but a short time before, 
had thought to conquer the world, was now a 


220 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS TAMILY. 


weak, trembling, defenceless child. When he was 
ordered to rise to have the chains annexed to his 
iron girdle, and fastened to the wall, he rose at 
once, and stretched out his hand for the manacles. 
Now the commandant dared approach Trenck ; 
he had no fear of the chained lion, he could jeer 
at and mock without danger. He did it with the 
wrath of a soul hard and pitiless ; wHh the deep, 
unutterable hate of an implacable enemy ; for 
Trenck was his enemy, his much-feared enemy ; 
he drove sleep from his eyes — he followed him in 
his dreams. Often at midnight Von Bruckhausen 
rose in terror from his couch, because he dreamed 
that Trenck had escaped, and that he must now 
take his place in that dark, fearful tomb. Sur- 
rounded by gay companions, he would turn pale 
and shudder at the thought of Trenck’s escaping 
— Trenck,* whose fearful cell was then destined 
to be his. This constant fear and anxiety 
caused the commandant to see in Trenck not the 
king’s prisoner, but his own personal enemy, with 
whom he must do battle to his utmost strength, 
with all the wrath and fear of a timid soul. With 
a cold, malicious smile he informed him that his 
plot had been discovered, that his mad plan was 
known ; he had wished to take the fortress of 
Magdeburg and place upon it the Austrian flag. 
With a jeering smile he held up to him the letter 
Trenck had sent to his friend in Vienna, in which, 
without mentioning names, he had made a Slight 
sketch of his plan. 

“ Will you deny that you wrote this letter ? ” 
cried the commandant, in a threatening voice. 

Trenck did not answer. His head was bowed 
upon his breast; he was gazing down in silence. 

“You will be forced to name your accom- 
plices,” cried the enraged commandant ; “ there 
is no palliation for a traitor, and if you do not 
name them at once, I shall subject you to the 
lash.” 

An unearthly yell issued from Trenck’s pale 
lips, and as he raised his head, his countenance 
was expressive of such wild, such terrible rage, 
that Bruckhausen drew away from him in affright. 
Trenck had awakened from his lethargy ; he had 
found again his strength and energy, he was Trenck 
once more — the Trenck feared by Von Bruckhau- 
sen, though lying in chains, the Trenck whom 
nothing could bend, nothing discourage. 

“ He who dares to whip me shall die,” said he, 
gazing wildly at the commandant. “With my 
nails, with my teeth, will I kill him.” 

“ Name your accomplices ! ” cried Bruckhausen, 
stamping upon the ground in his rage. 

It was Trenck now who laughed. “ Ah, you 
flunk to intimidate me with your angry voice,” 


said he. “You think your word has power to 
make me disclose that which I wish to keep se 
cret. You think I will betray my friends, do you ? 
Learn what a poor, weak, incapable human being 
you are, for not one of the things you wish shall 
occur. No, I shall not be so contemptible as to 
betray my friends. Were I to do so, then were I 
a traitor deserving of this wretched cell, of these 
fearful chains, for I would then be a stranger to 
the first, the holiest virtue, gratitude. But no, I 
will not. I w'as innocent when these chains 
were put on me — innocent I will remain.” 

“ Innocent I ” cried the commandant ; “ you who 
wished to deliver to the enemy a fortress of your 
sovereign 1 You call yourself innocent ? ” 

Trenck raised himself from his bed, and threw 
back his head proudly. “ I am no longer a sub- 
je\t of the King of Prussia,” said he; “he is no 
longer my sovereign. Many years ago I was 
thrown into prison at Glatz without court-martial 
or trial. When I escaped, all my property was 
confiscated. If I had not sought my bread else- 
where, I would have starved to death, or gone to 
ruin. Maria Theresa made me a captain in her 
army — to her I gave my allegiance. She alone i^i 
my sovereign. I owe no duty to the King of 
Prussia — ^he condemned me unheard — by one act 
he deprived me of bread, honor, country, and free- 
dom. He had me thro\vn into prison, and fet- 
tered like some fearful criminal. He has degraded 
me to an animal that lies grovelling in his cage, 
and who only lives to eat, who only eats to live. 
I do not speak to you, sir commandant,” contin- 
ued he — “ I speak, soldiers, to you, who were once 
my comrades in arms. I w'ould not have you call 
Trenck a traitor. Look at me; see what the king 
has made of me; and then tell me, was I not jus- 
tified in fleeing from these tortures? Even if 
Magdeburg had been stormed, and thousands of 
lives lost, would you have called me a traitor ? 
Am I a traitor because I strive to conquer for my- 
self what you, what every man, receives from 
God as his holy right — my freedom ? ” While he 
spoke, his pale, wan countenance beamed with 
inspiration. J 

The soldiers were struck and touched with it^ 
their low murmurs of applause taught the com- 
mandant that he had committed a mistake in hav- 
ing so many witnesses to his conversation with 
the universally pitied and admired prisoner. 

“You will not name your accomplices ? ” said 
he. 

“No,” said Trenck, “I will not betray my 
friends. And what good would it do you to know 
their names ? You would punish them, and would 
thereby sow dragons’ teeth from which neu 


221 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


friends would rise for me. For undeserved mis- 
fortune, and unmerited reproach, make for us 
friends in heaven and on earth. Look there, sir 
commandant — look there at your soldiers. They 
came here indifferent to m e- they leave as my 
friends ; and if they can do no more, they will 
pray for me.” 

“Enough! enough of this,” cried the comman- 
dant. “ Be silent 1 And you,” speaking to the 
soldiers, “ get out of here I Send the blacksmith 
to solder these chains at once. Go into the sec- 
ond passage — I want no one but the blacksmith.” 

The soldiers withdrew, and the smith entered 
with his hot coals, his glowing iron, and his pan- 
ful of boiling lead. The commandant leaned 
against the prison-door gazing at the smith; 
Trenck was looking eagerly at the ceiling of his 
cell catching the shadows thrown there by the 
glowing coals. 

“It is the ignus fatuus of my freedom,” said 
he, with a weary smile. “It is the fourth time 
they have danced on this ceiling — it is the fourth 
time my chains have been forged. But I tell you, 
commandant, I will break them again, and the 
shadows flickering on these walls will be changed 
to a glorious sun of freedom — it will illuminate 
my path so that I can escape from this dungeon, 
in which I will leave nothing but my curse for you 
my cruel keeper.” 

“You have not, then, despaired?” said the 
commandant, with a cold smile. “ You will still’ 
attempt to escape ? ” 

Trenck fixed his keen, sparkling eyes upon Yon 
Bruckhausen, and stretching out his left arm to 
the smith, he said : “ Listen, sir commandant, to 
what I have to say to you, and may my wmrds 
creep like deadly poison through your veins ! 
Hear me ; as soon as you have left my cell — as 
soon as that door has closed behind you — I will 
commence a new plan of escape. You have 
thrown me in a cell under the earth. The floor 
in my other cell was of wood — I cut my way 
through it. This is of stone — I shall remove it. 
You come daily and search my room to see if 
there is not some hole or some iostrumeut hidden 
by which I might effect my escape. Nevertheless 
I shall escape. God created the mole, and of it I 
will learn how to burrow in the ground, and thus 
I will escape. You will see that I have no in- 
struments, no weapons, but God gave me what lie 
gave the mole — He gave my fingers nails, and my 
mouth teeth ; and if there is no other way, I will 
make my escape by them.” 

“ It is certainly very kind of you to inform me 
of all this,” cried the commandant. “ Be assured 
* shall not forget your words. I shall accommo- 

15 


date myself to them. You seek to escape — I seek 
to detain you here. I am convinced I shall find 
some means of assuring myself every quarter of 
an hour that your nails and teeth have not freed 
you. The smith’s work I see is done, and we 
dare entertain the hope that for the present yoi 
will remain with us. Or perhaps you mean tc 
bite your chains in two as soon as I leave ? ” 

“God gave Samson strength to crush with his 
arms the temple columns,” said Trenck, gazing at 
the blacksmith, who was now leavmg the room. 
“ See, the ignis fatuus has disappeared from my 
cell, the sun will soon shine.” 

“ Trenck, be reasonable,” said Von Bruckhau- 
sen, in an entreating tone. “ Do not increase your 
misery — do not force me to be more cruel to you. 
Promise to make no more attempts to escape, and 
you shall not be punished for your treacherous 
plot ! ” 

Trenck laughed aloud. “ You promise not to 
punish me. How could you accomplish it? Has 
not your cruelty bound me in irons, in chains, 
whose invention can only be attributed to the 
devil ? Do I not live in the deepest, most forlorn 
cell in the fortress ? Is not my nourishment 
bread and water ? Do you not condemn me to 
pass my days in idleness, my nights in fearful 
darkness ? What more could you do to me ?— 
how could you punish any new attempt to es- 
cape ? No, no, sir commandant ; as soon as 
that door has closed on you, the mole will com- 
mence to burrow, and some day, in spite of all 
your care, he will escape.” 

“That is your last word !” cried Yon Bruckhau- 
sen, infuriated. “ You will not promise to aban- 
don these idle attempts at escape ? You will not 
name your accomplices ? ” 

“No ! and again no ! ” 

“Well, then, farewell. You shall remember 
this hour, and I promise you, you shall regret it.” 

Throwing a fearful look of malignant wrath at 
Trenck, who was leaning against his pallet, laugh- 
ing at his rage, the commandant left the prison. 
The iron door closed slowly ; the firm, even tread 
of the disappearing soldiers was audible, then all 
was quiet. 

A death-like stillness reigned in the prisoner’s 
cell ; no sound of life disturbed the fearful quiet. 
Trenck shuddered ; a feeling of inexpressible woe, 
of inconsolable despair came over him. He could 
now yield to it, no one was present to hear bis 
misery and wretchedness. He need not now sup* 
press the sighs and groans that had almost choked 
him ; he could give the tears, welling to his eyes 
like burning fire, full vent ; he could cool his fe- 
verish brow upon the stone floor, in the agony of 


222 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


his soul. As a raan trembles at the thought of 
death, Treuck trembled at the thought of life. He 
knew not how long he had sighed, and wept, and 
groaned. For him there was no time, no hour, 
no night — ^it was all merged into one fearful day. 
But still he experienced some hours of pleasure 
and joy. These were the hours of sleep, the hours 
of dreams. Happier than many a king, than 
many powerful rulers and rich nobles upon their 
silken couches, was this prisoner upon his hard 
pallet. He could sleep — ^his spirit, busy during 
the day in forming plans for his escape, needed 
and found the rest of sleep ; his body needed the 
refreshment and received it. 

Yes, he could sleep. Men were hard and cruel 
him, but God had not deserted him, for at night 
He sent an angel to his cell who consoled and re- 
freshed him. It was the angel of slumber — when 
night came, after all his sorrow, his agony, his 
despair endured during the day, the consoling an- 
gel came and took his seat by the wretched pris- 
oner. This night he kissed his eyes, he laid his 
soft wings on the prisoner’s wounded heart, he 
whispered glorious dreams of the future into his 
ear. A beautiful smile, seldom seen when he was 
awake, now rested upon his lips. 

Keep quiet, ye guards, without there — ^keep 
quiet, the prisoner sleeps; the sleep of man is 
sacred, and more sacred than all else is the sleep 
of the unfortunate. Do not disturb him — ^pass the 
door stealthily. Be still, be still ! the prisoner 
sleeps — reverence his rest. 

This stillness was now broken by a loud cry. 

“ Trenck, Trenck ! ” cried a thundering voice — 
“ Trenck, are you asleep ? ” 

He woke from his pleasant dreams and rose in 
terror from his bed. He thought he had heard 
the trumpets of the judgment-day, and listened 
eagerly for the renewing of the sound. 

And again the cry resounded through his cell. 
“ Trenck, are you there ? ” 

With a wild fear he raised his hand to his burn- 
ing brow. 

“ Am I mad ? ” murmured he ; “I hear a voice 
in my brain calling me ; a voice — ” 

The bolts were pushed back, and Commandant 
Von Bruckhausen, accompanied by a soldier, with 
a burning torch, appeared on the threshold. 

“ Why did you not answer, Trenck ? ” said he. 

“ Answer — answer what ? ” 

“ The sentinel’s call. As you swore to me you 
would make new attempts to escape!; I was com- 
pelled to make arrangements to prevent your suc- 
ceedi.u.g. The guards at your door are^commanded 
to call you every quarter of an hour during the 
night. If you do not answer at once, they will 


enter your cell to convince themselves of your 
presence. Accommodate yourself to this, Trenck 
We shall now see if you are able to free yourself 
with your nails and teeth ! ” 

He left the room, the door was closed. It waa 
night once more in the prisoner’s cell — but he did 
not sleep. He sat upon his pallet and asked him- 
self if what had passed was true, or if it was not 
some wild and fearful dream. 

“ No, no, it cannot be true ; they could not rob 
me of my last and only pleasure — my sleep ! soft, 
balmy sleep ! ” 

But listen. There is a voice again. “ Trenck, 
Trenck, are you there ? ” 

He answered by a fearful yell, and sprang from 
his bed, trembling with terror. It was no dream ! 

“ It is true ! — they will let me sleep no more. 
Cowardly thieves ! may God curse as I curse you. 
May He have no pity with you, who have none 
with me ! Ah, you cruel men, you increase my 
misery a thousandfold. You murder my sleep. 
God’s curse upon you ! ” 


CHAPTER XI. r: 

THE KING AND THE GERMAN SCHOLAR. 

It was the winter of 1'760. Germany, unhappy 
Germany, bleeding from a thousand wounds, was 
for a few months freed from the scourge of war ; 
she could breathe again, and gather new strength 
for new contests. Stern winter with its ice and 
snow had alone given peace to the people for a 
short time. The rulers thought of and willed 
nothing but war; and the winter’s rest was only 
a time of preparation for new battles. The allies 
had never yet succeeded m vanquishing the little 
King of Prussia. Notwithstanding the disap- 
pointments and adversities crowded upon him — 
though good fortune and success seemed forever 
to have abandoned him— -Frederick stood firm and 
undaunted, and his courage and his confidence 
augmented with the dangers which surrounded him. 

But his condition appeared so sad, so desper- 
ate, that even the heroic Prince Henry despaired. 
The king had in some degi’ee repaired the disas- 
ters of Kiinersdorf and Mayen by his great victo- 
ries at Leignitz and Torgau ; but so mournful, so 
menacing was his position on every side, that even 
the victories which had driven his enemies from 
Saxony, and at least assured him his winter quar 
ters, brought him no other advantages, and die 
not lessen the dangers which threatened him. Hif 
enemies stood round about him — they burned 


2^3 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


with rage and thirst to destroy utterly that king 
who was always ready to tear from them their 
newly-won laurels. Only by his complete de- 
struction could they hope to quench the glowing 
enthusiasm which the people of all Europe ex- 
pressed by shouts and exultation. 

The Russians had their winter quarters tor the 
first time in Pomerania. The Austrians lay in Si- 
lesia and Bohemia. The newly-supplied French 
army, and the army of the States, were on the 
Rhine. While the enemies of Frederick re- 
mained thus faithful to each other in their war 
against him, he had just lost his only ally. 

King George II. of England was dead, and the 
weak George III. yielded wholly to the imperious 
will of his mother and to that of Lord Bute. He 
broke oflFhis league with Prussia, and refused to 
pay the subsidy. 

Thus Prussia stood alone — without money, 
without soldiers, without friends — surrounded by 
powerful and eager enemies — alone and seeming- 
y hopeless, with so many vindictive adversaries. 

All this made Prince Henry not only Unhappy, 
but dispirited — palsied his courage, and made him 
wish to leave the army and take refuge in some 
vast solitude where he could mourn over the mis- 
fortunes of his distracted country. Accordingly 
he wrote to the king and asked for his discharge. 

The king replied : 

“ It is not diflacult, my brother, in bright and 
prosperous times, to find men willing to serve the 
state. Those only are good citizens who stand 
undaunted at the post of danger in times of great 
crises and disaster. The true calling of a man 
consists in this : that he should intrepidly carry 
out the most difficult and dangerous enterprises. 
The more difficulty, the more danger — the more 
bright honor and undying fame. I cannot, there- 
fore, believe that you are in earnest in asking for 
your discharge. It is unquestionable that neither 
you nor I can feel certain of a happy issue to the 
circumstances which now surround us. But when 
we have done all which lies in our power, our con- 
sciences and public opinion will do us justice. We 
contend for our fatherland and for honor. W e must 
make the impossible possible, in order to succeed. 
The number of our enemies does not terrify me. 
The greater their number, the more glorious will 
be our fame when we have conquered them.” * 
Prince Henry, ashamed of his despondency, 
gave to this letter of his brother the answer of a 
hero. He marched against the Russians, drove 
them from Silesia, and raised the siege of Breslau, 


♦ Preufls, “ History of Frederick the Great,” vol. il., p. 


around which the Austrians under Loudon were 
encamped. Tauentzein, with fearless energy and 
with but three thousand Prussians, had forti- 
fied himself in Breslau against this powerful en- 
emy. So in the very beginning of the winter the 
capital of Silesia had been retaken. By Torgau 
the king had fought and won his twelfth battle for 
tlie possession of Silesia — yes, fought and won 
from his powerful and irreconcilable enemies. And 
all this had been in vain, and almost without re- 
sults. The prospect of peace seemed far dis- 
tant, and the hope of happiness for Frederick 
even as remote. 

But now winter was upon them. This stern 
angel of peace had sheathed the sword, and for 
the time ended the war. 

While the pious Maria Theresa and her court 
ladies made it the mode to prepare lint in their 
splendid saloons during the winter for the wound- 
ed soldiers — while the Russian General Soltikow 
took up his winter quarters at Posen, and gave 
sumptuous feasts and banquets — Frederick with- 
drew to Leipsic, in which city philosophy and 
learning were at that time most flourishing. The 
Leipsigers indeed boasted that they had given 
an asylum to poetry and art. 

The warrior-hero was now changed for a few 
happy months into the philosopher, the poet, and 
the scholar. Frederick’s brow, contracted by 
anxiety and care, was now smooth ; his eye took 
again its wonted fire — a smile was on his lip, 
and the hand which had so long brandished 
the sword, gladly resumed the pen. He who had 
so long uttered only words of command and calls 
to battle, now bowed over his flute and drew from 
it the tenderest and most melting melodies. The 
evening concerts were resumed. The musical 
friends and comrades of the king had been sum- 
moned from Berlin ; and that nothing might be 
wanting to make his happiness complete, he had 
called his best-beloved friend, the Marquis d’Ar 
gens, to his side. 

D’ Argens had much to tell of the siege of Bei ■ 
lin by the Russians — of the firm defence of the 
burghers— -of their patriotism and their courage, 
Frederick’s eyes glistened with emotion, and m 
the fulness of his thankful heart he promised to 
stand by his faithful Berliners to the end. But 
when D’Argens told of the desolation which the 
Russians had wrought amongst the treasures of 
art in Charlottenburg, the brow of the king gi-ew 
dark, and with profound indignation he said : 

“ Ah, the Russians are barbarians, who labor 
only for the downfall of humanity.* If we do not 


♦ The king’s own words. — Archenholtz, vol. i., p. 2S2. 


224 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


succeed in conquering them, and destroying their 
rude, despotic sovereignty, they will again and 
ever disquiet the whole of Europe. In the mean 
time, however,” said Frederick, “ the vandalism 
of the Russians shall not destroy our beautiful 
winter rest. If they have torn my paintings and 
crushed my statues, we must collect new art- 
treasures. Gotzkowsky has told me that in Italy, 
that inexhaustible mine of art, there are still 
many glorious pictures of the great old masters ; 
he shall procure them for me, and I will make 
haste to finish this war in order to enjoy my new 
paintings, and to rest in my beautiful Sans-Souci. 
Ah, marquis, let us speak no longer of it, in this 
room at least, let us forget the war. It has whit- 
ened my hair, and made an old man of me before 
my time. My back is bent, and my face is 
wrinkled as the flounce on a woman’s dress. All 
this has the war brought upon me. But my 
heart and my inclinations are unchanged, and I 
think I dare now allow them a little satisfaction 
and indulgence. Come, marquis, I have a new 
poem from Voltaire, sent to me a few days since. 
We will see if he can find grace before your stern 
tribunal. I have also some new sins to confess. 
That is to say, I have some poems composed in 
the hours of rest during ray campaigns. You are 
my literary father confessor, and we will see if 
you can give me absolution.” 

But the king did not dedicate the entire winter 
to music, and French poems, and gay, cheerful 
conversation with his friends. A part of this hap- 
py time was consecrated to the earnest study of 
the ancients. For the first time he turned his 
attention to German literature, and felt an intei’- 
est in the efforts of German philosophers and 
poets. 

Quintus Icilius, the learned companion of Fred- 
erick, had often assured him that the scholarship, 
the wit, the poetry of Germany, found at this 
time their best representatives in Leipsic, that he 
at length become curious to see these great men, 
of whom Quintus Icilius asserted that they far 
surpassed the French in scholarship, and in wit 
and intellect might take their places unchallenged 
side by side with the French. 

The king listened to this assurance with rather 
a contemptuous smile. He directed Icilius, however, 
to present to him some of the Leipsic scholars 
and authors. 

“ I will present to your majesty the most re- 
nowned scholar and philologist of Leipsic, Pro- 
fessor Gottsched, and the celebrated author, Gel- 
lert,” said Icilius, with great animation. “ Which 
of the two will your majesty receive first ? ” 

“ Bring me first the scholar and philologist,” 


said the king, laughing. “Perhaps the man has 
already discovered in this barbarous Dutch tongu« 
a few soft notes and turns, and if so, I am curi- 
ous to hear them. Go, then, and bring me Pro- 
fessor Gottsched. I have often heard of him, 
and I know that Voltaire dedicated an ode to 
him. In the mean time I will read a little in my 
Lucretius and prepare my soul for the interview 
with this great Dutchman.” 

Icilius hastened off to summon the renowned 
professor to the king. 

Gottsched, to whom, at that time, all Germany 
rendered homage, and who possessed all the pride 
and arrogance of a German scholar, thought it most 
natural that the king should wish to know him, 
and accepted the invitation with a gracious smile. 
In the complete, heart-felt conviction of his own 
glory, in the rigid, pedantic array of a magnifi- 
cent, long-tailed wig,the German professor appeared 
before .the king. His majesty received him in his 
short, simple, unostentatious manner, and smiled 
significantly at the pompous manner of the re- 
nowned man. They spoke at first of the progress 
of German philosophy, and the king listened with 
grave attention to the learned deductions of the 
professor, but he thought to himself that Gott- 
sched understood but little how to make his knowl- 
edge palatable ; he was probably a learned, but 
most certainly a very uninteresting man. 

The conversation was carried on with more vi- 
vacity when they spoke of poetry and history, and 
the king entered upon this theme with "warm in- 
terest. 

“ In the history of Germany, I believe there is 
still much concealed,” said Frederick ; “ I am con- 
vinced that many important documents are yet 
hidden away in the cloisters.” 

Gottsched looked up at him proudly. “ 
don, sire,” said he, in his formal, pedantic way. 

“ I believe those can be only unimportant docu- 1 
ments. To my view, at least, there is no moment 
of German history concealed — all is clear, and I 
can give information on every point ! ” 

The king bowed his head with a mocking smile. 
“You are a great scholar, sir ; I dare not Doast of 
any preeminence. I only know the history of the 
German States written by P^re Barr6.” 

“ He has written a German history as well as 
a foreigner could write it,” said Gottsched. “ For 
this purpose he made use of a Latin work, written 
by Struve, in Jena. He translated this book- 
nothing more. Had Barr6 understood German, 
his history would have been better ; he would 
have had surer sources of information at his com- 
mand.” 

“ But Barr6 was of Alsace, and understood Ger 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


225 


man,” said Frederick, eagerly. “ But you, who 
are a scholar, an author, and a grammarian, tell 
me, if any thing can be made of the German 
language ? ” 

“Well, I think we have already made many 
beautiful things of it,” said Gottscbed, in the full 
consciousness of his own fame. 

“But you have not been able to give it any 
melody, or any grace,” said Frederick. “The 
German language is a succession of barbarous 
sounds ; there is no music in it. Every tone is 
rough and harsh, and its many discords make it 
useless for poetry or eloquence. For instance, in 
German you call a rival ‘ Nebenbuhler,’ what a 
fatal, disgusting sound — ‘ Buhler 1 ’ ” » 

“Ah, your majesty,” said Gottsched, impatiently, 
“ that is also a sound in the French tongue. You 
should know this, for no one understands better, 
more energetically than yourself, how to circum- 
vent the ‘ boules ! ’ ” 

Frederick laughed ; and this gay rejoinder of 
the learned professor reconciled him somewhat to 
bis puffed up and haughty self-conceit. “It is 
.rue,” said he, “.this time you are right; but you 
must admit that, in general, the French language 
is softer and more melodious ! ” 

“ I cannot admit it,” said Gottsched, fiercely. 

“ I assert that German is more musical. How 
harsh, how detesUble sounds, for instance, the 
French ^ amour how soft and tender — yes, I 
may say, how characteristic — ^sounds the word 
‘ liebe ! ’ 

“ Aha ! ” said the king, “ you are certainly 
most happily married, or you would not be so 
enthusiastic about German ‘ liehe^ which I admit is 
a very different thing from French ‘ amour. ’ I am, 
however, convinced that the French language has 
many advantages over the German. For instance, 
in th^ French one word may often suffice to con- 
vey many different meanings, while for this pur- 
pose several German words must be combined.” 

“ That is true. There your majesty is right,” 
said Gottsched, thoughtfully. “ The French lan- 
guage has this advantage. But this shall be no 
longer so — we will change it ! Yes, yes — we 
will reform it altogether ! ” 

Frederick looked astonished and highly diverted. 
This assumption of the learned scholar, “to 
change all that,” impressed him through its im- 
mensity.f “ Bring that about sir,” said the king, 
gayly, “ Wave your field-marshal’s staff and give 
to the German language that which it has 

♦ The king’s own words. — Vol. ii. p. 272 
t Many years afterward the king repeated this declara- 
tion of Gottsched to the Duchess of Gotha, “ We will 
change all that,” and was highly amused. 


never possessed, grace, significance, and facility ; 
then breathe upon it the capability to express 
soft passion and tender feeling, and you will do 
for the language what Julius Caesar did for the 
people. You will be a conqueror, and will culti- 
vate and polish barbarians ! ” 

Gottsched did not perceive the mockery which 
lay in these words of the king, but received them 
smilingly as agreeable flattery. “The Ger an 
language is well fitted to express tender emotions. 
I pledge myself to translate any French poem 
faithfully, and at the same time melodiously,” said 
he. 

“ I will put you to the proof, at ouce,” said the 
king, opening a book which lay upon the table. 
“ Look ! These are the Odes of Rousseau, and 
we will take the first one which accident presents. 
Listen to this : 

“ ‘ Sous un plus heureux auspice, 

La Deesse des amours, 

Veut qu’un nouveau sacrifice, 

Lui conScacre vos beaux jours ; 

D6j^ le bficher s’allume. 

L’autel brille, I’encens fume. 

La victime s’embellit, 

L’amour meme la consume, 

Le myst^re s’accomplit.’ * 

“ Do you believe it is possible to translate this 
beautiful stanza into German ? ” said the kins:. 

“ If your majesty allows me, I will translate it 
at once,” said he. “ Give me a piece of paper 
and a pencil.” 

“Take them,” said Frederick. “ We will divert 
ourselves by a little rivalry in song, while you 
translate the verses of the French poet into Ger- 
man. I will sing to the praise of the German 
author in French rhyme. Let us not disturb 
each other.” 

Frederick stepped to the window and wrote off* 
hastily a few verses, then waited till he saw that 
Gottsched had also ceased to write. “I am 
ready, sir,” said the king. 

“ And I also,” said the scholar, solemnly. “ Lis- 
ten, your majesty, and be pleased to take the 
book and compare as I read ; ” then with a loud 
nasal voice he read his translation ; 

“ ‘ Mit ungleich glucklicherm, Geschicke, 

Gebeut die Konigin zarter pcin, 

Hin, Deine scbunen Augenblieke, 

Zum Opfer noch einma. zu wcihn. 

Den Holzstoss liebt man aufzugeben, ^ 

Der Altar gliinzt, de.s Weihrauchs Dufte ’ 
Durchdringen schon die weiten Liifte, 

Das Opfer wird gedoppelt schon, 

Durch Amors .Glut ist es verflogen, 

Und das Gehelmniss wird vollzogen, 

1 “ Now, your majesty,” said Gottsched, “ do you 

• See note, page 800. 


226 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


not find that the German language is capable of 
repeating the French verses projmptly and con- 
cisely ? ” 

“ I am astonished that you have been able to 
translate this beautiful poem. I am sorry I am 
too old to learn German. I regret that in my 
youth I had neither the courage nor the instruc- 
tion necessary. I would certainly have turned 
many of my leisure hours to the translation of 
German authors, rather than to Roman and French 
writers; but the past cannot be recalled, and I 
must be content! If I can never hope to be- 
come a German writer, it will at least be granted 
me to sing the praises of the regenerator of the 
German language in French verse. I have sought 
to do so now — listen ! ” 

The king read aloud a few verses to the enrap- 
tured professor. The immoderate praise enchant- 
ed him, and, in the assurance of his pride and 
conceit, he did not remark the fine irony concealed 
in them. With a raised voice, and a graceful, 
bantering smile, the king concluded : 

“ C’est a toi Cygne des Saxons, 

D’arracher ce secret ^ la nature avare; 

D’adoucir dans tes chants d’une langue barbare, 

Les durs et d6testables sons 1 ” * 

“Ah! your majesty,” cried Gottsched, forget- 
• ting his indignation over the langue harhare^ in 
his rapture at the praise he had received, “ you 
are kind and cruel at the same moment. You 
cast reproach upon our poor language, and, at the 
same time, give me right royal praise. Cygne des 
Saxo7is — that is an epithet which does honor 
to the royal giver, and to the happy receiver. 
For a king and a hero, there can be no higher 
fame than to appreciate and reverence men of let- 
ters. The sons of Apollo and the Muses, the 
scholars, the artists and authors, have no more 
exalted object than to attain the acknowledgment 
and consideration of the king and the hero. Sire, 
I make you a most profound and grateful rever- 
ence. You have composed a masterly little poem, 
and when the Cygne des Saxons shall sing his swan- 
like song, it will be in honor of the great Freder- 
ick, the Caesar of his time.” 

“ Now, my dear Quintus,” said the king, after 
Gottsched had withdrawn, “ are you content with 
your great scholar ? ” 

“ Sire,” said he, “ I must sorrowfully confess 
that the great Gottsched has covered his head 
with a little too much of the dust of learning ; he 
is too much of the pedant.” 

“ He is a puifed-up, conceited fool,” said the 
king, impatiently ; “ and you can never convince 
me that he is a great genius. Great men are 

♦ CEuvres Postbumes, vol. vii., p. 216. 

♦ See note, page 800. 


modest; they have an exalted aim ever before 
them, and are never satisfied with themselves ; 
but men like this Gottsched place themselves 
upon an altar, and fall down and worship. This 
is their only reward, and they will never do any 
thing truly great.” 

“ But Gottsched has really great and imperish- 
able merit,” said Quintus, eagerly. “ He has done 
much for the language, much for culture, and for 
science. All Germany honors him, and, if the in- 
cense offered him has turned his head, we must 
forgive him, because of the great service he has 
rendered.” 

“ I can never believe that he is a great man, or 
a poet. He had the audacity to speak of the 
golden era of literature which bloomed in the time 
of my grandfather, Frederick I., in Germany, and 
he was so foolhardy as to mention some German 
scribblers of that time, whose barbarous names 
no one knows, as the equals of Racine, and Cor- 
neille, and even of Virgil. Repeat to me, once 
more, the names of those departed geniuses, that 
I may know the rivals of the great writers of the 
day ! ” 

“ He spoke of Bessen and Neukirch,” said Quin- 
tus; “ I must confess it savors of audacity to com- 
pare these men with Racine and Corneille ; he did 
this, perhaps, to excite the interest of your majes- 
ty, as it is well known that the great Frederick, to 
whom all Germany renders homage, attributes all 
that is good and honorable to the German, but 
has a poor opinion of his intellect, his learning, 
and his wit.” 

The king was about to reply, when a servant 
entered and gave him a letter from the professor, 
Gottsched. 

“I find, Quintus,” said the king, “that my 
brother in Apollo does me the honor to treat me 
with confidence. If I was at all disposed to be 
arrogant, I might finally imagine myself to be his 
equal. Let us see with what sort of dedication 
the Cygne des Saxons has honored us.” He open- 
ed the letter, and while reading, his countenance 
cleared, and he burst out into a loud, joyous laugh. 
“Well, you must read this poem, and tell me if it 
is pure German and true poetry.” The king, as- 
suming the attitude of a great tragedian, stepped 
forward with a nasal voice, and exactly in the 
pompous manner of Gottsched, he read the poem 
aloud. “ Be pleased to remark,” said the king, 
with assumed solemnity, “ that Gottsched an- 
nounces himself as the Pindar of Germany, and he 
will have the goodness to commend me in hia 
rhymes to after-centuries. And now, tell me, 
Quintus, if this is German poetry? Is your ia 
nermost soul inspired by these exalted lines ? ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“Sire,” said Quintus Icilius, “I abandon my 
j renowned scholar, and freely confess that your 
majesty judged him correctly ; he is an ihsufifer- 
able fool and simpleton.” 

“ Not so ; but he is a German scholar,” said 
the king, pathetically ; “ one of the great pillars 
I which support the weight of the great temple of 

I German science and poetry.” 

“ Sire, I offer up my German scholar ; I lay him 
upon the altar of your just irony. You may tear 
him to pieces; he is yours. But I pray you, 
therefore, to be gracious, sire, and promise me to 
receive my poet kindly.” 

“I promise,” said the king: “ I wish also to 
become acquainted with this model. 

“Promise me, however, one thing. If the Ger- 
man poet resembles the German scholar, you will 
make me no reproaches if I turn away from all 
such commodities in future ? ” 


I CHAPTER XIL , 

GELLERT. 

Gellert was just returning from the university, 
where, in the large hall, he had recommenced his 
I lectures on morality. A large audience had as- 

I sembled, who had given the most undivided at- 
tention to their beloved master. As he left the 
rostrum the assembly, entirely contrary to their 
I usual custom, burst forth in loud applause, and all 
!! pressed forward to welcome the beloved teacher 
on his return to his academic duties after his se- 

! vere illness. 

These proofs of love had touched the sensitive 
; German poet so deeply in his present nervous and 
: suffering condition, that he reached his lodging 
' deathly pale and with trembling knees; utterly 
1 exhausted, he threw himself into his arm-chair, 
the only article of luxury in his simple study. 

The old man, who sat near the window in this 
i study, was busily engaged in reading, and paid him 
no attention; although Gellert coughed several 
\ times, he did not appear to remark his presence 
I and continued to read. 

; “ Conrad,” said Gellert, at length, in a friendly, 

j pleading tone. 

“ Professor,” answered the old man, as he looked 
I ap unwillingly from his book. 

“ Conrad, it seems to me that you might stand 
up when I enter ; not, perhaps, so much out of 
'lespect for your master, as because he is delicate 
anu weak, and needs your assistance.” 

“ Professor,” said the old man, with composure. 


“ I only intended finishing the chapter which I 
have just commenced, and then I should have 
risen. You came a little too soon. It Wins your 
own fault if I was compelled to read after you 
came.” 

Gellert smiled. “ What book were you reading 
so earnestly, my old friend ? ” 

“ The ‘Swedish Countess,’ professor. You know 
it is my favorite book. I am reading it now for 
the twelfth time, and I still think it the most beau- 
tiful and touching, as well as the most sensible 
t) ok I ever read. It is entirely beyond my com- 
1 ehension, professor, how you made it, and how 
’ 3u could have recollected all these charming his- 
tories. Who related all that to you ? ” 

“No one related it to me, it came from my own 
head and heart,” said Gellert, pleasantly. “ But 
no, that is a very presumptuous thought; it did 
not come from myself, but from the great spirit, 
who occasionally sends a ray of his Godlike ge- 
nius to quicken the hearts and imaginations of 
poets.” 

“ I do not understand you, professor,” said Con- 
rad, impatiently. “ Why do you not talk like the 
book — I understand all that the ‘ Swedish Count- 
ess ’ says, for she speaks like other people. She 
is an altogether sensible and lovely woman, and I 
have thought sometimes, professor — ” 

Old Conrad hesitated and looked embarrassed. 

“ Well, Conrad, what have you thought? ” 

“I have thought sometimes, sir, perhaps it 
would be best for you to marry the ‘ Swedish 
Countess.’ ” 

Gellert started slightly, and a light flush mounted 
to his brow. 

“ I marry ! ” he exclaimed ; “ Heaven protect 
me from fastening such a yoke upon myself, or 
putting my happiness in the power of any creature 
so fickle, vain, capricious, haughty, obstinate, and 
heartless as a woman. Conrad, where did you get 
this w;ild idea ? you know that I hate women ; no, 
not hate, but fear them, as the lamb fears the 
wolf.” 

“Oh, sir,” cried Conrad, angrily, “was your 
mother not a woman ? ” 

“Yes,” said Gellert, softly, after a pause — 
“ yes, she was a woman, a whole-hearted, noble 
woman. She was the golden star of my child- 
hood, the saintly ideal of the youth, as she is now 
in heaven the guardian angel of the man ; there 
is no woman like her, Conrad. She was the im- 
personation of love, of self-sacrifice, of goodness, 
and of devotion.” 

“ You are right,” said Conrad, softly, “ she was 
a true woman ; the entire village loved and hoiv 
ored her for her benevolence and piety ; when she 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


22S 

died, i't seemed as though we had all lost a 
mother.” 

“ When she died,” said Gellert, his voice trem- 
bling with emotion, “my happiness and youth 
died with her ; and when the first handful of earth 
fell upon her coffin I felt as if my heart-strings 
broke, and that feeling has never left me.” 

“You loved your mother too deeply, professor,” 
said Conrad ; “ that is the reason you are deter- 
mined not to love and marry some other 
woman.” 

“ Why, man, do not talk to me again of marry- 
ing,” cried Gellert “ What has that fatal word 
to do in my study ? ” 

“ A great deal, sir ; only look how mis- 
erable every thing is here; not even neat and 
comfortable, as it should certainly be in the room 
of so learned and celebrated a professor. Only 
think of the change that would be made by a 
bright young wife. You must marry, professor, 
and the lady,must be rich. This state of things 
cannot continue; you must take a wife, for you 
cannot live on your celebrity.” 

“ No, Conrad, but on my salary,” said Gellert. 
“ I receive two hundred and fifty thalers from my 
professorship ; only think, two hundred and fifty 
thalers ! That is a great deal for a German poet, 
Conrad ; I should consider myself most fortunate. 
It is suflScient for my necessities, and will certainly 
keep me from want.” 

“ It would be sufficient, professor, if we were 
not so extravagant. I am an old man, and you 
may very well listen to a word from me. I served 
your father for fifteen years — ^in fact, you inherited 
me from him. I have the right to speak. If it 
goes so far, I will hunger and thirst with you, but 
it makes me angry that Ave should hunger and- 
thirst when there is no necessity. Have you dined 
to-day ? ” 

“No, Conrad,” said Gellert, looking embar- 
rassed. “ I had, accidentally, no money with me 
as I came out of the academy, and you know that 
I do not like to go to the eating-house without 
paying immediately.” 

“ Accidentally you had no money? You had 
probably left it at home.” 

“ Yes, Conrad, I had left it at home.” 

“No, sir; you gave your last thaler to the stu- 
dent who came this morning and told you of his 
necessities, and complained so bitterly that he had 
eaten nothing warm for three days. You gave 
your money to him, and that was not right, for 
now we have nothing ourselves.” 

“Yes, Conrad, it was right, it was my duty; he 
hungered and I was full ; he was poor and in want, 
and I had money, and sat in my warm, comfort- 


able room ; it was quite right for me to help 
him.” 

“ Yes, you say so always, sir, and our money ■ 
all goes to the devil,’ muttered Conrad. “ With I 
what shall we satisfy ourselves to-day ? ” * 

“ Well,” said Gellert, after a pause, “ Ave will 
drink some coffee, and eat some bread and butter. 
Coffee is an excellent beverage, and peculiarly ac- 
ceptable to poets, for it enlivens the fancy.” 

“And leaves the stomach empty,” said Conrad. 
“We have bread and butter to satisfy that. 
Ah, Conrad, I assure you we would often have 
been very happy in my father’s parsonage if we 
had had coffee and bread and butter for our din- 
ner. We were thirteen children, besides my father 
and mother, and my father’s salary Avas not more 
than two hundred thalers. Conrad, he had less 
than I, and he had to provide for thirteen chil 
dren.” 

“ As if you had not provided for yourself since 
you were eleven years old — as if I had not seen 
you copying late into the night to earn money, 
at an age when other children scarcely know what 
money is, and know still less of work.” 

“But when I carried the money which I had|')| 
earned to my mother, she kissed me so tenderly, 
and called me her brave, noble son — that wasVp 
a greater reward than all the money in the Avorld.*^ 
And when the next Christmas came, and we® 
were all thirteen so happy, and each one received® 
a plate filled with nuts and apples and little pre&^B 
ents, I received a shining new coat. It was the® 
first time I had ever had a coat of new cloth. My* 
mother had bought the material with the money® 
I had earned. She had kept it all, and now my ® 
writings had changed into a beautiful coat, which® 
I wore with pride and delight. No coat is so com- M 
fortable as one we have earned ourselves. The® 
self-earned coat is the royal mantle of the poor.”® 
“ But we need not be poor,” scolded Conrad, tt 
“ It is that which makes me angry. If we were 
careful, Ave could live comfortably and free from® 
care on tAvo hundred and fifty thalers. But ev- ® 
ery thing is given away, and every thing is done for ® 
others, until we have nothing left for ourselves.” jt 
“We have never gone hungry to bed, Conrad,* 
and we need not hunger. To-day we have coffee, f 
and bread and butter, and to-morroAV I Avill re- • 
ceive something from my publishers from theV 
fourth edition of my fables. It is not much, it'^ 
will be about twenty thalers, but Ave will be able 
to live a long time on that. Be content, Conrad,]^ 
and go noAv into the kitchen and prepare the cof*!f 
fee; 1 am really rather hungry. Well, Conrad,* 
you still appear discontented. Have you another 
grievance in reserve ? ” 


229 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“Yes, professor, I have another. The beadle 
tells me that the university have offered you a 
still higher position than the one you now bold. 
Is it true ? ” 

“ Yes, Conrad, it is true. They wished me to 
become a regular professor.” 

“ And you declined ? ” 

“ I declined. I would have been obliged to be 
present at all the conferences. I would have had 
more trouble, and if I had had the misfortune to 
become rector I would have been lost indeed, for 
the rector represents the university ; and if any 
royal personages should arrive it is he who must 
receive them and welcome them in the name of 
the university. No, no ; protect me from such 
honors. I do not desire intercourse with great 
men. I prefer my present position and small sal- 
ary, and the liberty of sitting quietly in my own 
study, to a regular professorship and a higher sal- 
ary, and being forced to dance attendance in the 
antechambers of great people. Then, in addition 
to that, I am delicate, and that alone would pre- 
vent me from attending as many lectures as the 
government requires from a regular high-salai’ied 
professor. You must never receive money for 
work that you have not done and cannot do. Now, 
Conrad, those are my reasons for declining this 
situation for the second time. I think you will be 
contented now, and prepare me an excellent cup 
of coffee.” 

“ It is a shame, nevertheless,” said Conrad, 
“ that they should say you are not a regular pro- 
fessor. But that is because you have no wife. If 
the Swedish countess were here, every thing would 
be changed ; your study would be nicely arranged, 
and you would be so neatly dressed, that no one 
would dare to say you were not a regular pro- 
fessor.” 

“ But that is no offence, Conrad,” cried Gellert, 
laughing. “ In the sense in which you understand 
it I am more now than if I had accepted this 
other position, for I am now called an extraordi- 
nary professor.” 

“ Well, I am glad that they know that you are 
an extraordinary professor,” said Conrad, some- 
what appeased. “Now I will go to the kitchen 
and make the coffee. That reminds me that I 
have a letter for you which was left by a servant.” 

He took a letter from the table, and handed it 
to his master. While he was breaking the seal, 
Conrad approached the door slowly and hesita- 
tingly, evidently curious to hear the contents of 
the letter. He had not reached the door, when 
Gellert recalled him. 

“ Conrad,” said Gellert, with a trembling voice, 
“ hear what this letter contains.” 


Well, I am really curious,” said Conrad, smil 
ing. 

Gellert took the letter and commenced read 
ing: 

“ My dear and honored professor, will you allow 
one of your — ” 

Here he hesitated, and his face flushed deeply. 
“ No,” he said, softly ; “ I cannot read that ; it is 
too great, too undeserved praise of myself. Read 
it yourself.” 

“Nonsense !” said Conrad, taking the letter, 
“ the professor is as bashful as a young girl. To 
read one’s praise, is no shame. Now listen : ‘ My 
dear and honored professor, will you allow one of 
your pupils to seek a favor from you ? I am rich ! 
God has enriched you with the rarest gifts of 
mind and heart, but He has not bestowed outward 
wealth upon you. Your salary is not large, but 
your heart is so great and noble, that you give the 
little you possess to the poor and suffering, and 
care for others while you yourself need care. Al- 
low me, my much-loved master, something of that 
same happiness which you enjoy. Grant me the 
pleasure of offering you (who divide your bread 
with the poor, and your last thaler with the suffer- 
ing) a small addition to your salary, and begging 
you to use it so long as God leaves you upon 
earth, to be the delight of your scholars, and the 
pride of Germany. The banker Farenthal has 
orders to pay to' you quarterly the sum of two 
hundred thalers ; you will to-morrow receive the 
first instalment. 

“ ‘ Your grateful and admiring pupil.’ 

“ Hurrah ! hurrah ! ” cried Conrad, waving the 
paper aloft. “ Now we are rich, we can live com- 
fortably, without care. Oh, I will take care of 
you, and you must drink a glass of wine every 
day, in order to become strong, and I will bring 
your dinner from the best eating-house, that you 
may enjoy your meal in peace and quiet in youi 
own room.” 

“ Gently, gently, Conrad ! ” said Gellert, smiling. 
“ In your delight over the money, you forget the 
noble giver. Who can it be ? Who among my 
pupils is so rich and so delicate, as to bestow so 
generously, and in such a manner ? ” 

“It is some one who does not wish us to know 
his name, professor,” cried Conrad, gayly ; “ and 
we will not break our hearts over it. But now, 
sir, we will not content ourselves with bread and 
coffee ; we are rich, and we need not live so poor 
ly ! I will go to the eating-house and bring you 
a nice broiled capon, and some preserved fruit, 
and a glass of wine.” 

“ It is true,” said Gellert, well pleased ; “ a capon 
would strengthen me, and a glass of wine; but 


230 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


no, Conrad, v\e will have the coffee; we have no 
money to pay for such a meal.” 

“ Well, we can borrow it ! To-morrow you will 
receive the first quarterly payment of your pen- 
sion, and then I will pay for your dinner.” 

“No, Conrad, no !” said Gellert, firmly. “You 
should never eat what you cannot pay for imme- 
diately. Go to the kitchen and make the coffee.” 

Conrad was on the point of going discontentedly 
to obey the command of his master, when a loud 
and hasty ring was heard at the outer door of the 
professor’s modest lodging. 

“ Perhaps the banker has sent the money to- 
day,” cried Conrad, as he hurried off, whilst Gel- 
lert again took the letter and examined the hand- 
writing. 

But Conrad returned, looking very important. 

“ The Prussian major, Quintus Icilius, wishes to 
speak to the professor, in the name of the king,” 
he said, solemnly. 

“ In the name of the king ! ” cried Gellert ; 
“ what does the great warrior-hero want with poor 
Gellert?” 

“ That I will tell you,” replied a voice from the 
door ; and as Gellert turned, he saw before him 
the tall figure of a Prussian officer. “ Pardon me 
for having entered without your permission. 
Your servant left the door open, and I thought — ” 

“ You thought, I hope, that Gellert would be 
happy to receive an officer from the king, espe- 
cially one who bears so celebrated a name,” said 
Gellert, courteously, as he signed to Conrad to 
leave the room — a sign that Conrad obeyed most 
unwillingly, and with the firm determination to 
listen outside the door. 

“ In the first place, allow me to say how happy 
I am to make the acquaintance of so learned and 
celebrated a man as Professor Gellert,” said Quin- 
tus, bowing deeply ; “ then I must announce the 
cause of my appearance. His majesty the King 
of Prussia wishes to know you, and he has sent 
me to conduct you to him at once.” 

“ At once ? ” cried Gellert. “ But, sir, you 
must see that I am weak and ill. The king will 
not care to see a sick man who cannot talk.” 

Quintus glanced sympathizingly at the poor 
professor, and said : 

“ It is true, you do not look well, and I cannot 
force you to go with me to-day ; but allow me to 
make one remark : if you think to escape the in- 
terview altogether, you are mistaken. The king 
desires to speak with you, and it is my duty to 
bring you to him. If you cannot go to-day, I 
must return to-morrow ; if you are then still un- 
well, the day after ; and so on every day, until 
you accompany me.” 


“But this is frightful ! ” cried Gellert, anxiousiy 

Quintus shrugged his shoulders. “You must 
decide, sir,” he said ; “ I give you an hour. At 
four o’clock I will return and ask if you will go 
to-day, or another time.” 

“Yes; do that, major,” said Gellert, breathing 
more freely. “ In the mean time, I will take my 
dinner, and then see how it is wdth my courage. 
Conrad ! Conrad ! ” exclaimed Gellert, as Quintus 
Icilius left him, and his servant entered the room. 
“ Conrad, did you hear the bad tidings ? I must 
go to the King of Prussia.” 

“ I heard,” said Conrad, “ and I do not think it 
bad tidings, but a great honor. The king sent for 
Professor Gottsched a few days since, and con- 
versed with him a long time. Since then, his en- 
tire household act as if Gottsched were the Al- 
mighty Himself, and as if they were all, at least, 
archangels. Therefore, I am glad that the king 
has shown you the same honor, and that he de 
sires to know you.” 

“ Honor ! ” murmured Gellert. “ This great 
lord wishes to see the learned Germans for once, 
as others visit a menagerie, and look at the mon 
keys, and amuse themselves with their wonderful 
tricks. It is the merest curiosity which leads 
such men to desire to behold the tricks and pranks 
of a professor. They know nothing of our minds ; 
it satisfies them to look at us. Conrad, I will not 
go ; I will be ill to-day and every other day. We 
will see if this modern Icilius will not yield I ” 

And the usually gentle and yielding poet paced 
the room in angry excitement, his eyes flashing, 
and his face deeply flushed. 

“I will not — I will not go.” 

“ You must go, professor,” said Conrad, placing 
himself immediately in front of his master, and 
looking at him half-imploringly, half-threatening- 
ly — “ you must go ; you will give your old Conrad 
the pleasure of being able to say to the impudent 
servants of Herr Gottsched that my master has also 
been to the King of Prussia. You will not do me 
the injury of making me serve a master who has 
not been to see the king, while Herr Gottsched 
has been ? ” 

“ But, Conrad,” said Gellert, complainingly, 
“ what good will it have done me to have declined 
the position of regular professor, that I might be 
in no danger of becoming rector, and being obliged 
to see kings and princes ? ” 

“ It will show the world,” said Conrad, “ that a 
poet need not be a regular professor in order 
to be called into the society of kings and princes. 
You must go — the king expects you ; and if you 
do not go, you will appear as the Austiians do^ 
afraid of the King of Prussia.” 


231 


FREDERICK THE GREAT 

'‘That is true,” said Gellert, whose excitement 
had somewhat subsided ; “ it will look as though 
I were afraid.” 

“ And so distinguished a man should fear noth- 
ing,” said Conrad, “ not even a king.” 

“Well, so be it,” said Gellert, smiling, “I will 
go to the king to-day, but I must first eat some- 
thing ; if I went fasting to the king I might faint, 
and that would disgrace you forever, Conrad.” 

“ I will run and bring the coffee,” said the de- 
lighted old servant. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE POET AND THE KING. 

Gellert had scarcely finished his frugal meal, 
and arranged his toilet a little, when Major Quin- 
tus arrived and asked the poet if he were still too 
unwell to accompany him to the king. 

“ I am still indisposed,” said Gellert, with a sad 
smile, “but my indisposition is of a kind that 
leaves me neither to-day, to-morrow, nor any day ; 
it is therefore better for me to gratify the king’s 
commands at once. I am ready to accompany 
you,' sir; let us depart.” 

He took his three-cornered hat, which Conrad 
handed him with a delighted smirk, and followed 
the major to the splendid house where the king 
had taken his quarters for the winter. 

“ Allow me a favor, sir,” said Quintus, as they 
mounted the steps; “the king is prejudiced 
against German poets and philosophers, and it 
would be of the greatest advantage to the literary 
and political world of Germany for these preju- 
dices to disappear, and for the great Frederick to 
give to Germany the sympathy and encourage- 
ment which until now he has lavished upon the 
French and Italians. Think of this, sir, and en 
dearor to win the king by your obliging and pleas- 
ing manner.” 

“ Oh, major ! ” sighed Gellert, “ I do not un- 
derstand the art of pleasing the great ones of this 
world. I cannot utter words of praise and flat- 
tery; my heart and manners are simple and not 
showy.” 

“ Exactly, this is beautiful and attractive,” said 
the major, smiling : “ the king cannot endure pre- 
tension or conceited wisdom. Be simply yourself ; 
imagine that you are in your own study, conver- 
sing frankly and freely with a highly-honored 
friend, to whom politeness and attention are due.” 

The king, with his flute in hand, was walking 
op and down the room, when the door opened, 
and Major Quintus entered with Gellert. 


AND HIS FAMILY. 

Frederick immediately laid ‘ his flute aside, and 
advanced to meet the poet with a gracious smile. 
Gellert’s gentle and intellectual countenance was 
composed, and his eyes were not cast down nor 
confused by the piercing glance of the king. 

“ Is this Professor Gellert ? ” said the king, with 
a slight salutation. 

“Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, bowing pro- 
foundly. 

“ The English ambassador has spoken well of 
you,” said the king ; “ he has read many of your 
works.” 

“ That proves him to be a thoughtful and be- 
nevolent gentleman, who hopes something from 
German writers,” said Gellert, significantly. 

Frederick smiled, and perhaps to excite him 
still more, said quickly : 

“ Tell me, how does it happen, Gellert, that we 
have so few celebrated writers ? ” 

“Your majesty sees before you now a German 
poet whom even the French have translated, and 
who call him the German La Fontaine.” 

“ That is great praise, great praise,” said the 
king, whose large eyes fastened themselves more 
attentively upon Gellert’s modest, expressive face, 
“ You are then called the German La Fontaine ? 
Have you ever read La Fontaine ? ” 

“Yes, sire, but I did not imitate him,” said 
Gellert, ingenuously, “ I am an original.” 

The king nodded gayly ; Gellert’s quick frank- 
ness pleased him. 

“Good,” he said, “you are an excellent poet; 
but why do you stand alone ? ” 

Gellert shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

“ Your majesty is prejudiced against the Ger- 
mans.” 

“No, I cannot admit that,” said the king, 
quickly. 

“ At least against German writers,” replied Gel- 
lert. 

“ Yes, that is true ; I cannot deny that. Why 
have we no good writers in Germany ? ” 

“We have them, sire,” said Gellert, with noble 
pride. “We boast a Maskow, a Kramer — who 
has set Bossuet aside.” 

“ How ! ” cried the king, astonished ; “ Bossuet ? 
Ah, sir, how is it possible for a German to set 
Bossuet aside ? ” 

“ Kramer has done so, and with great success,” 
said Gellert, smiling. “One of your majesty’s 
most learned professors has said that Kramer haa 
the eloquence of Bossuet, and more profound his- 
torical accuracy.” 

The king appeared really astonished, and 
walked several times thoughtfully up and down 
his room. 


232 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Was my leame(^ professor capable of deciding 
that question?” 

“ The world believes so, sire.” 

“ Why does no one translate Tacitus ? ” 

“ Tacitus is difficult,” said Gellert, smiling ; 
“ There are some bad French translations of this 
author.” ‘ 

“ You are right,” said the king. 

“ Altogether,” continued Gellert, “ there are a 
variety of reasons why the Germans have not be- 
come distinguished in letters. When art and sci- 
ence bloomed in Greece, the Romans were becom- 
ing renowned in war. Perhaps the Germans have 
sought their fame on the battle-field ; perhaps they 
nad no Augustus or Louis XIV. who favored and 
encouraged the historians and poets of Germany.” 

This was a daring and broad allusion, but Fred- 
erick received it smilingly. 

“ You have had an Augustus, perhaps two, in 
Saxony,” he said. % 

* “ And we have made a good commencement in 

Saxony. We should have an Augustus for all of 
Germany.” 

“ What ! ” cried the king, quickly, and with 
sparkling eyes, “ you desire an Augustus for Ger- 
many ? ” 

“ Not exactly,” said Gellert, “ but I wish that 
every German sovereign would encourage genius 
and letters in his country. Genius needs encour- 
agement. ; and when it does not find it in its own 
land, and from its native princes, it cannot retain 
the great and joyous power of creation.” 

The king did not answer, but walked thought- 
fully up and down ; from time to time he glanced 
quickly and searchingly at Gellert, who was stand- 
ing opposite to him. 

“ Have you ever been out of Saxony ? ” said the 
king, at last. 

“ Yes, sire, I was once in Berlin.” 

“ You should go again,” said the king — then 
added, as if he regretted having shown the German 
poet so much sympathy, “at all events, you 
should traveh” 

“To do so, your majesty, I require health and 
money.” 

“ Are you sick ? ” asked the king, in a gentle, 
sympathizing voice. “What is your malady? 
Perhaps too much learning.” 

Gellert smiled. “ As your majesty thinks so, it 
may bear that interpretation. In my mouth it 
would have sounded too bold.” 

“ I have had this malady myself,” said the king, 
laughing; “I will cure you. You must take ex- 
ercise — ride out every day.” 

“ Ah, sire, this cure might easily produce a new 
disease for me,” said Gellert, terrified ; “ if the 


horse should be healthier than I, I could not riua 
it, and if it were as weak as myself, we would not 
be able to stir from the spot.” 

“ Then you must drive,” said the king, laugh 
ing. 

“ I have not the money, sire.” 

“ That is true,” said the king. “ All German 
writers need money, and we have fallen upon evL 
times.” 

“ Yes, truly, sire, evil times; but it lies in your 
majesty’s hands to change all this, if you would 
give peace to Germany.” 

“ How can I ? ” cried the king, violently. 

“ Have you not heard that there are three against 
me?” 

“ I care more for ancient than modern history,” 
said Gellert, who did not desire to follow the king 
upon the slippery field of politics. 

“ You, then, are accurately acquainted with the 
ancients ? ” said the king. “ Which, then, do you 
think the greatest and most renowned of that 
epoch — Homer or Virgil ? ” 

“Homer, I think, merits the preference, because 
he is original.” 

“ But Virgil is more polished and refined.” 

Gellert shook his head violently. Now that the 
old writers were being discussed, the German sage 
overcame his timidity. 

“ We are entirely too widely separated from 
Virgil to be able to judge of his language and 
style. I trust to Quintilian, who gives Homer the 
preference.” 

“ But we must not be slaves to the judgment of 
the ancients,” said the king, aroused. 

“ I am not, sire ; I only adopt their views when 
distance prevents my judging for myself.” 

“You are certainly right in this,” said the king, 
kindly. “Altogether you appear to be a wise | 
and reasonable man. I understand that you havej 
greatly improved the German language.” 

“ Ah, yes, sire, but unfortunately it has been iSf j| 
vain.” 

“ Why is this ? ” said the king. “ You all wish 
me to interest myself in German, but it is such a 
barbarous language, that I often have quires of 
writing sent me, of w’hich I do not understand a 
word. Why is it not otherwise ? ” ^ 

“If your majesty cannot reform this, I certainlyM|| 
cannot,” said Gellert, smiling ; “ I can only ad-g | 
vise, but .you can command.” 

“ But your poems are not written in this stiif, 
pompous German. Do you not know one of your 
fables by heart ? ” 

“ I doubt it, sire, my memory is very treacher- 
ous.” 

“Well, try and think of one. In the mean • , 


233 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILT. 


while I will walk backward and forward a little. 
Well, bare you thought of one ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty,” said Gellert, after a brief 
silence, “ I believe I remember one.” 

“ Let us hear it,” said the king ; and, seating 
I himself upon the fanteuil^ he gazed fixedly at 
I Gellert, who, standing in the middle of the room, 
i his clear glance turned toward the king, now be- 
I gan his recitation, . 

“THE PAINTER. 

f “A painter, Athens his abode, 

I Who painted less for love of gain 

' Than crowns of laurel to obtain. 

Mars’ portrait to a connoisseur once showed, 

And his opinion of it sought. 

I I The judge spoke freely w'hat he thought, 

I 'Twas wholly not unto his taste, he said, 

I And that, to please a practised eye, 

' Far less of art should be displayed. 

The painter failed not to reply, 

And though the critic blamed with skill, 
i Was of the same opinion still. 

I 

j “Then in the room a coxcomb came. 

To scan the work with praise or blame, 

I He with a glance its worth descried ; 

‘ Ye gods I A masterpiece I ’ he cried. 

‘Ah, what a foot 1 what skilled details, 

* E’en to the painting of the nails ! 

A living Mars is here revealed, 

What skill — what art in light and shade — 

Both in the helmet and the shield. 

And in the armor are displayed I ’ 

“ The painter blushed with humbled pride. 

Looked at the judge with woful mien, 

‘Too well am I convinced,’ he cried, 

‘ Unjust to me thou hast not been.’ 

The coxcomb scarce had disappeared. 

When he his god of battle smeared.’’ 

“And the moral,” cried the king, with vivacity, 

: ts Gellert ceased for a moment. 

“ Here is the moral, sire : 

If what you wvite offends the critic’s rules, 

I It is an evil sign, no doubt ; 

But when ’tis lauded to the skies by fools, 

’Tis time, indeed, to blot it out.” 

“ Tlaat is beautiful — very beautiful ; you have 
something gallant in your person. I understand 
every thing you say. I received a translation 
of ‘Iphigenia’ by Gottsched, and Quintus read it 
to me. I had the French with me, and I did not 
understand a word. He also brought me a poem 
by Pietsh, but I threw it aside.” 

“ I threw it aside, also,” said Gellert, smiling. 

The king smiled pleasantly. “Should I remain 
here, you must come often and bring your fables 
to read to me.” 

Gellert’s brow clouded slightly. “ I do not 
know whether I am a good reader ” he said, in 


some embarrassment. “ I have such a sing-song 
monotonous voice.” 

“ Yes, like the Silesians,” said the king, “ but 
it sounds pleasantly. You must read your fables 
yourself. No one else can give the proper 
emphasis. You must visit me soon again.” 

“ Do not forget the king’s request,” said Quin- 
tus Icilius, as he escorted Gellert to the door. 
“ Visit him soon, and be assured you shall never 
come in vain. I will take care that the king re- 
ceives you always.” 

Gellert looked up smilingly at the major. “ My 
dear sir, in many respects I am quite an old-fash- 
ioned man ; for example, I have read a great deal 
in the Old Scriptures for instruction. I have 
read, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’ These 
words seem wise to me, and you must allow me 
to interpret them literally, and act accordingly.” 

Gellert withdrew, and hastened home. The 
major returned to the king, admiring, almost*' 
envying, Gellert’s modest, independent, and beau 
ful character. 

“Quintus,” said the king, “I thank you sin- 
cerely for my new German acquaintance. The 
poet is better than the philosopher. Gellert is 
the wisest and cleverest poet of his time — a 
much worthier man than Gottsched, with all his 
pompous knowledge Gellert’s fame will outlive 
his. He is perhaps the only German who will 
not be forgotten. He attempts but little, and suc- 
ceeds well.” 


OHAPTEE XIV. 

THE KING AND THE VILLAGE MAGISTRATE. 

In the little village of Voiseilvitz, near, the Sile- 
sian frontier, there was a great stir and excite- 
ment. The quartermaster of the army had just 
arrived and announced the king’s approach. 
He then went on to the next village to seek 
quarters for the army. After their many suffer- 
ings and wants, the weary soldiers were much in 
need of rest and refreshment. They had passed 
many, many miserable weeks, during which the 
most patient had become disheartened. The 
king alone had retained his courage, his presence 
of mind, his activity and energy. He had borne, 
without complaint, every want and privation. 
Surrounded by powerful enemies, his great and 
clear mind had contrived the intrenchments which 
encompassed his camp, and which had filled his 
enemies with wonder. Neither Daun, Loudon, 
Butterlin, nor Temitschow, dared attack the camp 
*hat bad suddenly become a strong fortress. They 


234 


FUEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


gazed in wild amazement at their daring, invinci- 
ble enemy, whom they had so often thought to 
ruin, and who had continually with his lion 
strength broken the nets they had laid for him. 
Not daring to attack him with their cannon and 
their swords, the allies relied upon another much 
more fearful weapon — hunger ! It was impossible 
for the king, surrounded as he was by enemies, to 
obtain food for his troops and fodder for the 
horses. But Frederick did not cease to hope : he 
turned night into day, and day into night ; thus he 
was prepared for any movement. During the 
day he could observe all that passed in the ene- 
my’s camp ; a few slight guards were placed 
in the intrenchments, while the rest of the army 
slept. But at night they did not sleep ; as soon as 
evening came, all the tents were taken down, the 
cannon were planted, and behind them the regi- 
ments were placed in line of battle. Thus they 
stood listening in breathless silence for any sound 
or movement that would announce the enemy’s 
approach. All were ready and waiting for them, 
determined to die rather than surrender. 

In spite of privations, want of rest and food, 
the army remained hopeful, for their king shared 
their danger, wants, and sleepless nights. He 
was always with them — he hungered and worked 
with them. If the soldiers were deprived of their 
rations, they had at least the consolation of know- 
ing that the king suffered likewise. This strength- 
ened and encouraged them. 

The Prussians had fortitude to bear their suffer- 
mgs, but their enemy had not the patience to 
wait. Butterlin, the Russian commander, tired 
of watching Frederick, withdrew to Poland ; and 
Loudon, not feeling secure now in his isolated po- 
sition, retired also. 

After four weeks of agony and want, the Prus- 
sian army could leave their encampment and seek 
both food and rest. They were to recruit them- 
selves in the villages in the vicinity of Strehlen ; 
the king and his staff were to rest at Voiseilvitz. 
The house of the magistrate had been chosen as 
the only dwelling-place fit for these noble guests. 
The magistrate, elated at the honor, was march- 
ing from room to room, scolding, imploring his ! 
servants to have every thing clean and orderly. 

“ Remember,” said he, “ a king is to inhabit 
this house ; he will be enraged if there is the least 
spot or stain upon the floors or windows, for of 
course he wears beautiful garments, covered with 
pearls and diamonds, and embroidered in gold 
and silver. How fearful, then, would it be were 
he to ruin them at my house I He would be infu- 
riated, for money is scarce now, and I dare say as 
hard for him to get as for us.” 


At last, thanks to Hhreats and entreaties, the 
house was in readiness for the king. The front 
room was beautifully clean, and white blinds 
were at the windows. The deal table was cov- 
ered with a snow-white damask cloth. Beside a 
window in which were placed some bright plants, 
an old leathern arm-chair was standing, which the 
magistrate intended for a throne. The walls were 
covered with some portraits of the royal fam- 
ily of Prussia. Around a wretched engraving 
of Frederick a wreath of immortelles and forget- 
me-nots was woven. In a comer stood a large 
bed with clean white curfains in readiness for the 
king. When every thing was arranged, with a last 
proud look at his handsome dwelling, the magis- 
trate hurried to the front door, waiting anxiously 
for his guest. His heart beat high with expecta- 
tion — ^his whole being was in commotion — ^he was 
to see a king for the first time, and he asked him- 
self how this king would look. “ How glorious 
his eyes must be ! I think he must radiate like 
the sun. It must almost blind the eyes to dwell 
upon his splendor.” 

Lost in these thoughts, he did not observe a cav- 
alcade consisting of three riders passing through 
the street. The foremost one was enveloped in 
an old faded blue mantle, his large three-cornered 
hat hung far over his brow, shading his eyes and 
his thin, pale countenance. His heavy army boots 
were in need both of brushing and mending. His 
two companions formed an agreeable contrast to 
him. They wore the rich, glittering uniforms of 
Prussian staff officers. All about them was neat 
and elegant, and pleased the magistrate right well. 
The cavalcade now stopped at his house, and, to 
the amazement of the villagers, the two spruce 
young officers sprang to the ground and hastened 
to assist the man in the blue mantle to alight 
from his horse. But he waved them aside, and 
springing lightly from the saddle, advanced to the 
house door. The magistrate blocked up the way, 
and looking haughtily at the stranger, said : 

“You undoubtedly belong to the servants of 
the king, and think, therefore, to enter my house. 
But that cannot be. The king alone will dwell 
with me. If you are what I suppose you to be, 
you must go next door. My neighbor may have 
quarters for you.” 

The stranger smiled. Fixing his large, brilliant 
eyes sternly upon the magistrate, he caused him 
to draw back almost in terror, feeling as if the 
sun had really blinded him. 

“ I am not one of the king’s servants,” said the 
stranger, gayly, “ but I am invited to dine with 
him.” 

" Then it is all right,” said the magistrate, " vo* 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


235 


ean enter But you must first go into that little 
side-room and brush your shoes before the king 
Bees you, for he would surely be enraged to find 
9’ou in dusty boots.” 

The king laughed gayly, and entered the house. 
“ I will go to the king’s chamber at once. I think 
he will forgive my shoes.” He beckoned to the 
two officers and entered his room, the door of 
which he left open. 

The magistrate took no more notice of him, but 
remained outside, looking eagerly for the king. 

Frederick still did not come to ilhiminate the 
street with his splendor. In his stead came gen- 
erals and oflScers, with gold epaulets and bright 
stars sparkling on their coats, and entered the 
king’s chamber, without a word to the magistrate. 

“ They are all waiting for the king,” murmured 
he, “ but I shall see him first. How splendid and 
magnificent are all these officers ! How grand, 
how glorious then must the king be, who is far 
nobler than they ! He does not come ; I will en- 
ter and pass the time in looking at all these splen- 
didly-dressed soldiers.” He stepped lightly to the 
door, and peered in. He started; a low cry of 
terror escaped him, as he looked at the scene be- 
fore him. 

The generals — the oflScers dressed in the gold 
and silver embroidered uniforms — stood around 
the room with bared heads ; in their midst stood 
the stranger with the dusty boots. He alone had 
his hat on. He alone bore neither epaulets nor 
stars; he was clad in a simple nniform, without a 
single ornament, and still, wonderful to say, it now 
seemed to the magistrate that he was more noble, 
more splendid-looking than all the others. He 
was the smallest amongst them, but seemed much 
taller. They stood with bowed heads before him ; 
he alone was raised proudly to his full height. 
There was something grand and glorious in his 
countenance ; and when his large, luminous eyes 
fell upon the magistrate, he endeavored in vain to 
slip away — he was rooted to the spot as if by 
magnetism. 

“Will you not stay with us until the king 
comes ? ” said Frederick, laughing. 

The magistrate answered the smile with a broad 
grin. “ I see, sir,” said he, “ that you are laughing 
at me. You know that you yourself are the king.” 

Frederick nodded an assent, and then turned to 
Prince Anhalt von Dessau. 

“ You see, sir, how precarious a thing is the 
glory and magnificence of a king. This man took 
me for a servant ; his dull eyes could not perceive 
my innate glory.” 

“Your majesty justly calls this man’s eyes 
iuU,” said the prince, laughing. 


Frederick looked at him kinily, and then be* 
gan a low, earnest conversation with his generals, 
who listened attentively to his every word. 

The magistrate still stood at the door. It 
seemed to him that he had never seen any thing so 
splendid-looking as this man with the muddy 
boots, the simple coat, and torn, unwieldy hat, 
whose countenance beamed with beauty, whose 
eyes glittered like stars. 

“ That, then, is really the king ? ” said he to 
one of the royal servants — “the King of Prussia, 
who for five years has been fighting with the em- 
press for us 

“ Yes, it is him.” 

“ From to-day on I am a Prussian at heart,” 
continued the magistrate ; “ yes, and a good and 
true one. The King of Prussia dresses badly, that 
is true, but I suppose his object is to lighten the 
taxes.” Passing his coat-sleeve across his misty 
eyes, he hastened to the kitchen to investigate 
dinner. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE PROPOSAL OP MARRIAGE. . 

Some days had passed since the king entered 
Voiseilvitz;. He dwelt in the house of the magis- 
trate, and the generals were quartered in the huts 
of the village. The regiments were in the neigh- 
boring hamlets. The king lived quietly in 
his house, wholly given up to anxiety and dis- 
content. He ate alone in his room, spoke to no 
one, or if he did, said only a few grave words. All 
jesting was vanished from his lips ; he was never 
seen to smile, never heard to play the flute. The 
grief which oppressed his heart was too profound 
to be confided to the soft and melting tones of 
his flute. Even that cherished companion could 
now give him no consolation. Fearful, horrible 
intelligence had followed him from the encamp- 
ment at Strehlen. It had poisoned these days of 
long-denied and necessary rest, and shrouded the 
gloomy future with yet darker presentiments of 
evil. 

Schweidnitz, the strong fortress, the key of Si- 
lesia, which had been so long and with such 
mighty effort defended, had fallen ! — had yielded 
to the Austrians — and Frederick had thus lost the 
most important acquisition of the last year, and 
thus his possession of Silesia was again made 
doubtful. He looked sadly back upon all the 
precious blood which had been shed to no pur 
pose — ^upon all the great and hardly-won battles, 
won in vain. He looked forward with an aching 


236 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


heart to the years of blood and battle which must 
follow. Frederick longed for rest and peace — he 
was weary of, bloodshed and of war. Like an al- 
luring, radiant picture of paradise, the image of 
his beloved Sans-Souci passed from time to time 
before his soul. He dreamed of his quiet library 
and his beautiful picture-gallery. And yet his 
courage was unconquered — and he preferred the 
torture of these wretched days — he preferred 
death itself to the unfavorable and humiliating 
peace which his proud enemies, made presump- 
tuous by their last successes, dared to offer him. 
They stood opposed to him in monstrous su- 
periority, but Frederick remained unshaken. 
With a smaller army and fewer allies Alexander 
demolished Persia. “But happily,” he said to 
himself, “ there was no Alexander to lead his ene- 
mies to victory.” 

T^rederick did not despair, and yet he did not 
believe in the possibility of triumph. He pre- 
ferred an honorable death to a dishonorable peace. 
He would rather fall amidst the proud ruins of 
Prussia, made great by his hand, than return with 
tier to their former petty insignificance. They of- 
fered him peace, but a peace which compelled him 
to return the lands he had conquered, and to pay 
to bis victorious enemies the costs of the war. 

The king did not regard these mortifying propo- 
sitions as worthy of consideration, and he com- 
manded his ambassador, whom he had sent to 
Augsburg to treat with the enemy, to return im- 
mediately. “It is true,” he said to his confidant, 
Le Catt, “ all Europe is combined against me — all 
the great powers have resolved upon my destruc- 
tion. And England, the only friend I did possess 
in Europe, has now abandoned me.” 

“ But one has remained faithful.” 

“ ‘ Among the faithless, faithful only he.’ 
Among the innumerable false, unmoved, unsha- 
ken, unseduced, unterrified, that is my sword. If 
the exalted empresses are not my friends, the 
greater honor to my good sword which has never 
failed me, and which shall go down with me into 
the dark grave. If in Europe I have neither 
friends nor allies, I may find both in other parts 
of the world. Asia may send me the troops which 
Europe denies. If Russia is my enemy, who knows 
but for this reason Turkey may become my ally ? 
And who knows but an alliance with the so-called 
unbelievers would be of more value to Prussia 
than a league with the so-called believing Rus- 
sians ? They call themselves Christians, but their 
weapons are lies, intrigues, deceit, and treachery. 
The Moslem, however, is an honorable man and a 
brave soldier. If he calls his God Allah, and his 
Christ Mohammed, God may call him to account. 


I have nothing to do with it. What has faith to 
do with the kings of this world ? Besides, I be- 
lieve the Turks and Tartars are better Christians 
than the Russians.” 

“Your majesty is really, then, thinking of an 
alliance with the Turks and Tartars ? ” said Le 
Catt. 

“I am thinking of it so earnestly,” said the 
king, eagerly, “ that day and night I think of 
nothing else. I have spared no cost, no gold, no 
labor, to bring it about. Once I had almost suc- 
ceeded, and the Sublime Porte was inclined to 
this league; and my ambassador, Rexin, was, 
with the consent of the Grand Yizier Mustapha, 
and indeed by his advice, disguised and sent se- 
cretly to Constantinople. The negotiations were 
almost completed, when the Russian and French 
ambassadors discovered my plans, and by bribery, 
lies, and intrigues of every base sort, succeeded 
in interfering. Mustapha broke his promise, and 
his only answer to me was — ‘ that the Sublime 
Porte must wait for happier and more propitious 
days to cori.^rm her friendship and good under- 
standing with the King of Prussia.’ This was the 
will of God the Almighty. This propitious year 
has been a long time coming, but I hope it is now 
at hand, and this longed-for alliance will at length 
be concluded. The last dispatches from my am- 
bassador in Constantinople seem favorable. The 
wise and energetic Grand Vizier Raghile, the first 
self-reliant and enterprising Turkish statesman, 
has promised Rexin to bring this matter before 
the sultan, and I am daily expecting a courier who* 
will bring me a decisive and perhaps favorabh 
answer from Tartary.” * 

Le Catt gazed with admiration upon the noble, 
excited countenance of the king. “ Oh, sire,” said 
he, deeply moved, “ pardon, that in the fulness 
of my heart, overcome with joy and rapture, I 
dare for once to give expression in words to my 
love and my admiration. It is a glorious specta- 
cle to see the proud oak in the midst of the wild 
tempest firm and unmoved, not even bowing its 
proud head to the raging elements, offering a bold 
but calm defiance. But it is a still more exalted 
spectacle to see a man with a brave heart and 
flashing eye defy disaster and death ; alone, in the 
consciousness of his own strength, meeting Fate 
as an adversary and gazing upon it eye to eye un- 
terrified. Misfortune is like the lion of the desert 
If a man with steady eye and firm step advances to 
meet him, he ceases to roar and lies down hum.bly 
at his feet ; he recognizes and quails before man 
made in the likeness of God. You, my king, now 

♦ Karamer “ History of the Porte,” voL viii., p 190 


FREDERICK TIIE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


offer this spectacle to the astonished world. Can you 
wonder that I, who am ever near you, are filled with 
devotion and adoration, and must at last give utter- 
ance to my emotion ? I have seen your majesty 
on the bloody battle-field, and in the full conscious- 
ness of victory, but never have I seen the laurels 
which crown your brow so radiant as in these 
days of your misfortune and defeat. Never was 
the King of Prussia so great a hero, so glorious a 
conqueror, as during these last weeks of destitu- 
tion and gloom. You have hungered with the 
I you have frozen with the freezing ; you 

' have passed the long, weary nights upon your can- 
, non or upon the hard, cold earth. You have di- 
vided your last drop of wine with the poor sol- 
diers. You did this, sire ; I was in your tent and 
witnessed it — ^I alone. You sat at your dinner — 
a piece of bread and one glass of Hungarian wine, 
the last in your possession. An officer entered 
with his report. You asked him if he had eaten. 
He said yes, but his pale, thin face contradicted 
his words. You, sire, broke off the half of your 
bread, you drank the half of your wine, then gave 
the rest to the officer, saying in an almost apolo- 
getic tone, ‘ It is all that I have.’ Sire, on that 
day I did what since my youth I have not done— I 
wept like a child, and my every glance upon your 
noble face was a prayer.” 

“Enthusiast,” said the king, giving his hand to 
Le Catt with a kindly smile, “is the world so 
corrupt that so natural an act should excite sur- 
prise, and appear great and exalted ? Are you 
astonished at that which is simply human ? But 
look ! There is a courier ! He stops before the 
door of my peasant-palace. Quick, quick ! Le 
Catt ; let me know the news he brings.” 

Le Catt hastened off, and returned at once with 
the dispatches. 

Frederick took them with impatient haste, and 
while he read, his grave face lightened, and a hap- 
py, hopeful smile played once more upon his lips. 

“ Ah, Le Catt,” said he, “ I was a good prophet, 
and my hopes are about to be fulfilled. Europe is 
against me, but Asia is my ally. The barbarous 
Russians are my enemies, but the honest Turks 
and Tartars are my friends. This despatch is from 
my ambassador Rexin. He is coming, accompa- 
nied by an ambassador of Tartary, and may be 
here in a few hours.” 

“Where will your majesty receive him ? ” said 
Le Catt. 

The king looked around smilingly at the little 
room, with the rude walls and dirty floor. 

“ I will receive him here I ” said he ; “ here, in 
my royal palace of Voiseilvitz. lam forced to 
believe that a right royal king would, by his pres- 
16 


ence, transform the lowliest hut into a palace, and 
the most ordinary chair into a throne. The eyes 
of the ambassador may, however, be as dull as 
those of the worthy possessor of my present pal- 
ace. It may be that he will not recognize me as 
the visible representative of God — as king by thfl 
grace of God. We must therefore come to his 
assistance, and show ourselves in all the dazzling 
glitter of royalty. We must improvise a throne, 
and, it appears to me, that leathern arm-chair, 
which certainly belonged to a grandfather, is well 
suited to the occasion. It will be a worthy repre- 
sentation of my throne, which was my grandfa- 
ther’s throne; he erected it, and I inherited it from 
him. Shove it, then, into the middle of the room, 
and fasten some of the Russian flags, which we 
took at Zorndorf, on the wall behind it ; spread 
my tent-carpet on the floor, and my throne saloon 
is ready. Quick, Le Catt, make your prepara- 
tions ; call the servants, and show them what they 
have to do. In the mean time, I will make my 
toilet ; I must not appear be/ore the worthy 
ambassador in such unworthy guise.” The king 
rang hastily, and his valet, Dcesen, entered. 
“Deesen,” said he, gayly, “we will imagine our- 
selves to be again in Sans-Souci, and about to hold 
a great court. I must do then, what I have not 
done for a long time — make grande toilette. I 
will wear my general’s uniform, and adorn myself 
with the order of the Black Eagle. I will have 
my hair frizzed, and screw up an imposing cue. 
Well, Deesen, why do you gaze at me so wildly ? ” 

“ Sire, the general’s coat is here, but — ” 

“Well, but what?” cried the king, impatiently. 

“ But the breeches ! the breeches ! ” stammered 
Deesen, turning pale ; “ they are torn ; and those 
your majesty now wears, are your last and only 
ones.” 

“Well, then,” said the king, laughing, “I will 
continue to wear my last and only breeches; I will 
put on my general’s coat, voUd touV 

“ That is wholly impossible,” cried Deesen, 
wringing his hands. “ If your majesty proposes 
to hold a great court, you cannot possibly wear 
these breeches ! ” 

“ Why not ? why not ? ” said the king, fiercely. 

“ Sire,” murmured Deesen, “ sire, that has hap. 
pened to them which happened to your majesty 
at Torgau.” 

“ That is to say — ” said the king, questioningly 

“ That is to say, they are wounded.’ 

Frederick looked surprised, and following the 
glance of his valet, he found his eyes fixed upon 
his knees. 

“You are right, Deesen,” said he, laughing, 

“ that disaster has befallen my breeches which bo 


^38 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


fell rae at Torgau : they are wounded, and need a 
Burgeon.” 

“Your majesty must therefore graciously post- 
pone your great court till to-morrow. Perhaps I 
may find a tailor in one of the neighboring vil- 
lages ; he will work during the night, and early to- 
morrow every thing will be in order.” 

“ It must be done to-day — done immediately,” 
cried the king. “ In a few hours the injury must be 
healed, and my apparel fully restored to health.” 

“ But, sire,” whispered Deesen, “ how can that 
be possible ? Your majesty has but one pair, 
and you must take them off, in order that they 
may be mended.” 

“Well, I will take them off,” said the king; 
“ go and seek the tailor. I will undress and go 
to bed till this important operation is performed. 
Go at once ! ” 

YHiile the king was undressing, he heard Dee- 
sen’s stentorian voice, calling out lustily through 
the streets — “A tailor! a tailor! is there a tailor 
amongst the soldiers ? ” 

The king was scarcely covered up in bed before 
Deesen entered, with a joyous face. 

“ Sire, I have found a soldier who can do the 
work ; he is not a tailor, but he swears he can 
sew and patch, and he undertakes to dress the 
wounds.” 

“ And yet, it is said that a higher power rules 
the world,” murmured the king, when he was 
again alone ; “ accident — accident decides all 
questions. If there had been no tailor amongst 
the soldiers, the King of Prussia could not have 
received the ambassador of Tartary to-day, and 
the negotiations might have been broken off.” 

At this moment the door opened, and Le Catt 
entered, followed by a servant with the Russian 
flags and the carpet. When he saw the king in 
bed, he started back, and asked anxiously “ if his 
majesty had been taken suddenly unwell ? ” 

“ No,” said Frederick, “ I am only making my 
toilet.” 

“Your toilet, sire?” 

“ Yes, Le Catt, did you see a soldier at the 
door ? ” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ What was he doing ? ” 

“ He seemed to be sewing.” 

“ He is sewing, and he is to-day my first gentle- 
man of the bedchamber ; he is dressing me. Ah 1 
in the presence of this humble patcher, I remem- 
ber that a wise man said, ‘ A king is but a man 
to his valet de chambre? But do not allow my 
presence to prevent you from building my throne ; 
I will rest here comfortably, and look on.” 

While the king lay in bed waiting, the sol- 


dier who had undertaken the job, sat on o 
bench before the door. He bent his head zeal- 
ously over his work, and did not once look up to 
his comrade who stood near him, leaning against 
a large oak, gazing rigidly and unweariedly at 
him. But in this steady and indefatigable glance, 
there seemed to be a strange, attractive power, 
which the soldier could not resist. He raised his 
head involuntarily for a moment, and the sweet 
and noble face of Charles Henry Buschman was 
seen. 

“ Fritz Kober,” said he, “ why do you gaze at 
me so, and why do you follow me? ” 

“Because I have been so accustomed to be 
where you are!” said Fritz Kober, quietly. 
“ When I heard Deesen call for a tailor, and you 
answered, ‘ Here ! here ! ’ I stepped out of my tent 
and followed you ; nothing more! But you would 
also know why I look at you? Well, while it 
pleases me to see you sewing, it brings strange 
and pleasant thoughts to my mind.” 

“What sort of strange and pleasant thoughts, 
Fritz? ” said Charles Henry, bowing down again 
earnestly over his work. 

“ I thought,” said Fritz Kober, in a trembling 
voice, “ that if ever I should take a wife, she must 
look exactly as you do, Charles Henry ; she must 
have the same neat little hands, and be expert 
with the needle as you are. Then I thought fur- 
ther, that in the whole world there was no man 
so good and brave, so gentle and intelligent as 
you. Then I considered what would become of 
me when the war was at an end, and you should 
desert me and go back to your village. Then I 
resolved to follow you through the whole world, 
and not to cease my prayers and entreaties till you 
promised to come into my hut, and take all that 
was mine— sunder the condition that you would 
keep me always with you — at least as your ser- 
vant — and never spurn me or cast me off. Then, 
I thought further, that if you said no — ^if you re- 
fused to come into my house, I would wand ^r far 
away in despair, and, in the anguish of my heart 
I would become a bad and contemptible man. 
Without you, Charles Henry, there is no joy or 
peace in this world for me ; you are my good 
angel ! Charles Henry Buschman, do you wish 
me to be a dissolute drunkard ? ” 

“ How can I wish that, Fritz Kober ? ” whispered 
Cnarles Henry. “ Btrt you could never be a bad 
man; you have the best and noblest heart in the 
world ! No man dare injure or abuse you ! You 
give to those who ask of you, you help those who 
suffer, and you stand by those wl o are in diflScul- 
ty ! Then you are a complete, true man, and 
know how to maintain your owr dignity on everv 


FREDERICK TEE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


i occasion. All who approach you are compelled 
■ to respect you, and no one will ever dare to cast 
a reproach on Fritz Kober. You are, at the same 
: time, a hero, a good man, and an innocent child, 
and my heajt rejoices in you.” 

“ What is good in me, I owe to you,” said Fritz 
Kober. “ Before I knew you, I was a simple 
j olockhead, and lived on stupidly from day to day, 
i thinking of nothing. Since I knew you, I have 
learned to open my eyes, and to reflect. But all 
I this will be changed if you desert me, Charles 
I Henry, and I see that you will do so ; yes, you 
, will abandon me. For three weeks past you have 
taken no notice of me. You would not go into 
I my tent with me at Bupzelwitz, but camped out 

■ alone. Here, in the village, you would not come 
into my hut, but quartered with an old peasant 
woman. So I followed you to-day, to ask you, 

'j once for all, if you have the heart to leave me — to 
I spurn me from you ? Look at me, Charles Henry ! 
look at me and me if you will make a pitiful 
and unhappy ira^ of m^ ? ” 

Charles Henry looked up from his work, and 
gazed at the pale, agitated face of his comrade ; 
•md as he did so, tears gushed from his eyes. 

“ God forbid, Fritz Kober, that I should make 
you unhappy ! I would rather shed my heart’s 
blood to make you happy.” 

“ Hurrah ! hurrah ! ” cried Fritz Kober, “ If 
this is so, listen to me and answer me, Charles 
Henry Buschman, will you be my wife ? ” 

A glowing blush suffused Charles Henry’s face ; 
he bowed down over his work and sewed on in 
monstrous haste. 

Fritz Kober came nearer and bowed so low that 
he was almost kneeling. 

“ Charles Henry Buschman, will you be my 
wife ?” 

Charles Henry did not answer ; teai’S and sobs 
choked his voice, and trembling with emotion he 
laid his head on Fritz Kober’s shoulder. 

“ Does that mean yes ? ” s.aid Fritz, breath- 
lessly. 

“Yes,” whispered she, softly. 

And now Fritz uttered a wild shout, and threw 
ais arms around the soldier’s neck and kissed him 
aeartily. 

“God be thanked that it is over,” said he; 
“ God be thanked that I did not deceive myself— 
lhat you are truly a girl. When you were last 
' «ick, and the surgeon bled you, I was suspicious. 

' I said to myself, ‘That is not the arm of a man.’ 

I went out, but in the evening you were praying, 

' and you did not know that I was in the tent, and 
1 jou said, ‘You dear parents in heaven, pity your 

■ poor daughter.’ I could have shouted with rap- 


O ‘)0 

ture and delight, but I held my peace. I wished 
to wait and see if you would be good to me,” 

“ But the expression of your eyes was so 
changed,” whispered Charles Henry ; “ I was 
obliged to turn away when their glance fell upon 
me. I felt that my secret was discovered, and 
therefore I avoided being with you.” 

“ Officer Buschman,” cried Deesen, in a com- 
manding voice from the house, “is your work fin- 
ished ? ” 

“Immediately; I have but a few stitches to 
do,” cried Charles Henry. “ Be silent,’’ said he 
to Fritz, “ and let me sew.” 

But Fritz was not silent ; he crouched near offi- 
cer Buschman, and whispered many and strange 
things in his ear. 

Charles Henry sewed on zealously, blushed 
often, and replied in low, embarrassed words. 

At last the work was completed, and the knees 
of the great Frederick’s breeches were worthily 
mended with divers patches. 

“ I will carry them myself to the king, as I have 
a favor to ask him,” said Fritz Kober. “ Come 
with me, Charles Henry ; you must hear w’hat the 
king says.” 

He took Charles Henry’s hand and advanced to 
the door, but Deesen stood there, and forbade him 
to enter ; he ordered Fritz to give him the breeches. 

“ No,” said Fritz Kober, resolutely, “ we have a 
request to make of the king, and he once gave us 
permission to come directly to him when we had 
a favor to ask.” 

He pushed Deesen aside and entered the room 
with Charles Henry. 

The king sat in his bed reading, and was so ab- 
sorbed that he did not see them enter. But Fritz 
stepped up boldly to the bed and laid the breeches 
upon the chair. 

“ Did you mend them, my son ? ” said the king. 

“ No, your majesty, Charles Buschman mended 
them, but I came along to say something to your 
majesty. You remember, no doubt, what you said 
when we returned from the enemy’s camp near 
Kiinersdorf, after the battle, when Charles Henry 
related so beautifully all that we had seen and 
heard. You said, ‘ You are both officers from this 
day, and if you ever need my assistance call upon 
me freely.’ ” 

“And you wish to do so now ? ” said the king, 

“ Yes, your majesty, I have something to ask.” 

“ Well, what is it ? ” 

Fritz Kober drew up grandly and ceremonious. 

ly- 

“ I ask your majesty to allow me to marry olfl 
cer Charles Henry Buschman— to marry him to 
day I ” 


240 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Marry him ! ” said the king, amazed ; “ is, 
then, officer Buschman — ” 

“ A woman, your majesty ! ” interrupted Fritz 
Kober, with joyful impatience, “ He is a wo- 
man; his name is Anna Sopnia Detzloff, from 
Brunen.” 

Frederick’s sharp, piercing eye rested for a mo- 
ment questioningly upon Charles Henry’s face ; 
then nodding his head smilingly several times, he 
said : 

“Your bride is a spruce lad and a brave officer, 
and knows how to blush in his soldier’s uniform. 
Officer Charles Henry Buschman, will you be the 
wife of officer Fritz Kober? ” 

“ I will, if your majesty consents,” whispered 
Charles Henry. 

“Well, go to the field-preacher, and be mar- 
ried — I give my consent. And now go, I must 
dress. 

“ At last,” said the king to Le Catt, “ fortune 
will be again favorable to me. Signs and wonders 
are taking place, as they did with Charles YII. of 
France. When he was in the most dire necessity, 
surrounded by his enemies, the Lord sent the 
Maid of Orleans to save him. To me, also, has 
the Lord now sent a Joan d’ Arc, a maid of Brunen. 
With her help I will overcome all my enemies,” 

■■ ■ ■ ♦ — 

CHAPTER XYI. 

THE AMBASSADOR AND THE KHAN OF TARTARY. 

The preparations were completed ; the room of 
the king had become, by means of his inventive 
genius, a magnificent throne saloon. The great 
arm-chair, draped with rich hangings, looked most 
imposing ; the dirty floor was concealed by a costly 
Turkish carpet. The door which led into the en- 
try had been removed, and the opening hung with 
banners. The entry itself had been changed by 
means of carpets, banners, and standards into a 
tasteful antechamber. 

The king wore his general’s uniform, and the 
chain of the order of the Black Eagle, and the gen- 
erals and staff officers stood near him in their glit- 
tering dresses. The room of the sheriff had in- 
deed become a royal apartment. 

And now an imposing train approached this 
improvised palace. First appeared two riders, 
whose gold-embroidered mantles fell below their 
feet and concealed the well-shaped oodies of the 
small Arabian horses on which they were mount- 
ed, only displaying their slender necks, with their 
flow'ng manes and their graceful legs. It was 


evident from their dark complexions and flashing 
eyes that these men were foreigners, the sons of 
the South. On each appeared the diamond-headed 
hilt of a sword, glittering amid the folds of the 
costly Turkish shawls which encircled their slen- 
der waists ; and at the side of each hung the jew- 
elled sheath of a Damascus blade, which was held 
in the right hand, and presented in salutation. 
These Turkish wari'iors were followed by two 
others, scarcely less richly dressed, and behind 
them rode four men, in long black robes, with eyes 
closed, each bearing in his right hand a book 
bound in gold and velvet, which he pressed pray- 
erfully to his breast ; a golden pen was worn in 
their girdles in place of a weapon, and on the fez an 
artistically arranged and jewelled peacock’s feather. 
Now followed two other riders ; but these were 
not alike, as the others had been, but bore the 
most remarkable and striking contrast to one an- 
other. One of them was dressed in the latest 
French style ; he wore a blue, silver-embroidered 
velvet coat, with small-clothes of the same ma- 
terial, which met his white silk stockings at the 
knee, and were fastened by a band with a diamond 
clasp. His shoes were also ornamented with dia- 
mond buckles and red heels. He wore a three- 
cornered hat, with a white feather, which was 
placed lightly and gracefully upon his stiffly- 
curled, well-powdered peruke. Splendid lace 
covered his breast, and broad lace cuffs fell over 
his white gloved hands. It was a perfect ball 
dress, such as was worn at that time at court by 
all ambassadors who were not military, in their 
ceremonious audiences with the sovereign. 

Near this man, dressed so gracefully and airily, 
was another cavalier who presented a great con- 
trast to him. As the one seemed dressed for a 
summer day, so the other appeared prepared for 
the coldest weather ; the one was ready for the 
ball-room, and the other for the steppes of Si- 
beria. The long, thin figure ot the latter was 
concealed by a fur mantle, made of the skin 
of the white Lapland wolf, and lined and trim- 
med with a darker fur; around his waist was 
bound a costly gold-embroidered shawl, from 
which hung a small golden cup, and a richly orna- 
mented razor. At his side, instead of the Turkish 
sabre, a bag, richly worked with gold and pearls, 
was suspended by golden chains. He wore 
a fez, on the front of which was embroidered a 
small golden cup. 

Behind these two men came a troop of Turkish, 
Tartar, and European servants, all in livery ; and 
these were followed by a golden chariot, with 
closely-drawn blinds, the interior being impene- 
trable to the most curious gaze. Four Taitars 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS i’AMILY. 


in long white fur mantles rode on either side of the 
chariot, with drawn swords. 

The chariot was followed by a most remarkable 
crowd, consisting of Prussian soldiers from ery 
regiment, and in every variety of uniform, of 
peasants and their wives, of old men and chil- 
dren, who were all struck dumb with astonish- 
ment and admiration at the sight of this strange 
■;avalcade which now paused before the king’s 
jouse. 

The guards saluted, and the generals and staff 
officers advanced silently and bowed profoundly to 
the two cavaliers, who were such a singular con- 
trast to one another, and who were evidently the 
important persons of the cavalcade. They swung 
themselves lightly from their saddles, and returned 
the polite greetings of the generals ; the one in 
duent German, the other in equally flowing words, 
but in a language which no one understood, and 
to which the only answer was a few murmured 
words, a smile, and hieroglyphic hand-pressures. 

The first was the Baron von Rexin, the ambas- 
sador of the king to the Grand Sultan and the 
Khan of Tartary, who had been so fortunate as to 
become the minister plenipotentiary of the King 
of Prussia under the title given him by the king 
of Baron von Rexin, after having been the ser- 
vant of a merchant in Breslau, called Hubsch. 
The second was the great and noble Mustapha 
Aga, the ambassador of Krimgirai, the Khan of 
Tartary. He was the favorite and confidant of 
his master, and was sent by him to bear his 
greetings and good wishes to the King of Prussia. 

As soon as they had dismounted, a page of the 
king approached and invited them to enter the 
house, where the king was waiting to give them 
audience. Baron von Rexin, who during his 
residence in Turkey had learned the Turkish 
language, informed the ambassador. A smile 
appeared upon Mustapha Aga’s thin, pale face, 
and he turned to the four men in black robes, who 
wore the golden pens in their belts, and signed 
to them to follow him, and then taking the arm 
of Baron von Rexin, they both entered the house, 
followed by the four historians and interpreters ; 
the generals and staff officers of the king then 
arranging themselves on either side of the 
throne, according to their rank. 

The king received the embassy sitting upon his 
throne. His eye rested smilingly upon Mustapha 
Aga, who had just bent to the earth before his 
throne, and as he arose signed to one of the four 
interpreters to approach. The interpreter opened 
the costly book, which he held in his hand, and 
handed the ambassador a large document, covered 
with seals, which Mustapha Aga pressed respect- 


241 

fully to his lips, and then kneeling, presented it 
respectfully to the king. 

“ Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the high 
and mighty Khan of Tartary, Krimgirai, has the 
unutterable honor to present his credentials to 
the King of Prussia,” said the interpreter, in the 
purest and most fluent French. 

The king broke the seal, and looked hurriedly 
over the document. “ Mustapha Aga,” he said, 
“ you are most welcome ; and I greet your mas- 
ter, the hero Krimgirai, whom I am proud to call 
my friend, in you.” 

After the interpreter repeated the words of the 
king, Mustapha Aga threw himself upon his 
knees before the throne, and spoke rapidly for a 
few moments, 

“ Mustapha Aga, the ambassador of the great 
Khan,” said the interpreter, “entreats your ma- 
jesty to allow him to show you the highest proof 
of his respect, to greet you in the manner in 
which he alone, in great and beautiful Tartary, is 
permitted to greet the Khan.” 

“ I grant his request,” said the king. 

Mustapha immediately opened the pouch which 
hung at his side, and took from it a crystal flask, 
from which he poured a fluid into the golden cup, 
and a delightful perfume immediately pervaded 
the room. After putting a small quantity of white 
powder into the cup, he proceeded to stir the 
contents with a brush, of which the handle was 
ornamented with three diamonds of immense 
size. The fluid now arose into a sparkling milk- 
white foam. 

The king looked curiously at him at first, and 
then turned to his ambassador, “ What does 
this mean ? ” he asked in German, probably be- 
cause he did not wish to be understood by the 
interpreter. 

“ Sire,” said Rexin, smiling, “ that means that 
the noble Mustapha Aga wishes to show you the 
greatest honor in his power, he wishes to shave 
you.” 

“ To shave me ! ” exclaimed the king. “ Who 
and what is the noble Mustapha Aga ? ” 

“ Sire, he is one of the greatest dignitaries of 
Tartary ; he is the barber of the Khan ! ” 

The king could scarcely restrain a smile at this 
explanation. “ Well,” he said, “ it is not a bad 
idea to make a diplomat and ambassador of a 
barber. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps 
are given to shaving in politics and frequently 
put soap in the eyes of the world.” 

Mustapha Aga now anproached the king with 
solemn steps, and bending forward, he thrust his 
forefinger into the foam in the golden cup and 
passed it lightly across the king’s chin. He then 


242 


rREDERIOK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


drew forth the golden razor from his belt. But 
before opening it, he raised his eyes prayerfully 
to heaven, and spoke a few solemn words. 
“ Allah is the light of heaven and earth ! May 
He illuminate me in my great work ! ” said the in- 
terpreter, translating Mustapha’s words. 

Then the ambassador began his dignified work ; 
drawing the blade of his knife across the chin . of 
the king with a rapid movement. 

The king and his generals and attendants, were 
scarcely able to retain their composure during this 
performance. 

When Mustapha had finished, he signed to 
one of the interpreters to approach, and as he 
kneeled before him he wiped the foam from his 
razor on the back of his uplifted hand. Then 
thrusting it in his belt, he bowed deeply and 
solemnly to the king. 

“ May Allah keep the heart of this king as pure 
as his chin now is ! ” he said. “ May the knife 
which Allah employs to prune away the faults of 
this king, pass over him as gently and painlessly 
as the knife of your unworthy servant has done ! 
Mighty king and lord, the all-powerful Khan 
Krimgirai, the lion of the desert, the dread of 
his enemies, sends me to you and offers you his 
aid and friendship. The renown of your deeds 
has reached his ears, and he is lost in astonishment 
that a prince, of whose kingdom and existence he 
was in ignorance, should so long successfully resist 
the great German sultan, whose power we know, 
without fearing. The eagle eye of my master now 
sees clearly that he who was so insignificant is now 
great enough to overshadow the land of the pow- 
erful German sultan, and to make the proud and 
unbending czarina of the north tremble. He sends 
me to report to you his profound admiration ; but 
first, will you allow me, 0 eagle king of the 
north ! to present the gifts which he offers 
you ? ” 

“ I shall be delighted to receive these gifts,” 
said the king, smiling, “ as they are a proof of 
the friendship of the great Khan.” 

Mustapha Aga made a signal in the direction of 
the door, and spoke a few words aloud. Imme- 
diately there appeared the two men who were so 
richly dressed in Turkish costumes, and had been 
at the head of the cavalcade. They stationed 
themselves on either side of the entrance, and were 
followed by the lower officers and servants attached 
to the embassy, who entered, bearing baskets del- 
icately woven and lined with rich stuffs. 

Mustapha signed to the first two to approach 
him, and then, before opening the basket, he 
turned once more to tha king. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ before a Tartar gives a promise 


of love and friendship to any one, he invites him 
to his house, and begs him to eat of his bread and 
drink of his wine. Sire, ray great and respected 
master makes use of his unworthy servant to en- 
treat your majesty to descend from your throne 
and to enter his house, where he is present in 
spirit, and bids the eagle king of the north wel- 
come.” 

“I should be delighted to grant this request,” 
returned the king, smiling, “ were the distance 
not so great between my house and that of the 
Khan.” 

“ Sire, the house of my great master is before 
your door,” said Mustapha Aga, bowing deeply. 
“ On the day of our departure, the Khan walked 
through it and kissed its walls, and exclaimed: 
‘ Be greeted, ray great and royal brother, you eagle 
of the north ! Be welcome, you hero-king, the 
hated enemy of the czaana, Krimgirai offers you 
his heart, and would be your friend for all time. 
Sire, thus spoke my lord the Khan ; the air in his 
house is still vibrating with the words he uttered. 
Will your majesty condescend to leave your throne 
and visit my great master, the Khan Krimgi- 
rai ? ” 

The king arose instantly and said, “ I am well 
pleased to do so. Lead me to the palace of your 
Khan.” 

Mustapha Aga signed to the basket-carriers and 
to the other attendants to leave the room, and 
then spoke a few rapid and emphatic words to the 
interpreters, who followed them. Then bowing 
to the ground before the king, he turned and 
passed out of the house. 

Before the door a wonderful spectacle presented 
itself to the astonished view of the k ing . Imme- 
diately opposite the house, on the open square, a 
high tent, of considerable size, appeared, around 
which was a wall of fur, well calculated to protect 
it from the cold air and rough winds. A carpet 
covered the way from the door of the tent to the 
king’s house, and from within the tent could be 
heard the gentle notes of a peculiar music. 

“ Really,” said the king to his ambassador. Yon 
Rexin, “I seem to be living in the ‘Arabian 
Nights.’ There is nothing wanting but the beauti- 
ful Scheherezade.” 

“Sire, perhaps she also is here,” said Yon 
Rexin ; “ we were accompanied by a close chariot, 
guarded by four of the khan’s eunuchs.” 

The king laughed, and said, “We will see,” 
and he rapidly approached the hut. As he reached 
it, the door flew open, and Mustapha Aga re- 
ceived him kneeling, while his attendants threw 
themselves to the ground, touching it with thcii 
foreheads. 


243 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


The king entered and examined with great cu- 
riosity the house of the Khan. The interior of 
this immense tent was hung with crimson draper- 
ies, amongst which arose twenty golden pillars 
which supported the tent. At the top of thcise 
was an immense golden ring from which the crim- 
son draperies hung, and above this ring were 
twenty golden pillars which, uniting in the centre 
at the top, formed the dome of the tent. From 
the centre hung a golden vase, in which burned 
the rarest incense. The floor was covered by a 
great Turkish carpet, and against the walls stood 
several divans, such as are generally used in the 
dwellings of the wealthy Turks. In the centre of 
the tent, just under the suspended vase, stood a 
low, gilt table, decked with a service of glittering 
porphyry. One side of the tent was separated 
from the rest by heavy curtains of a costly mate- 
rial, and from hence came the sound of music, 
which now arose in loud, triumphant tones, as if 
greeting the king. 

His majesty moved rapidly to the middle of the 
tent, while his attendants stood against the walls, 
and Mustapha Aga and his interpreter stood near 
the king. 

Mustapha then took a sword which was on the 
table, and, after kissing it, handed it to the king. 
“ Sire,” he said, “ the great Krimgirai first oiFers 
you his sword, as a sign of his love and good- 
will. He begs that on the day of the great victo- 
ry which you and he will undoubtedly gain over 
the hated czarina of the north, you will wear this 
sword at your side. A sword like this — tempered 
in the same fire and ornamented with the same 
design — is worn by the Khan. When these two 
swords cut the air, Russia will tremble as if sha- 
ken by an earthquake.” 

The king received the sword from Mustapha 
Aga, and looked at it attentively. Then pointing 
to the golden letters which ornamented the blade, 
he asked the significance of the motto. 

“ Sire,” replied Mustapha, solemnly, “ it is the 
battle-cry of the Tartar ; ‘ Death is preferable to 
defeat.’ ” 

“ I accept the sword with great pleasure,” said 
the king. “ This motto embodies in a few words 
the history of a war, and discloses more of its 
barbarity, than many learned and pious exposi- 
tions could do. I thank the Khan for his beauti- 
ful gift.” 

“ The Khan hears your words, sire, for his spirit 
is among us.” 

Mustapha, after begging the king to seat him- 
self upon the large divan, drew aside the opening 
of the tent, when the servants with the covered 
baskets immediately appeared, and placed them- 


selves in a double row around the tent. Mustapha 
then took the basket from the first couple, and 
throwing back the cover, said: “Sire, will you 
condescend to eat of the bread and drink of the 
favorite beverage of the Khan, that the ties of 
your friendship may be strengthened ? The Khan 
sends you a costly ham— a proof of his unselfish 
friendship. He had his favorite horse killed, the 
one that he has ridden for years, that he might 
offer you a ham from this noble animal.” 

As the interpreter translated these words, the 
Prussian generals and officers glanced smiling and 
mockingly at one another. 

The king alone remained grave, and turning to 
the generals, he said in German : 

“Ah, gentlemen! how happy we would have 
been, had any one brought us this meat at the 
siege of Bunzelwitz, and how ravenously we would 
have eaten it ! ” 

He then turned again to the ambassador, who, 
taking from the other baskets Carian dates and al- 
monds, and other Eastern dainties in silver dishes, 
placed them before the king. Mustapha then uttered 
a loud, commanding cry, and the door of the tent 
was again opened, and there appeared a Tartar, 
dressed in white wolf-skin, bearing a golden dish, 
which contained a steaming, white liquid. He 
took it, and kneeled with it before Frederick. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ my master begs you to drink 
with him of his favorite beverage. He pressed 
his lips to the rim of this dish before sending it to 
you, and if you will now do the same, the eagle 
and hero of the north will receive the brotherly 
kiss of the eagle and hero of the south.” 

“ What is it ? ” asked the king, in a low voice, 
of Baron von Rexin, who stood near the divan. 

“ Sire, it is mare’s milk 1 ” whispered Rexin. 

The king shuddered, and almost overturned the 
contents of the dish which he had just received 
from the hands of Mustapha Aga; but quickly 
overcoming this feeling, he raised the bowl smil- 
ingly to his mouth. After placing his lips upon 
the rim, he returned the bowl to the ambassador. 

“ I have received the kiss of my friend. May 
our friendship be eternal ! ” 

“ Allah grant this prayer ! ” cried Mustapha. 
“ Sire, Krimgirai dares, as this beverage is such a 
favorite with all Turks, to hope that it may please 
you ; he therefore offers you the animal from 
which it was procured.” He then pointed to the 
opening in the tent, where now appeared a noble 
Arabian horse, wearing a costly saddle and bridle, 
and a crimson saddle-cloth richly worked with 
pearls and precious stones. 

The eyes of the king beamed with pleasure, and 
as he hurried through the tent and approached 


244 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


the horse, the auimal seemed to wish to greet his 
new master, for it neighed loudly, and pawed the 
sand with its well-shaped feet. The king gently 
stroked its slender, shining neck and its full, flut- 
tering mane, and looked in the great, flashing 
eyes. • 

“ You are welcome, my battle-horse ! ” he said ; 
“ may you bear me in the next engagement either 
to victory or death ! ” 

He then returned to his seat, in order to receive 
the remaining presents of the Khan, consisting of 
costly weapons and furs. 

“And now, sire, the Khan begs that you will 
repose in his tent, and listen to the music that he 
loves, and look at the dances which give him 
pleasure. My master knows that the great King 
of Prussia loves music as he does, and that it 
gladdens your heart as it does his own. When 
he goes to battle — which is but going to victory — 
he takes with him his musicians and dancers, who 
must perform the dance of triumph before him. 
The Khan hopes that you will permit them to 
dance before you, and I pray that your majesty 
will grant this request.” 

“ I am ready to behold and hear all,” said the 
king. 

Immediately, at a sign from Mustapha, the cur- 
tain which concealed part of the tent was with- 
drawn, and four lovely girls, clothed in light, flut- 
tering apparel, appeared and commenced a grace- 
ful, beautiful dance, to the music of the mando- 
line. When they had finished, they retired to the 
curtain, and looked with great, wondeiing eyes at 
the Prussian warrior. Then appeared from be- 
hind the curtain four young men, who seated 
themselves opposite the girls. The musicians be- 
gan a new strain, in which the girls and young 
men joined. Then two of the girls arose, and 
drawing their veils over their faces so that only 
their eyes were visible, they danced lightly and 
swayingly to the end of the tent, and then return- 
ed to the young men, who now commenced the 
love-songs, with downcast eyes, not daring to call 
the name of the objects of their tenderness, but 
addressing them in poetical terms ; and then they 
sang to the same air the battle-song of the Tar- 
tars. In this song, the battles are not only pic- 
tured forth, but you hear the shrieks of the war- 
riors, the battle-cry of the Tartars, and, at length, 
when the battle is won, the loud shouts of rejoi- 
cing from the women. When the song was ended, 
the singers bowed themselves to the earth, and 
then disappeared behind the curtain. 

The music ceased, and the king, rising from the 
divan, and turning to Mustapha, said : 

“ I owe to the Khan a most delightful morning. 


and I will take a pleasaTit remembrance of nia 
house with me.” 

“ Sire,” said Mustapha, “ the Khan begs you to 
accept this tent as a proof of his friendship,” 

The king bowed smilingly, and as he left the 
tent, told Rexin to ask the Tartar ambassador to 
come to him now for a grave conference. 

The king then dismissed his generals and at- 
tendants, and entered his house, followed by Baron 
von Rexin and the Turkish ambassador and his 
interpreters. 

“ Now we will speak of business ! ” said the 
king. “ What news do you bring me from th( 
Khan ? What answer does he make to my prop 
osition ? ” 

“ Sire, he is willing to grant all that your ma- 
jesty desires, and to give you every assistance in 
his power, provided you will not make peace with 
our hated enemy — with Russia—but will continue 
the war unweariedly and unceasingly, until Russia 
is humbled at our feet.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the king, “ the Khan of Tar- 
tary cannot hate the Empress of Russia more 
vindictively than she hates me ; he need not fear, 
therefore, an alliance between me and Russia. I 
have myself no desire to form a friendship with 
those rough barbarians.” 

“ If the Empress of Russia hates you, she hates 
Krimgirai equally. Russia hates every thing that 
is noble and true ; she hates enlightenment and 
cultivation. Russia hates Krimgirai, because he 
has civilized his people ; because he has changed 
his rough hordes of men into a mighty army of 
brave warriors ; because he governs his kingdom 
with humanity, and is, at the same time, a father 
to his people and a scourge to his enemies. 
Krimgirai hates Russia as he hates every thing 
that is wicked, and vicious, and cruel ; therefore 
he is willing to stand by your side against Russia, 
with an army of six thousand men, and, if you 
wish it, to invade Russia.” 

“ And what are the conditions which the Khan 
demands for this assistance ? ” 

“ He wishes you to pay his soldiers as you pay 
your own.” 

“And for himself? ” 

“For himself, he begs that you will send him a 
physician who can cure him of a painful but not 
dangerous disease. Further, he begs for your 
confidence and friendship.” 

“ Which I gladly give him ! ” said the king, 
gayly. “But tell me one other thing. Has the 
Khan not yet become reconciled to the Grand 
Sultan?” 

“ Sire, the sultan feels that he cannot spare hie 
orave Khan ; he made an overture, which Krimiri 


245 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


gladly accepted. One week before we started 
on our journey, the Khan was received by the 
sultan in his seraglio. The heads of forty rebels 
were displayed as a special honor in front of the 
seraglio, and, in-the presence of the sultan him- 
self, my master was again presented with belt and 
sword, and again reinstalled as Khan, The sultan 
also presented him with a purse containing forty 
thousand ducats. You see, sire, that the sultan 
prizes and acknowledges the virtues of your ally.” 

“ And how do we stand with the Porte ? ” asked 
the king, turning to Baron von Rexin. 

“ I have succeeded, sire, in establishing a treaty 
between your majesty and the Porte ! I shall have 
the honor to lay it before your majesty for your 
signature.” 

The king’s eyes beamed with delight, as he ex- 
claimed : 

“ At length I have attained the desired goal, 
and in spite of the whole of Europe. I have my 
allies ! ” 

Then turning once more to Mustapha Aga, he 
dismissed him for the day, and gave him permis- 
sion to occupy the magnificent tent which had 
been presented to him by the Khan, during the 
remainder of his visit. 

Mustapha Aga then withdrew with his interpreter, 
leaving the king alone with the Baron von Rexin, 
who now presented to him the papers which it 
was necessary he should sign, to establish the 
long-desired alliance with Turkey. This treaty 
assured to Prussia all the privileges which Turkey 
accorded to the other European powers : free navi- 
gation, the rights of ambassadors and consuls, and 
the personal liberty of any Prussian subjects who 
might have been seized as slaves. 

The king signed the treaty, and named Baron 
von Rexin his minister plenipotentiary, and com- 
manded him to return with the ambassador from 
Tartary and present the signed treaty to the 
Grand Sultan. 

“ Now the struggle can begin anew,” said Fred- 
erick, when he was once more alone. “ I will 
recommence with the new year ; I will battle as 
I have already done ; I will consider nothing but 


my honor and the glory of Prussia. I will not 
live to see the moment when I will consent to a 
disgraceful peace. No representations, no elo- 
quence shall bring me to acknowledge my own 
shame. I will be buried under the ruins of mv 
native land, or if this consolation be denied mo 
by my unfortunate fate, I will know how to end 
my misfortunes. Honor alone has led my foot- 
steps, and I will follow no other guide. I sacri- 
ficed my youth to my father, my manhood to my 
country, acid I have surely gained the right to 
dispose of my old age. There are people who 
are docile and obedient toward fate. I am not 
one of them. Having lived for others, I dare at 
least die for myself, careless what the world may 
say. Nothing shall force me to prefer a weak 
old age to death. I will dare all for the accom- 
plishment of my plans ; they failing, I will die 
an honorable death. But no! no!” said the 
king, smiling after a short pause. “ I will not 
indulge in such sad and despairing thoughts on 
the day which has shown me the first ray of 
sunlight after so many storms. Perhaps the 
year sixty-two will be more fortunate than the 
one just passed. I stand no longer alone ; I have 
my friends and my allies. Why should I care 
that the world calls them unbelievers ? I have 
seen Christians betray and murder one another. 
Perhaps unbelievers are better Christians than 
believers. We will try them, at least. When all 
deserted me, they offered me the hand of friend- 
ship. This is the first sunbeam which has greeted 
me. Perhaps bright days may now follow the 
storms. May God grant it ! ” * 


♦ The king was not deceived. The Empress Elizabeth 
died in the commencement of the year 1762. Her suc- 
cessor, Peter the Third, was a passionate admirer of Fred- 
erick the Great, and he now became the ally of Prussia. 
The Empress Catharine approved this change, and re- 
mained the ally of Prussia. France now withdrew from the 
contest; and in the year 1763, Austria, finding her treas- 
ury completely exhausted, was compelled to make 
peace with Prussia. Prussia had no use for her new ally 
of Tartary, and Krimgirai, who was already on the march, 
returned home with his army.— See “ M6moirc8 du Barom 
de Tott BUT les Turcs et les Tartares.” 


BOOK VI. 



OHAPTEE I. 

THE king’s return. 

Berlin was glittering in festal adornment ! 
This was a great, a joyous day ; the first gleam 
of sunshine, after many long years of sorrow, suf- 
fering, and absolute want. For the last seven 
years the king had been absent from his capital — 
to-day he would return to Berlin. 

After seven years of bloody strife, the powers 
at Hubertsburg had declared peace. No nation 
had enlarged its boundaries by this war. Not 
one of the cities or fortresses of the King of 
Prussia had been taken from him, and he was 
forced to content himself with his former con- 
quests. There had been no successful results! 
Losses only were to be calculated. 

During these seven years, Russia had lost one 
hundred and eighty thousand men, the French two 
hundred thousand, the Prussians a hundred and 
twenty thousand, the English and confederate 
Germans a hundred and sixty thousand, and the 
Saxons ninety thousand — ^lastly, the Swedes and 
the States sixty thousand. This seven years’ war 
cost Europe nearly a million of men. Their blood 
fertilized the German soil, and their bones lay 
mouldering beneath her green sods. 

Throughout all Europe, weeping mothers, wives, 
and children turned their sorrowful faces toward 
the land which had robbed them of their dear 
loved ones ; they were even deprived the painfully 
sweet consolation of weeping over these lonely 
and neglected graves. 

Losses were not only to be counted in myriads 
of men, whose blood had been shed in vain, but 
uncounted millions had been lavished upon the 
useless strife. 

During this war, the debt of England had in- 
ureased to seventy million pounds sterling; the 


yearly interest on the debt was four and a half mil* 
lion crowns. The Austrians calculated their debt 
at five hundred million guldens ; France at twi 
thousand million livres ; Sweden was almost 
bankrupt, and unfortunate Saxony had to pay 
to Prussia during the war over seven million 
crowns. 

In the strict meaning of the term, Prussia had 
made no debt, but she was, in fact, as much im^ 
poverished as her adversaries. The Prussian j 
money which was circulated during the war was 
worthless. 

At the close of the war, all those who carried 
these promissory notes shared the fate of the rich 
man in the fairy tale. The money collected at night 
turned to ashes before morning. This was 
fatal fruit of the war which for seven years had 
scourged Europe. Prussia, however, had reason 
to be satisfied and even grateful. Although bleed- 
ing from a thousand wounds, exhausted and faint 
unto death, she promised a speedy recovery ; she 
was full of youthful power and energy — had 
grown, morally, during this seven years’ struggle 
— had become great under the pressure of hard- [ , 
ship and self-denial, and now ranked with the ; 
most powerful nations of Europe. 

To-day, however, suffering and destitution were *| 
forgotten ; only smiling, joyous faces were seen 
in Berlin. The whole city seemed to be invigo- 
rated by the golden rays of fortune ; no one ap- 
peared to suffer, no one to mourn for the lost — 
and yet amongst the ninety-eight thousand inhab- 
itants of Berlin, over thirty thousand received 
alms weekly — so that a third of the population 
were objects of charity. To-day no one thirsted, 
no one was hungry ; all hearts were merry, all 
faces glad I 

They had not seen their gi’eat King Frederick 
for seven years ; they would look upon him to-day 
The royal family had arrived from Magdeburg. 


241 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Every one Laatened to the streets to see Fred- 
irick, who on his departure had been but the 
hero-king of Prussia, but who now, on his return, 
was the hero of all Europe — whom all nations 
greeted — whose name was uttered in Tartary, in 
Africa, with wonder and admiration — yes, in all 
parts of the civilized and uncivilized world ! 

The streets were filled with laughing crowds ; 
all pressed toward the Frankfort gate, where 
the king was to enter. The largest arch of tri- 
umph was erected over this gate, and all other 
streets were decorated somewhat in the same 
manner. Every eye was turned toward this 
street; all were awaiting with loudly-beating 
hearts the appearance of that hero whose brow 
was decked with so many costly laurels. No heart 
was more impatient, no one gazed so eagerly at 
the Frankfort gate as the good Marquis d’Argens ; 
he stood at the head of the burghers, near the 
arch of triumph ; he had organized the citizens 
for this festal reception ; he had left his cher- 
ished retirement for love of his royal friend ; to 
welcome him, he had ventured into the cutting 
wind of a cold March morning. For Frederick’s 
sake he had mounted a horse, a deed of daring 
he had not ventured upon for many a year ; in 
his lively impatience, he even forgot the danger 
of being run away with or dragged in the dust. 

The marquis knew well that nothing could be 
more disagreeable to the king than this public re- 
ception, but his heart was overflowing with hope 
and happiness, and he felt the necessity of shout- 
ing his vivais in the sunny air. In the egotism of 
his love, he forgot to respect the preferences of 
the king. 

Perhaps Frederick suspected this triumph 
which his good Berliners had prepared for him. 
Perhaps it appeared to his acute sensibilities and 
noble heart altogether inappropriate to welcome 
the returned soldiers with wild shouts of joy, when 
so many thousand loved ones were lying buried 
on the bloody battle-field. Perhaps he did not 
wish to see Berlin, where his mother had so lately 
died, adorned in festal array. 

Hour after hour passed. The sun was setting. 
The flowers which had been taken from the green- 
houses to decorate the arch of triumph, bowed 
their lovely heads sadly in the rough March winds. 
The fresh, cool breeze whistled through the light 
draperies and displaced their artistic folds. Not- 
witlistanding the enthusiasm of the citizens, they 
began to be hungry, and to long greatly for the 
conclusion of these solemnities. Still the king 
came not. The Berliners waited awhile longer, 
and then one after another quietly withdrew. This 
bad example was speedily imitated, and the 


gay cortege of riders grew small by degrees and 
beautifully less. At sunset but a few hundred 
citizens remained at the gate, and even these he- 
roic Spartans showed but little of the enthusiasm 
of the morning. 

Marquis d’Argens was in despair, and if Fred- 
erick had arrived at this moment he would have 
heard a reproachful phillipic from his impatient 
friend instead of a hearty welcome. But fortune 
did not favor him so far as to give him the op- 
portunity to relieve his temper. The king did not 
appear. The marquis at last proposed to the cit- 
izens to get torches, and thus in spite of the dark- 
ness give to their king a glittering reception. They 
agreed cheerfully, and the most of them dashed 
off to the city to make the necessary prepara- 
tions. 

The streets were soon brilliantly lighted, and 
now in the distance the king’s carriage was seen 
approaching. Throughout the vast train shouts 
and vivaU were heard, and the proud voices of 
this happy people filled the air as with the thun- 
der of artillery. 

“ Long life to the king ! Long life to Frederick 
the Great ! ” 

The carnage came nearer and nearer, and now 
myriads of lights danced around it. The citizens 
had returned with their torches, and the carriage 
of Frederick rolled on as if in a sea of fire. It 
drew up at the arch of triumph. The king rose 
and turned his face toward his people, who were 
shouting their glad w^elcome. The light from the 
torches fell upon his countenance, and their red 
lustre gave his cheek a fresh and youthful appear- 
ance. 

His subjects saw once more his sparkling, 
speaking eye, in which shone the same energy, 
the same imperial power, as in days gone by. 
They saw the soft, sympathetic smile which 
played around his eloquent lips — they saw him, 
their king, their hero, and were glad. They 
laughed and shouted with rapture. They stretched 
out their arms as if to clasp in one universal em- 
brace their dear-loved king, who was so great, so 
beautiful, so fiir above them in his bright radi- 
ance. They threw him fond kisses, and every ut- 
terance of his name seemed a prayer to God for 
his happiness. 

But one stood by the carriage who could not 
speak — whose silent, trembling lips, were more 
eloquent than words. No language could express 
the delight of D’Argens — no words could paint 
the emotion which moved his soul and filled hia 
eyes with tears. 

The king recognized him, and holding out hia 
hand invited him to take a seat in the carriage. 


248 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Then giving one more greeting to his people, he 
said, “ Onward — onward to Charlottenburg.” 

At a quick pace the carriage drove through 
Berlin. Those who had not had the courage and 
strength to await the iiug at the Frankfort gate, 
were now crowding the streets to welcome him. 

Frederick did not raise himself again from the 
dark corner of the carriage. He left it to the 
Duke of Brunswick to return the salutations of 
the people. He remained motionless, and did not 
even appear to hear the shouts of his subjects. 
Not once did he raise his hand to greet them — 
not a word passed his lips. 

When they crossed the king’s bridge and 
reached the castle grounds, the people were as- 
sembled and closely crowded together. Frederick 
now raised himself, but he did not see them — ^he 
did not regard the brilliantly illuminated houses, 
or the grounds sparkling in a flood of light. He 
turned slowly and sadly toward the castle — ^his 
eye rested upon that dark, gloomy mass of stone, 
which arose to the right, and contrasted mysteri- 
ously with the brilliant houses around it. It 
looked like a monstrous cofl&n surrounded by 
death-lights. Frederick gazed long and steadily 
at the castle. He raised his head once more, but 
not to greet his subjects. He covered his face — 
he wmuld not be looked at in his grief. D’ Argens 
heard him murmur, “ My mother, oh my mother ! 
Oh, my sister ! ” 

The Prussians welcomed joyously the return of 
their great king, but Frederick thought only at 
this moment of those who could never return — 
those whom death had torn from him forever. 
Onward, onward through the lighted streets ! All 
the inhabitants of Berlin seemed to be abroad. 
This was a Roman triumph, well calculated to fill 
the heart of a sovereign with just pride. 

The Berliners did not see that Frederick had no 
glance for them. Gloom and despair veiled his 
countenance, and no one dreamed that this king, 
whom they delighted to honor, was at this proud 
moment a weeping son, a mourning brother. 

At last the joyous, careless city lay behind 
them, and they approached Charlottenburg. The 
noise and tumult gradually ceased, and a welcome 
quiet ensued. Frederick did not utter one word, 
and no one dared to break the oppressive silence. 
This triumphant procession seemed changed to a 
burial-march. The victor in so many battles 
seemed now mastered by his memories. 

The carriage drew up at Charlottenburg. The 
wide court was filled with the inhabitants of the 
little city, who welcomed the king as enthusiasti- 
cally as the Berliners had done. Frederick saluted 
them abruptly, and stepped quickly into the hall. 


The castle had been changed into a temple of 
glory and beauty in honor of the king’s return. 
The pillars which supported it were wound around 
with wreaths of lovely, fragrant blossoms ; cost 
ly draperies, gay flags, and emblems adorned the 
walls ; the floors were covered with rich Turkish 
carpets ; the gilded candelabras shed their variega- 
ted lights in every direction. Irradiating the faces 
of the court cavaliers glittering with stars and 
orders, and the rich toilets of the ladies. The ef- 
fect was dazzling. 

In the middle of the open space two ladies 
were standing, one in royal attire, sparkling in 
diamonds and gold embroideries, the other in 
mourning, with no ornament but pearls, the em- 
blem of tears. The one with a happy, hopeful 
face gazed at the king ; the other with a sad, 
weary countenance, in which sickness, sorrow, 
and disappointment had drawn their heavy lines, 
turned slowly toward him; her large eyes, red 
with weeping, were fixed upon him with an angry, 
reproachful expression. 

Frederick drawing near, recognized the queen 
and the Princess Amelia. At the sight of this 
dearly-beloved face, the queen, forgetting her usu- 
al timidity and assumed coldness, stepped eagerly 
forward and offered both her hands to her hus- 
band. Her whole heart, the long-suppressed fer- 
vor of her soul, spoke in her moist and glowing 
eyes. Her lips, which had so long Jjeen silent, so 
long guarded their sweet secret, expressed, though 
silently, fond words of love. Elizabeth Christine 
was no longer young, no longer beautiful; she 
had passed through many years of suffering and 
inward struggle, but at this moment she was 
lovely. The eternal youth of the soul lighted her 
fair brow — the flash of hope and happiness glim- 
mered in her eyes. But Frederick saw nothing 
of this. He had no sympathy for this pale and 
gentle queen, now glowing with vitality. He 
thought only of the dearly-loved queen and moth- 
er who had gone down into the cold, dark grave. 
Frederick bowed coldly to Elizabeth Christine, 
and took both her hands in his a short moment. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ this is a sad moment. 
The queen my mother is missing from your side.” 

Elizabeth Christine started painfully, and the 
hands which the king had released fell powerless 
to her side. Frederick’s harsh, cruel words had 
pierced her heart and quenched the tears of joy 
and hope which stood in her eyes. 

Elizabeth was incapable of reply. Princess 
Amelia came to her relief. 

“ If my brother, the king, while greeting us after 
his long absence, is unconscious of bur presence 
and sees only the faces of the dead, he must alsfl 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


249 


be forced to look upon my unhappy brother, 
Prince Augustus William, who died of a broken 
heart.” 

The king’s piercing eyes rested a moment with 
a strangely melancholy expression upon the sor- 
rowful, sickly face of the Princess Amelia. 

“ Not so, my sister,” said he, softly and gently ; 
“ I not only see those who have been torn from us 
by death, I look upon and welcome gladly those 
who have been spared to me. I am happy to see 
you here to-day, my sister.” 

Frederick offered Amelia his hand, and bowing 
silently to those who were present, he entered his 
apartment, followed only by the Marquis d’Ar- 
gens. 

Frederick stepped rapidly through the first room, 
scarcely looking at the new paintings which 
adorned the walls ; he entered his study and threw 
a long, thoughtful glance around this dear room. 
Every piece of furniture, every book, recalled 
charming memories of the past — every thing stood 
as he had left it seven years ago. He now for the 
first time realized the joy of being again at home ; 
his country had received him and embraced him 
with lo\dng arms. 

With glowing cheeks he turned toward the mar- 
quis, who was leaning against the door behind 
him. 

” Oh, D’Argens ! it is sweet to be again in one’s 
own native land — the peace of home is sweet. 
The old furniture appears to welcome me ; that 
old chair stretches its arms wooingly toward 
me, as if to lure me to its bosom, and give 
me soft sleep and sweet dreams in its embrace. 
Marquis, I feel a longing to gratify my old friend ; 
I yield to its gentle, silent pleadings.” 

Frederick stepped to the arm-chair and sank 
into it with an expression of indescribable com- 
fort. 

“ Ah, now I feel that I am indeed at home.” 

“ Allow me,” said D’Argens, “to say, your ma- 
jesty, what the dear old arm-chair, in spite of its 
eloquence, cannot express. I, also, am a piece 
of the old furniture of this dear room, and in the 
name of all my voiceless companions, I cry ‘ Wel- 
come to my king ! ’ We welcome you to your coun- 
try and your home. You return greater even 
than when you left us. Your noble brow is 
adorned with imperishable laurels ; your fame re- 
sounds throughout the earth, and every nation 
sings to you a hymn of victory.” 

“ Well, well,” said Frederick, smilingly, “ do not 
look too sharply at my claims to such world-wide 
renown, or my fame will lose a portion of its lus- 
tre. You will see that chance has done almost 
every thing for me — ^more than my own valor and 


wisdom, and the bravery of my troops combined. 
Chance has been my best ally during this entire 
war.’*’ Chance enabled me to escape the famine 
camp of Bunzelwitz — chance gave me the victory 
over my enemies. Speak no more of my fame, 
marquis, at least not in this sacred room, where 
Cicero, Caesar, Lucretius, and Thucydides look down 
upon us from the walls ; where the voiceless books 
with their gilded letters announce to us that we 
are surrounded by great spirits. Speak not of 
fame to me, D’Argens, when from yonder book- 
shelf I see the name of Athalie. I would rather 
have written Athalie, than to have all the fame 
arising from this seven years’ war.” f 

“ Herein I recognize the peaceful, noble tastes 
of my king,” said D’Argens, deeply moved ; 
“ years of hardship and victory have not changed 
him — the conquering hero is the loving friend and 
the wise philosopher. I knew this must be so — I 
knew the heart of my king ; I knew he would re- 
gard the day on which he gave peace to his people 
as far more glorious than any day of bloody bat- 
tle and triumphant victory. The day of peace to 
Prussia is the most glorious, the happiest day of 
her great king’s life.” 

Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with 
infinite sadness at his friend’s agitated counte- 
nance. 

“ Ah, D’Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, 
the happiest day is that on which we take leave 
of life.” 

As Frederick turned his eyes away from his 
friend, they fell accidentally upon a porcelain vase 
which stood upon a table near his secretary ; he 
sprang hastily from his chair. 

“How came this vase here?” he said, in a 
trembling voice. 

“ Sire,” said the marquis, “ the queen-mother, 
shortly before her death, ordered this vase to be 
placed in this room ; she prized it highly — it was 
a present from her royal brother, George II. Her 
majesty wished that, on your return from the war, 
it might serve as a remembrance of your fond 
mother. At her command, I placed that packet 
of letters at the foot of the vase, after the queen- 
mother had sealed and addressed it with her dy- 
ing hand.” 

Frederick was silent ; he bowed his head upoi 
the vase, as if to cool his burning brow upon ita 
cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to 
conceal from his friend the tears which rolled 
slowly down his cheeks, and fell upon the packet 
of letters lying before him. 

The king kissed the packet reverentially, and 


* The king’s own words. t Ibid. 


250 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


examined with a deep sigh the trembling charac- 
ters traced by the hand of his beloved mother. 

“ For my son — the king.” 

Frederick read the address softly. “ Alas ! my 
dear mother, how poor you have made me. I am 
V flw no longer a son — only a king ! ” 

He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed 
lis mother’s writing to his lips, then laid the let- 
ers at the foot of the vase and remained standing 
dioughtfully before it. 

A long pause ensued. Frederick stood with 
folded arms before the vase, and the marquis 
leaned against the door behind him. Suddenly the 
king turned to him. 

“ I beg a favor of you, marquis. Hasten to Ber- 
lin, and tell Benda he must perform the Te Deum 
of my dear Graun here in the castle chapel to- 
morrow morning at nine o’clock. I know the 
singers of the chapel can execute it — ^they gave it 
once after the battle of Leignitz. Tell Benda to 
make no difficulties, for it is my express wish to 
hear the music to-morrow morning. I trust to 
you, marquis, to see my wish fulfilled, to make the 
impossible possible, if you find it necessary. Call 
me capricious if you will, for desiring to hear this 
music to-morrow. I have so long been controlled 
by stern realities, that I will allow myself now to 
yield to a caprice.” 

Ho gave his hand to the marquis, who pressed 
it to his lips. 

“ Sire, to-morrow morning at nine o’clock the 
Te Deum shall be performed in the chapel, should 
I even be compelled to pass the night in arousing 
the musicians from their beds.” 

The marquis kept his word ; he surmounted all 
difficulties, removed all objections. In vain Benda 
declared the organ in the chapel was out of tune, 
the peiformance impossible ; the marquis hastened 
to the organist and obliged him to put it in order 
that night. In vain the singers protested against 
sin^ng this difficult music before the king with- 
out preparation ; D’Argens commanded them in 
the name of the king to have a rehearsal during 
the night. Thanks to his nervous energy and zeal, 
the singers assembled, and Benda stood before his 
desk to direct this midnight concert. 

When the clock struck nine the next morning 
every difficulty had been set aside, and every 
preparation completed. The organist was in his 
place, the organ in order; the musicians tuned 
their instruments, the singers were prepared, and 
the chapel-master, Benda, was in their midst, hdion 
in hand. 

All eyes were airected toward the door opposite 
the chon ; through which the court must enter; 
all hearts <vere beating with joyful expectation — 


all were anxious to see the king once more in tha 
midst of his friends, in his family circle. Every 
one sympathized in the queen’s happiness at being 
accompanied once more by her husband ; laying 
aside her loneliness and widowhood, and appear- 
ing in public by his side. 

All eyes, as we have said, were impatiently di- 
rected toward the door, waiting for the appear* 
ance of their majesties and the court. 

Suddenly the door opened. Yes, there was the 
king. He stepped forward very quietly, his head 
a little bowed down ; in the midst of the solemn 
stillness of the chapel his step resounded loudly. 

Yes, it was Frederick the Great, he was alone, 
accompanied by no royal state, surrounded 
by no glittering crowd — ^but it was the king ; in 
the glory of his majesty, his endurance, and his 
valor, radiant in the splendor of his heroic deeds 
and his great victories. 

Frederick seated himself slowly, gave one 
quick glance at the choir, and waved his hand to 
them. Benda raised his bdton and gave the sign 
to commence. And now a stream* of rich har- 
mony floated through the chapel. The organ, 
with its powerful, majestic tones ; the trumpets, 
with their joyous greeting ; the drums, with their 
thunder, and the soft, melting tones of the violin 
and flute, mingled together in sweet accord. 

The king, with head erect and eager counte 
nance, listened to the beautiful and melodious in- 
troduction. He seemed to be all ear, to have no 
other thought, no other passion than this music, 
which was wholly unknown to him. And now, 
with a powerful accord, the sweetly-attuned hu- 
man voices joined in, and the choir saog in melt- 
ing unison the Te Deum Laudamus^ which re- 
sounded solemnly, grandly through the aisles. 
The king turned pale, and as the hymn of praise 
became more full and rich, his head sank back 
and his eyes were fixed upon the floor. 

Louder and fuller rose the solemn tones ; sud- 
denly, from the midst of the choir, a soft, melting 
tenor sang in a sweet, touching voice. Tuba mirum 
spargeus sonum. Frederick’s head sank still 
lower upon his breast, and at last, no longer able 
to restrain his tears, he covered his face with his 
hands. 

The lofty strains of this solemn hymn resounded 
through the empty church, which until now had 
been wrapped in gray clouds, but in a moment 
the sun burst from behind the clouds, darted its 
rays through the windows, and lighted up the 
church with golden glory. The king who, until 
now, had been in the shadow of the cloud, was 
as if by magic bathed in a sea of light. All eyes 
were fixed upon his bowed head, his face partiallv 


251 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IflS FAMILY. 


covered with his hands, and the tears gushing 
from his eyes. 

No one could withstand the silent power of this 
scene ; the eyes of the singers filled with tears, 
and they could only continue their chant in soft, 
broken, sobbing tones, but Benda was not angry ; 
he dared not look at them, lest they might see that 
his own stern eyes were veiled in tears. 

Frederick seemed more and more absorbed in 
himself — ^lost in painful memories. But the loud 
hosannas resounded and awakened him from his 
slumber ; he dared no longer give himself up to 
brooding. He arose slowly from his seat, and si- 
lent and alone, even as he had entered, he left the 
church. 


CHAPTER II. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had 
left his wife, to fight with his brother against his 
enemies. During these long years of strife and 
contest, neither the king nor the prince had re- 
turned to Berlin. Like the king, he also had won 
for himself fame and glory npon the battle-field. 
Much more fortunate than his brother, he had 
won many victories, and had not sustained a sin- 
gle defeat with his army corps. More successful 
in all his undertakings -than Frederick, perhaps 
also more deliberate and careful, he had always 
chosen the right hour to attack the enemy, and 
was always prepared for any movement. His 
thoughtfulness and energy had more than once 
released the king from some disagreeable or dan- 
gerous position. To the masterly manner in 
which Prince Henry managed to unite his forces 
with those of his brother after the battle of Kii- 
nersdorf, the king owed his escape from the ene- 
mies which then surrounded him. And to the 
great and glorious victory gained by Prince Henry 
over the troops of the empire and of Austria at 
Freiberg, the present happy peace was to be at- 
tributed. This battle had subdued the courage 
of the Austrians, and had filled the generals of the 
troops of the empire with such terror, that they 
declared at once their unwillingness to continue 
the war, and their determination to return with 
their forces to their different countries. 

The battle of Freiberg was the last battle of the 
Seven Years’ War. It brought to Prince Henry 
such laurels as the king had gained at Leignitz 
and Torgau ; it placed him at his brother’s side as 
an equal. Frederick saw it without envy or bit- 
terness, and rejoiced in the fulness of his great 


soul, in his brother’s fame. When he found him 
self, for the first time after the Seven Years’ War 
surrounded at Berlin by the princes and generals, 
he advanced with a cordial smile to his brother, 
and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said 
aloud : 

“You see here, sirs, the only one amongst us 
all who did not commit a single mistake during 
the war ! ” 

Seven years had passed since Prince Henry had 
seen his young wife. Princess Wilhelrnina. He 
could at last return to her — to his beloved Rheins- 
berg, and find rest after his many years of wan- 
dering. He had written to the princess, and re- 
quested her not to meet him in Berlin, but to find 
some pretext for remaining at Rheinsbcrg. His 
proud soul could not endure the thought that the 
woman he loved, who appeared to him fit to grace 
the first throne of the world, would occupy an in- 
ferior position at court — ^would have to stand be- 
hind the queen. He had never envied the kin<T 

O 

his crown or his position, but his heart now craved 
the crown of the queen, for the brow of his owm 
beautiful wife, who seemed much better fitted to 
wear it than the gentle, timid Elizabeth Christine. 
Princess Wilhelrnina had therefore remained at 
Rheinsberg, feigning sickness. 

It was night ! The castle of Rheinsberg glit- 
tered with the light of the torches by which the 
gates were adorned, to welcome the prince to his 
home. The saloons and halls w'ere brilliantly 
lighted, and in them a gay, merry crowd was as- 
sembled. -All the prince’s friends and acquaint- 
ances had been invited by Princess Wilhelrnina 
to greet his return. 

Every thing in the castle bore the appearance 
of happiness — all seemed gay and cheerful. But 
still, there was one whose heart was beating anx- 
iously at the thought of the approaching hour — 
it was the Princess Wilhelrnina. She was gor- 
geously dressed ; diamonds glittered on her brow 
and throat, bright roses gleamed upon her breast, 
and a smile was on her full, red lips. No one 
knew the agony this smile cost her! No one 
knew that the red which burned upon her cheek 
was caused, not by joy, but terror ! 

Yes, terror! She was afraid of this meeting, in 
which she was to receive the prince as her loved 
husband, while, during the long years of absence, 
he had become a perfect stranger to her. Not 
even boimd to him by the daily occurrences of 
life, she had no sympathies with the husband who 
had been forced upon her, and who had once con- 
temptuously put aside the timid heart that was 
then prepared to love him. This stranger she 
was now to meet with every sign of love, because 


252 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


he had one day waked up to the conviction that 
the heart he had once spurned was worthy of him. 
It was her duty now to return this love — to con- 
secrate the rich treasures of her heart to him who 
had once scorned them. Her soul rose in arms at 
this thought like an insulted lioness, and she felt 
some of that burning hatred that the lioness feels 
for her master who wishes to tame her with an 
iron rod. The prince was to her but her master, 
who had bound and held her heart in irons, to 
keep it from escaping from him. 

During these seven long years, she had expe- 
rienced all the freedom and happiness of girlhood ; 
her heart had beat with a power, a fire condemned 
by the princess herself, but which she was inca- 
pable of extinguishing. 

Trembling and restless, she wandered through 
the rooms, smiling when she would have given 
worlds to have shrieked out her pain, her agony; 
decked in splendid garments, w^hen she would 
gladly have been in her shroud. Every sound, 
every step, filled her with terror, for it might an- 
nounce the arrival of her husband, whom she 
must welcome with hypocritical love and joy. 
Could she but show him her scorn, her hatred, her 
indiflerence ! But the laws of etiquette held her 
in their stern bonds and would not release her. 
She was a princess, and could not escape from 
the painful restraints of her position. She had 
not the courage to do so. At times in her day- 
dreams, she longed to leave all the cold, deceitfu. 
glare, by which she was surrounded — to go to 
some far-distant valley, and there to live alone 
and unknown, by the side of her lover, where no 
etiquette would disturb their happiness — where 
she w’ould be free as the birds of the air, as care- 
less as the fiowers of the field. But these wild 
dreams vanished when the cold, cruel reality ap- 
peared to her. By the side of the once-loving 
woman stood again the princess, who could not 
surrender the splendor and magnificence by which 
she was surrounded. She had not the courage 
nor the wish to descend from her height to the 
daily life of common mortals. There was dissen- 
sion in her soul between the high-born princess 
and the loving, passionate woman. She was ca- 
pable of making any and every sacrifice for her 
love, but she had never openly confessed this 
love, and even in her wdldest dreams she had nev- 
er thought of changing her noble name and posi- 
tion for those of her lover. She could have fled 
with him to some distant valley, but would she be 
happy? Would she not regret her former life? 
Princess Wilhelmina felt the dissension in her 
soul, and therefore she trembled at the thought 
of her husband’s return. This meeting would de- 


cide her whole future. Perhaps she could still K 
saved. The prince, returning covered with fame 
and crowned with laurels, might now win her love, 
and drive from her heart every other though t.|. 
But if he cannot win it — if his return is not 
sufficient to loosen the chains which bind her — 
then she was lost — ^then she could not resist the 
intoxicating whispers luring her to ruin. 

These were Princess Wilhelmina’s thoughts as 
she leaned against a window of the brilliant ball- 
room, the protection of whose heavy curtains she 
had sought to drive for a moment from her face 
the gay smile and to breathe out the sighs that 
were almost rending her heart. She was gazing 
at the dark night without — at the bright, starry 
sky above. Her lips moved in a low prayer — her 
timid soul turned to God with its fears. 

“ 0 God, my God ! ” murmured she, “ stand 
by me. Take from me the sinful thoughts that 
fill my heart. Make me to love my husband. 
Keep my soul free from shame and sin.” 

Hasty steps, loud, merry voices from the hall, 
disturbed her dreams. She left her retreat, meet- 
ing everyw’here gay smiles and joyous faces. At 
the door stood the prince her husband. He ad- 
vanced eagerly to her side, and ignoring etiquette 
and the gay assemblage alike he pressed the 
princess to his heart and kissed her on both cheeks. 

Wilhelmina drew from him in deadly terror, 
and a burning anger filled her heart. Had she 
loved the prince, this public demonstration of his 
tenderness would perhaps have pleased and surely 
been forgiven by her. As it was, she took his 
embrace and kisses as an insult, which was only 
to be endured by compulsion — for which she would 
surely revenge herself. 

Prince Henry was so joyous, so happy at 
meeting his wife once more, that he did not notice 
her embarrassed silence, her stiff haughtiness, and 
thought she shared his joy, his delight. 

This confidence seemed to the princess presump- 
tuous and humiliating. She confessed to herself 
that the prince’s manners were not in the least 
improved by his long campaign — that they were 
somewhat brusque. He took her hand tenderly; 
leading her to a divan, and seated himself beside 
her, but suddenly jumping up he left her, and re- 
turned in a few moments with his friend Count 
Kalkreuth. 

“ Permit me, Wilhelmina,” said he, “ to intro- 
duce to you again my dear friend and companion 
in arms. Men say I have won some fame, but I 
assure you that if it is true, Kalkreuth deserves 
the largest share, for he was the gardener who 
tended my laurels with wise and prudent hands. 

I commend him, therefore, to your kinduesf and 


253 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


friendship, Wilholmina, and beg you to evince 
for him a part of that affection you owe to me, 
and which causes my happiness.” 

There was something so noble, so open, and 
knightly in the prince’s manner, that Count Kal- 
kreuth, deeply touched, thought in his heart for a 
moment that he would not deceive this noble 
friend with treachery and faithlessness. 

The prince’s words had a different effect upon 
the princess. Instead of being touched by his 
great confidence in her, she was insulted. It in- 
dicated great arrogance and self-conceit to be 
80 sure of her love as to see no danger, but to 
bring his friend to her and commend him to her 
kindness. It humiliated her for the prince to 
speak with such confidence of her affection as of 
a thing impossible to lose. She determined, there- 
fore, to punish him. With a bright smile, she 
held out her hand to the count, and said to him a 
few kind words of welcome. How she had trem- 
bled at the thought of this meeting — how she had 
blushed at the thought of standing beside the 
count with the conviction that not one of her 
words was forgotten — that the confession of love 
she had made to the departing soldier belonged 
now to the returned nobleman! But her hus- 
band’s confidence had shorn the meeting of all 
its terror, and made the road she had to travel 
easy. 

The count bowed deeply before her and pressed 
her hand to his lips. She returned the pressure 
of his hand, and, as he raised his head and fixed 
an almost imploring glance upon her, he encoun- 
tered her eyes beaming with unutterable love. 

The court assembly stood in groups, looking 
with cold, inquisitive eyes at the piquant scene 
the prince in the innocence of his heart had pre- 
pared for them — which was to them an inimitable 
jest, an excellent amusement. They all knew — 
what the prince did not for a moment suspect— 
that Count Kalkreuth adored the princess. They 
now desired to see if this love was returned by the 
princess, or suffered by her as a coquette. 

None had gazed at this scene with such breath- 
less sympathy, such cruel joy, as Madame du 
Trouffie. Being one of the usual circle at Rheins- 
berg, she had been invited by the princess to the 
present feie^ and it seemed to her very amusing 
to receive her own husband, not at their home, 
but at the castle of her former lover. Major du 
Trouffle was on the prince’s staff, and had accom- 
panied him to Rheinsberg. 

Louise had not as yet found time to greet her 
nusband, Her glance was fixed eagerly upon the 
princess ; she noticed her every movement, her 
every look ; she watched every smile, every quiver 
17 


of her lip. Her husband stood at her side— 
he had been there for some time, greeting hoi 
in low, tender words — but Louise did not attenC 
to him. She seemed not to see him ; her whole 
soul was in her eyes, and they were occupied with 
the princess. Suddenly she turns her sparkling 
eyes upon her husband and murmurs : “ lie is lost ! 
His laurels will be insufficient to cover the brand 
which from to-day on will glow upon his brow ! ” 
Her husband looked at her in amazement. 

“Is this your welcome, after seven long years 
of absence, Louise ? ” said he, sadly. 

She laid her hand hastily upon his arm, saying, 
“ Hush, hush 1 ” Once more she gazed at the 
princess, who was talking and laughing gayly with 
her husband and Count Kalkreuth. “How her 
cheeks glow, and what tender glances she throws 
him I ” murmured Louise. “ Ah ! the prince has 
fallen a victim to his ingenuousness I Verily, he 
is again praising the merits of his friend. He 
tells her how Kalkreuth saved his life — how he 
received the blow meant for his own head. Poor 
prince ! You will pay dearly for the wound Kal- 
kreuth received for you. I said, and I repeat it 
— he is lost I ” 

Her husband looked at her as if he feared she 
had gone mad during his absence. “ Of whom do 
you speak, Louise ? ” whispered he. “ What do 
you mean ? Will you not speak one word of wel- 
come to me to convince me that you know me— 
that I have not become a stranger to you ? ” 

The princess now arose from her seat, and lean- 
ing on her husband’s arm she passed through the 
room, talking merrily with Count Kalkreuth at her 
side. 

“ They have gone to the conservatory,” said 
Louise, grasping her husband’s arm. “We will 
also go and find some quiet, deserted place where 
we can talk undisturbed.” 


CHAPTER III. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Louise du Trouffle drew her husband onward, 
and they both followed silently the great crowd 
which was now entering the splendidly illumina- 
ted conservatories. The view offered to the eye was 
superb. You seemed to be suddenly transplanted 
as if by magic from the stiff, ceremonious court- 
saloons into the fresh, fragrant, blooming world 
of nature. You breathed with rapture the odor 
of those rare and lovely flowers which were ar- 
ranged in picturesque order between the evergreen 
myrtles and oranges The windows, and indeed 


254 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


the ceiling were entirely covered with vines, and 
seemed to give color to the illusion that you were 
really walking in an open alley. Colored Chinese 
balloons attached to fine chains, fell from the ceil- 
ing, and seemed to float like gay butterflies be- 
tween the trees and flowers. They threw their 
soft, faint, many-colored lights through these en- 
chanting halls, on each side of which little grot- 
toes had been formed by twining together myrtles, 
palms, and fragrant bushes. Each one of these 
held a little grass-plot, or green divan, and these 
were so arranged that the branches of the palms 
were bent down over the seats, and concealed 
those who rested there behind a leafy screen. 

To one of these grottoes Louise now led her 
husband. “We will rest here awhile,” said she. 
“ This grotto has one advantage — it lies at the 
comer of the wall and has but one open side, and 
leafy bushes are thickly grouped about it. We 
have no listeners to fear, and . may chat together 
frankly and harmlessly. And now, first of all, 
welcome, ray husband — welcome to your home ! ” 

“God be thanked, Louise — God be thanked 
that you have at last known how to speak one 
earnest word, and welcome me to your side ! Be- 
lieve me, when I say that through all these weary 
years, each day I have rejoiced at the thought of 
this moment. It has been my refreshment and my 
consolation. I truly believe that the thought of 
you and my ardent desire to see you was a talis- 
man which kept death afar oflf. It seemed to me 
impossible to die without seeing you once more. 
I had a firm conviction that I would live through 
the war and return to you. Thus I defied the 
balls of the enemy, and have returned to repose 
on your heart, ray beloved wife — after the storms 
and hardships of battle to fold you fondly in my 
arms and never again to leave you.” He threw his 
arms around her waist, and pressed his lips with a 
tender kiss upon her mouth. 

Louise suffered this display of tenderness for 
one moment, then slipped lightly under his arms 
and retreated a few steps. 

“ Do you know,” said she, with a low laugh, 
“ that w^as a true, respectable husband’s kiss ; 
without energy and without fire ; not too cold, 
not too warm — the tepid, lukewarm tenderness of 
a husband who really loves his wife, and might 
be infatuated about her, if she had not the mis- 
fortune to be his wife ? ” 

“Ah! you are still the old Louise,” said the 
major merrily ; “ still the gay, coquettish, unsteady 
butterfly, who, with its bright, variegated wings, 
knows how to escape, even when fairly caught in 
the toils. I love you just as you are, Louise ; I 
rejoice to find you just what I left you. You 


will make me young again, child; ty your side 1 
will learn again to laugh and be happy. We 
have lost the power to do either amidst the fa- 
tigues and hardships of our rude campaigns.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Louise ; “we dismissed you, 
handsome, well-formed cavaliers, and you return 
to us clumsy, growling bears ; good-humored but 
savage pets, rather too willing to learn again to 
dance and sing. The only question is, will tho 
women consent to become bear-leaders, and teach 
the uncultivated pets their steps ? ” 

“ Well, they will be obliged to do this,” said 
the major, laughing. “ It is their duty.” 

“ Dear friend, if you be^n already to remind 
us of our duty, I fear your cause is wholly lost. 
Come, let us sit here awhile upon this grass-plot 
and talk together.” 

“Yes, you will be seated, but I do not see 
exactly why we should talk together. I would 
much rather close your laughing, rosy lips with 
kisses.” He drew her to his side, and was about 
to carry out this purpose, but Louise waved him 
off. 

“ If you do not sit perfectly quiet by my side,” 
said she, “ I will unfold the gay wings, of which 
you have just spoken, and fly far away !” 

“Well, then, I will sit quietly; but may I not 
be permitted to ask my shy prudish mistress why 
I must do so ? ” 

“Why? Well, because I wish to give niy 
savage pet his first lecture after his return. The 
lecture begins thus : When a man remains absent j 
from his wife seven years, he has no right to 
return as a calm, confident, self-assured hus- 
band, with his portion of home-baked tenderness ; 
he should come timidly, as a tender, attentive, i 
enamored cavalier, who woos his mistress and 
draws near to her humbly, tremblingly, and sub- 
missively — not looking upon her as his wife, but < 
as the fair lady whose love he may hope to win.” ; 

“ But why, Louise, should we take refuge in 
such dissimulation, when we are assured of your 
love ? ” 

“ Y ou are assured of nothing I How can you 
be so artless as to believe that these seven years 
have passed by and left no trace, and that we 
feel exactly to-day as we did before this fearful 
war ? When you have opened the door and given 
liberty to the bird whose wings you have cut, 
and whose wild heart you have tamed in a cage ; 
when the captive flies out into the fresh, free 
air of God, floats merrily along in the midst 
of rejoicing, laughing Nature — will he, after year?: 
have passed, will he, if you shall please to wish 
once more to imprison him, return willingly to 
his cage ? I believe you would have to entice 


255 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


him a long time — to whisper soft, loving, flat- 
tering words, and place in the cage the rarest 
dainties before you could induce him to yield up 
his golden freedom, and to receive you once more 
as his lord and master. But if you seek to arrest 
him with railing and threats — with wise and grave 
I essays on duty and constancy — ^he will swing 
j himself on the lofty branch of a tree, so high that 
you cannot follow, and whistle at you ! ” 

“You are right, I believe,” said Du Trouffle, 
thoughtfully. “ I see to-day a new talent in you, 
Louise ; you have become a philosopher.” 

“ Yes, and I thirst to bring my wisdom to bear 
against a man,” said Louise, laughingly. “ I hope 
you will profit by it ! Perhaps it may promote 
! your happiness, and enable you to recapture 
four bird. You will not at least make ship- 
w^reck on the breakers against which the good 
prince dashed his head to-day ; he was wounded 
and bleeding, and will carry the mark upon his 
orow as long as he lives.” 

“ What has he done which justifies so melan- 
choly a prognostication ? ” 

“ What has he done ? He returned to his wife, 
not as a lover but as a husband ; he did not kiss 
her hand tremblingly and humbly and timidly — 
seek to read in her glance if she were inclined to 
favor him ; he advanced with the assurance of a 
conquering hero, and before the whole world he 
gave her a loud, ringing kiss, which resounded 
like the trump of victory. The good prince 
thought that because the outside war was at an 
end and you had made peace with your enemies, 
all other strifes and difficulties had ceased, and 
you had all entered upon an epoch of everlasting 
happiness; that, by the sides of your fond and 
faithful wives, you had nothing to do but smoke 
the calumet of peace. But he made a great and 
; dangerous mistake, and he will suffer for it. I tell 
you, friend, the war which you have just closed 
was less difficult, less alarming than the strife 
which will now be carried on in your families. 
The wicked foe has abandoned the battle-field to 
you, but he is crouched down upon your hearths 
, and awaits you at the sides of your wives and 
daughters.” 

“ Truly, Louise, your words, make me shudder ! 
md my heart, which was beating so joyfully, 
seems now to stand still.” 

Louise paid no attention to his words, but went 
on ; 

“You say the war is at an end. I believe it 
has just begun. It will be carried on fiercely in 
every house, in every family ; many hearts will 
break, many wounds be given, and many tears be 
ihed before we shall have household peace. All 


those fond ties which united men and women, 
parents and children, have been shaken, or torn 
apart ; all contracts are destroyed or undermined. 
In order to endure, to live through these fearful 
seven years, every one gave himself up to frivolity 
— the terrible consequence is, that the whole 
world has become light-minded and frivolous. 
We do not look upon life with the same eyes as 
formerly. To enjoy the present moment — to 
snatch that chance of happiness from the fleeting 
hour, which the next hour is chasing and may 
utterly destroy — seems the only aim. Love is an 
amusement, constancy a phantom, in which no 
one believes-— which is only spoken of in nursery 
fairy tales. The women have learned, by ex- 
perience, that their husbands and lovers did not 
die of longing to see them ; that they themselves, 
after the tears of separation, which perhaps 
flowed freely a long time, were once quenched, 
could live on alone; that independence had its 
bright side and was both agreeable and comfort- 
able. The history of the widow of Ephesus is 
repeated every day, my friend. The women wept 
and were melancholy a long time after the sepa- 
ration from their husbands, but at last they 
could not close their ears to the sweet, soft words 
of consolation which were whispered to them ; at 
last they realized that incessant weeping and 
mourning had its wearisome and monotonous side, 
that the dreary time flew more swiftly if they 
sought to amuse themselves and be happy. They 
allowed themselves to be comforted, in the ab- 
sence of their husbands, by tlieir lovers, and they 
felt no reproach of conscience; for they were 
convinced that their truant husbands were doing 
the same thing in their long separation — were 
making love to ‘ the lips that were near.’ ” 

“ Did you think and act thus, Louise ? ” said 
Major du Trouffie, in a sad and anxious tone 
looking his wife firmly in the eye. 

Louisa laughed with calm and unconcern. 

“ My friend,” said she, “ would I have told all 
this to you, if I had committed the faults I charge 
upon others : I have been inactive but observ 
ant ; that has been my amusement, my only dis- 
traction, and my observations have filled me with 
amazement and abhorrence. I have drawn from 
these sources profound and philosophic lessons, 
I have studied mankind, and with full conviction 
I can assure you the war is not at an end, and, 
instead of the palm of peace, the apple of dis 
cord will flourish. Men no longer believe in con. 
stancy or honesty, every man suspects his neigh 
bor and holds him guilty, even as he knows him 
self to be guilty. Every woman watches the con 
duct of other women with malicious curiosity ; she 


25C 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


seems to herself less guilty when she finds that 
others are no better than herself ; and when, un- 
happily, she does not find that her friend is false 
or faithless, she will try to make her appear so ; 
if the truth will not serve her purpose, she will, 
by slander and scandal, draw a veil over her own 
sins. Never was there as much treachery and 
crime as now. Calumny stands before every door, 
and will whisper such evil and fearful things in 
the ears of every returned soldier, that he will be- 
come wild with rage, and distrust his wife, no 
matter how innocent she may be.” 

“I shall not be guilty of this fault,” said Major 
du Trouffle. “ If I find slander lying in wait at 
my door, I will kick it from me and enter my 
home calmly and smilingly, without having lis- 
tened to her whispers, or, if I have heard them 
involuntarily, without believing them.” 

“ Then there will be at least one house in Ber- 
lin where peace will reign,” said Louise, sweetly, 
“ and that house will be ours. I welcome you in 
the name of our lares^ who have been long joy- 
fully awaiting you. I have also an agreeable sur- 
prise for you.” 

“ What surprise, Louise ? ” 

“ You often told me that my daughter Camilla 
disturbed your happiness, that she stood like a 
dark cloud over my past, which had not belonged 
to you.” 

“ It is true ! I could not force my heart to 
love her ; her presence reminded me always that 
you had been loved by another, had belonged 
to another, and had been made thoroughly 
wretched.” 

“Well then, friend, this cloud has been lifted 
op, and this is the surprise which awaited your 
return home. Camilla has been married more 
than a year.” 

“ Married ! ” cried the major, joyfully ; “ who is 
the happy man that has undertaken to tame this 
wilful child, and warm her cold heart ? ” 

“ Ask rather, who is the unhappy man who was 
enamored with this lovely face, and has taken a 
demon for an angel ? ” sighed Louise. “ He is a 
young, distinguished, and wealthy Englishman, Lord 
Elliot, an attache of the English embassy, who ful- 
filled the duties of minister during the absence of 
the ambassador. Lord Mitchel, who was generally 
at the headquarters of the king.” 

“ And Camilla, did she love him ? ” 

Louise shrugged her shoulders. 

“When he made his proposals, she declared 
herself ready to marry him ; but, I believe, his 
presence was less agreeable and interesting to her 
than the splendid gifts he daily brought her.” 

“ But, Louise, it was her free choice to marry 


him ? You did not persuade her ? you did not, 1 
hope, in order to humor my weakness, induce her 
by entreaties and representations to marry against 
her will ? ” 

“ My friend,” said Louise, with the proud air 
of an injured mother, “however fondly I may 
have loved you, I would not have sacrificed for 
you the happiness of an only child. Camilla 
asked my consent to her marriage after she had 
obtained her father’s permission, and I gave it. 
The marriage took place three days after the en- 
gagement, and the young pair made a bridal- 
trip to England, from which they returned a few 
months since.” 

“ And where are they now ? ” 

“ They live in Berlin in an enchanting villa, 
which Lord Elliot has converted into a palace for ‘ 
his young wife. You will see them this evening 
for they are both here, and — ” 

Louise ceased to speak ; a well-known voice in- 
terrupted the silence, and drew nearer and nearer. 

“ Ah,” whispered she, lightly, “ the proverb is ful- 
filled, ‘ Speak of the wolf, and he appears.’ That 
is Lord Elliot and Camilla speaking with such 
animation. Let us listen awhile.” 

The youthful pair had now drawn near, and 
stood just before the grotto. 

“ I find it cruel, very cruel, to deny me every 
innocent pleasure,” said Camilla, with a harsh, 
displeased voice. “ I must live like a nun who 
has taken an eternal vow ; I am weary of it.” 

“ Oh, my Camilla, you slander yourself when 
you say this ; you are not well, and you must ba 
prudent. I know you better than you know your- 
self, my Camilla. Your heart, which is clear and 
transparent as crystal, lies ever unveiled before 
me, and I listen with devout love to its every 
pulse. I am sure that you do not wish to dance , 
to-day, my love.” 

“ I wish to dance, and I will dance, because it 
gives me pleasure.” 

“ Because you are like a sweet child and like 
the angels,” said Lord Elliot, eagerly ; “ your 
heart is gay and innocent. You are like a flutter- 
ing Cupid, sleeping in flower-cups and dreaming 
of stars and golden sunshine ; you know nothing 
of earthly and prosaic thoughts. I must bind 
your wings, my beauteous butterfly, and hold you 
down in the dust of this poor, pitiful world. Wait, J 
only wait till you are well ; when your health is 
restored, you shall be richly repaid for all your I 
present self-denial. Every day I will procure you 
new pleasures, prepare you n&vr fHes ; you shall 
dance upon carpets of roses like an elfio 
queen.” 

“ You promise me that ? ” said Camilla ; “ yo« 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, 
promise me that you will not pre'vent my dancing 


as much and as gayly as I like ? ” 

“ I promise you all this, Camilla, if you will 
only not dance now.” 

“ Well,” sighed she, “ I agree to this ; but I fear 
that my cousin. Count Kindar, will be seriously 
displeased if I suddenly refuse him the dance I 
promised him.” 

“ He will excuse you, sweetheart, when I beg 
him to do so,” said Lord Elliot, with a soft smile. 
“ I will seek him at once, and make your excuses. 
Be kind enough to wait for me here, I will return 
immediately.” He kissed her fondly upon the 
brow, and hastened oflP. 

Camilla looked after him and sighed deeply ; 
then, drawing back the long leaves of the palm, 
she entered the grotto ; she stepped hastily back 
when she saw that the green divan was occupied, 
and tried to withdraw, but her mother held her 
and greeted her kindly. 

Camilla laughed aloud. “ Ah, mother, it ap- 
pears as if I am to be ever in your way ; although 
I no longer dwell in your house, I still disturb 
your pleasures. But I am discreet ; let your 
friend withdraw ; I will not see him ; I will not 
know his name, and when my most virtuous hus- 
band returns, he will find only two modest gentle- 
women. Go, sir ; I will turn away, that I may 
not see you.” 

“ I rather entreat you, my dear Camilla, to turn 
your lovely face toward me, and to greet me 
kindly,” said Major du Trouffle, stepping from be- 
hind the shadow of the palm, and giving his hand 
to Camilla. 

t She gazed at him questioningly, and when at 
last she recognized him, she burst out into a mer- 
ry peal of laughter. “ Truly,” said she, “ my 
; mother had a rendezvous with her husband, and I 
I have disturbed an enchanting marriage chirping. 
You have also listened to my married chirp, and 
know all my secrets. Well, what do you say, 
dear stepfather, to my mother having brought me 
BO soon under the coif^ and made her wild, fool- 
ish little Camilla the wife of a lord ? ” 

“ I wish you happiness with my whole soul, 
dear Camilla, and rejoice to hear from your 
mother that you have made so excellent a choice, 
and are the wife of so amiable and intellectual a 
man.” 

“ So, does mamma say that Lord Elliot is all 
that ? She may be right, I don’t understand these 
things. I know only that I find his lordship un- 
Bpeakably wearisome, that I do not understand a 
word of his intellectual essays, though my lord 
declares that I know every thing, that I under- 
itand every thing, and have a most profound intel- 


257 

lect. Ah, dear stepfather, it is a terrible misfoitune 
to be so adored and worshipped as I am ; I am 
supposed to be an angel, who by some rare acci- 
dent has fallen upon the earth.” 

Truly a misfortune, for which all other women 
would envy you,” said the major, laughing. 

“Then they would make a great mistake,” 
sighed Camilla. “ I for my part am weary of this 
homage ; I have no desire to be, I will not con- 
sent to be an angel ; I wish only to be a beautiful, 
rich young woman and to enjoy my life. Do \vhat 
I will, my husband looks at every act of folly from 
an ideal stand-point, and finds thus new material 
for worship ; he will force me at last to some wild, 
insane act in order to convince him that I am no 
angel, but a weak child of earth.” 

“You were almost in the act of committing 
such a folly this evening,” said her mother, 
sternly. 

“ Ah, you mean that I wished to dance. But 
only think, mamma, with whom I wished to dance, 
with my cousin, w^hom all the world calls ‘ the 
handsome Kindar,’ and who dances so gloriously, 
that it is a delight to see him, and bliss to float 
about with him. He only returned this evening, 
and he came at once to me and greeted me so lov- 
ingly, so tenderly ; you know, mamma, we have al- 
Avays loved each other fondly. When I told him 
I was married, he turned pale and looked at me so 
sorrowfully, and tears were in his eyes. Oh, 
mamma, why was I obliged to wed Lord Elliot, 
who is so grave, so wise, so learned, so virtuous, 
and with whom it is ever so wearisome ? Why did 
you not let me wait till Kindar returned, who is 
so handsome, so gay, so ignorant, before whom I 
should never have been forced to blush, no mat- 
ter how foolish I had been, and with whom I 
should never have been weary ? ” 

“ But how did you know that the handsome 
Kindar wished to marry you ? ” said Louise, 
laughing. 

“ Oh, yes, mamma, I knew it well ; he has often 
told me so, even when I was a little girl and he 
was a cadet. This dreadful war is the cause of 
all my misery ; it led to his promotion, then he 
must join his regiment ; then, alas ! I must marry 
another before his return,” 

“ Yes, but a noble, intellectual, and honorable 
cavalier, who does honor to your choice,” said 
Du Trouffle. 

“ Lord Elliot has red hair, squints with both 
eyes, and is so long and meagre that he looks 
more like an exclamation-point than a man. When 
he appears before me in his yellow-gray riding cos- 
tume, I am always reminded of the great windr 
spiel you gave me once, stepfather, who had 


£58 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


such long, high legs, I used to creep under them ; 
and when he lies like a wiridspiel at mj feet, and 
squints at me, his ey.-s seem tied up in knots, 
and I never know if he is really looking at me, or 
is about to fall into a swoon. Now, stepfather, 
do you not find that Lord Elliot does nonor to my 
taste ? ” 

“ Certainly, and all the more because your choice 
proves that you appreciate the true dignity and 
beauty of a man, and his outward appearance 
seems to you comparatively insignificant.” 

“ Alas, alas ! now you begin also to attribute 
noble and exalted motives to me,” said Camilla, 
pathetically. “No, no, stepfather, I am not so 
sublime as you think, and I should not have mar- 
lied Lord Elliot if mamma and myself had not 
both indulged the ardent wish to be released from 
each other. Mamma is too young and too beauti- 
ful to be willing to have a grown-up daughter who 
is not ugly by her side, and I was too old to be 
locked up any longer in the nursery, so I stepped 
literally from the nursery to the altar, and became 
the wife of Lord Elliot ; so mamma and myself 
were freed from the presence of each other, and I 
thought that a time of joy and liberty w'ould bloom 
for me. But, alas, I have only changed my cage ; 
formerly I was confined in a nursery, now my 
prison is. a temple, because my husband says I am 
too elevated, too angelic to come in contact with 
the pitiful world. Ah, I long so for the world ; I 
am 60 thirsty for its pleasures, I would so gladly 
take full draughts of joy from its golden cup ! My 
Dusband comes and offers me a crystal shell, filled 
with heavenly dew and ether dust, which is, I sup- 
pose, angels’ food, but he does not remark that I 
am hungering and thirsting to death. Like King 
Midas, before whose thirsty lips every thing 
turned to gold, and who was starving in the midst 
of all his glory, I beseech you, stepfather, under- 
take the rdle of the barber, bore a hole and cry 
out in it that I have ass’s ears — cars as long as 
those of King Midas. Perhaps the rushes would 
grow again and make known to my lord the sim- 
ple fact, which up to this time he refuses to be- 
lieve, that I am indeed no angel, and he would 
cease to worship me, and allow me to be gay and 
happy upon the earth like every other woman. 
But come, come, stepfather, I hear the earnest 
voice of my husband in conversation with my mer- 
ry, handsome cousin. Let us go to meet them, 
and grant me the pleasure of introducing Lord El- 
liot to you — not here, but in the brilliantly-lighted 
saloon. Afterward I will ask you, on your word 
of honor, if you still find I have made a happy 
choice, and if my windspiel of a husband is of more 
value than my handsome coasin ? ” 


She took the arm of the major with a gay smiift 
and tried to draw him forward. 

“ But your mother,” said Du Trouflie, “ you for 
get your mother ? ” 

“ Listen now, mamma, how cruel he is, always 
reminding you that you are my motleer ; that is aa 
much as to say to you, in other words, that you 
will soon be a grandmother. Mamma, I could dif 
of laughter to think of you as a grandmother. I 
assure you, mamma, that in the midst of all my 
sorrows and disappointments this thought is the 
only thing which diverts and delights me. Only 
think, I shall soon make you a worthy grand- 
mother. Say now, grandmother, will you come 
with us ? ” 

“No, I will remain here, your gayety has made 
me sad — ^I do not feel fit for society. I will await 
my husband here, and we will return to Berlin.” 

“ Adieu, then, ' mamma,” said Camilla, rapidly 
drawing the major onward. 

Louise du TrouflSe remained alone in the grotto 
she leaned her head against the palm-tree, and 
looked sorrowfully after the retreating form of her 
daughter. It seemed to her that a shudder passed 
through her soul ; that a cold, dead hand was laid 
upon her heart, as if a phantom pressed against 
her, and a voice whispered : “ This is thy work. 
Oh, mother worthy of execration, you alone have 
caused the destruction of your daughter ; through 
you that soul is lost, which God intrusted to you, 
and which was endowed with the germ of great 
and noble qualities. It was your duty to nourish 
and build them up. God will one day call you to 
account, and ask this precious soul of you, which 
you have poisoned by your evil example, which is 
lost — lost through you alone.” 

Louise shuddered fearfully, then rousing herself 
she tried to shake off these fearful thoughts, and 
free herself from the stem voices which mastered 
her. They had so often spoken, so often awaked 
her in the middle of the night, driven sleep from 
her couch, and tortured her conscience with bitter 
reproaches ! 

Louise knew well this gray phantom which was 
ever behind her or at her side ; ever staring at her 
with dark and deadly earnestness, even in the 
midst of her mirth and joyousness; the harsh 
voice was often so loud that Louise was bewil- 
dered by it, and could not hear the ringof joy and 
rapture which surrounded her. She knew that 
this pale spectre was conscience; press it down 
as she would, the busy devil was ever mounting, 
mounting. But she would not listen,' she rushed 
madly on after new distractions, new pleasures; 
she quenched the warning voice under shout:? of 
mirth and levity ; she threw herself in the arms 


259 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


of folly and worldly pleasures, and then for long 
months she escaped this threatening pliantom, 
which, with raised finger, stood behind her, which 
seemed to chase her, and from which she ever fled 
to new sins and new guilt. Sometimes she had a 
feeling as if Death held her in his arms, and turned 
her round in a wild and rapid dance, not regarding 
lllir prayers, or her panting, gasping breath ; she 
would, oh how gladly, have rested ; gladly have 
laid down in some dark and quiet corner, away 
from this wild gayety. But she could not escape 
from those mysterious arms which held her cap- 
tive in their iron clasp, which rushed onward with 
her in the death-dance of sin. She must go on- 
ward, ever onward, in this career of vice ; she 
must ever again seek intoxication in the opium 
of sin, to save herself from the barren, colorless 
nothingness which awaited her ; from that worst 
of all evils, the weariness with which the old co- 
quette paints the terrible future, in which even 
she can no longer please ; in which old age with a 
cruel hand sweeps away the flowers from the hair 
and the crimson from the cheek, and points out to 
the mocking world the wrinkles on the brow and 
the ashes in the hair. 

“ It is cold here,” said Louise, shuddering, and 
springing up quickly from the grass-plot — “ it is 
cold here, and lonely ; I will return to the saloon. 
Perhaps — ” 

Hasty steps drew near, and a voice whispered 
her name. Madame du TroufiBe drew back, and a 
glowing blush suffused her cheek, and as she ad- 
vanced from the grotto she was again the gay, im- 
perious coquette — ^the beautiful woman, with the 
cloudless brow and the sparkling eyes, which 
seemed never to have been overshadowed by tears. 
The conscience-stricken, self-accusing mother was 
again the worldly-wise coquette. 

Her name was called the second time, and her 
heart trembled, she knew not if- with joy or horror. 

“ For God’s sake, why have you dared to seek 
me here ? Do you not know that my husband 
may return at any moment ? ” 

“ Your husband is entertaining Prince Henry 
while the princess dances the first waltz with Count 
Kalkreuth. All the world is dancing, playing, and 
chatting, and, while looking at the prince and 
princess, have for one moment forgotten the beau- 
tiful Louise du Trouffle. I alone could not do 
this, and as I learned from Lady Elliot that you 
were here, I dared to follow you, and seek in one 
glance a compensation for What I have endured 
this day. -Ah, tell me, worshipped lady, must I 
be forever banished from your presence.” 

The words of the young man would have seemed 
insincere and artificial to evpry unprejudiced ear, 


but they filled the heart of the vain Louise du 
Trouffle with joy ; they convinced her that she 
was yet beautiful enough to excite admiration. 

“All will be well, Emil,” said she; “I have 
convinced my husband that I am wise as Cato and 
virtuous as Lucretia. He believes in me, and will 
cast all slander from his door. Remain hece, mjid 
let me return alone to the saloon. Au rev<nr, 
mon amiy 

She threw him a kiss from the tips of her rosv 
fingers, and hastened away. 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE KING IN SAN8-SOUCI. 

The ceremonies and festivities of the reception 
were ended. The king could at length indulge 
himself in that quiet and repose which he had so 
long vainly desired. At length, he who had lived 
so many years to perform the duties of a king, 
who had in reality lived for his country, might after 
so many cares and sorrov/s seek repose. The war- 
rior and hero might once more become the philos- 
opher ; might once more enjoy with his friends 
the pleasure of science and art. 

The king entered the carriage which was to 
bear him to Sans-Souci with a beaming counte- 
nance — his deeply-loved Sans-Souci, which had 
seemed a golden dream to him during the dreary 
years of the w^ar — a bright goal before him, of 
which it consoled and strengthened him even to 
think. Now he would again behold it; now he 
would again enter those beautiful rooms, and the 
past would once more become a reality. 

He seemed enraptured with the road which led 
him to Sans-Souci. Every tree, every stone ap- 
peared to welcome him, and when the palace be- 
came visible, he was entirely overcome by his 
emotions, and sank back in his carriage with 
closed eyes. 

The Marquis d’Argens, however, the only one 
who had been allowed to accompany the king in 
this drive, sprang from his seat, and waving his 
hat in greeting, exclaimed : 

“ I greet you, Sans-Souci, you temple of wisdom 
and happiness ! Open wide your portals, for your 
lord is returning to you. Let your walls resound 
as did Memnon’s pillar, when the sun’s rays first 
greeted it, after a long night. Your nighi is 
passed, Sans-Souci; you will be again warmed 
by the sunbeams from your master’s eyes ! ” 

The king smilingly drew his enthusiastic friend 
back to his seat. 


1560 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“You are, and always will be a child — an over- 
grown child.” 

“Sire,” said D’Argens, “that is because I am 
pious. It is written, ‘If you do not become as 
little children, you cannot enter the kingdom of 
heaven!’ Now, Sans-Souci is my kingdom! I 
have become as the children, that I might be re- 
ceived at the side of my king, and begin once 
more the days of happiness.” 

The king gently shook his head. “ Oh, I fear, 
my friend, that the days of happiness will not re- 
commence ; the sun which once illumined Sans- 
Souci has set. Our lips have forgotten how to 
smile, and joy is dead in our hearts. How many 
illusions, how many hopes and wishes I still in- 
dulged, when I last descended the steps of Sans- 
Souci ; how poor, and weak, and depressed I shall 
feel in ascending them ! ” 

“What? your majesty poor ! You who return 
so rich in fame, crowned with imperishable lau- 
rels ? ” 

“Ah, marquis, these laurels are bathed in blood, 
and paid for bitterly and painfully with the lives 
of many thousands of my subjects. The wounds 
are still gaping which my land received during 
the war, and they will require long years to heal. 
Do not speak to me of my laurels ; fame is 
but cold and sorrowful food ! In order to prize 
fame, one should lay great weight on the judg- 
ment of men ; I have lost all faith in them. Too 
many bitter experiences have at length destroyed 
my faith and confidence. I can no longer love 
mankind, for I have ever found them small, 
miserable, and crafty. Those for whom I 
have done most have betrayed and deceived me 
the most deeply. Think of Chafgotch, he whom I 
called friend, and who betrayed me in the hour of 
danger ! Remember Warkotch, whom I preferred 
to so many others, whom I overloaded with proofs 
of my love, and who wished to betray and mur- 
der me ! Think of the many attempts against my 
life, which were always undertaken by those whom 
I had trusted and benefited ! Think of these 
things, marquis, and then tell me if I should still 
love and trust mankind ! ” 

“ It is true, sire,” said the marquis, sadly ; 
“your majesty has had a wretched experience, 
and mankind must appear small to you, who are 
yourself so great. The eagle which soars proudly 
toward the sun, must think the world smaller and 
smaller, the higher he soars ; the objects which 
delight us poor earth-worms, who are grovelling 
in the dust, and mistake an atom fioating in the 
sunshine for the sun itself, must indeed appear in- 
agnificant to you.” 

“ Do not flatter me, marquis ! Let us, when to- 


gether, hear a little of that truth which is so set 
dom heard among men, and of which the name ia 
scarcely known to kings. You flattered me, be- 
cause you had not the courage to answer my 
question concerning the unworthiness of mankind, 
when I said I could no longer love or trust them 1 
You feel, however, that I am right, and you will 
know how to pardon me, when I appear to the 
world as a cold, hard-hearted egotist. It is true 
my heart has become hardened in the fire of many 
and deep sufferings ! I loved mankind very dear- 
ly, marquis ; perhaps that is the reason I now de- 
spise them so intensely; because I know they are 
not worthy of my love! ” 

“ But, sire, you love them still ; for your heart 
is possessed of that Godlike quality — mercy — 
which overlooks and pardons the faults and fail- 
ings of mankind. Intolerance is not in the na- 
ture of my king, and forgiveness and mercy are 
ever on his lips.” 

“I will endeavor to verify your words, dear 
friend,” said the king, offering D’Argens his hand. 

“ And should I not succeed, you must forgive me, 
and remember how deeply I have suffered, and 
that my heart is hardened by the scars of old 
wounds. But I will indulge such sad thoughts no 
longer. Only look how Sans-Souci gleams before 
us ! Every window which glitters in the sunlight ■ 

(TT*AAf TYIA + nvi/l ♦'Urk.T*_, 


seems to greet me with 
whispering leaves appear 


to 


eyes, and the l*- 
bid me welcome. 


There are the windows of my library, and behind 
them await the great spirits of my immortal 
friends, who look at me and shake their gray 
heads at the weak child who has returned to them 
old and bowed down. Caesar looks smilingly at^ 
the laurels I have brought, and Virgil shakes his 
curly locks, and lightly hums one of his divine 
songs, which are greater than all my victories. 
Come, marquis, come ! we will go, in all modesty 
and humility to these gifted spirits, and entreat 
them not to despise us, because we are so unlike 
them.” 

As the carriage reached the lowest terrace, 
Frederick sprang out with the elasticity of youth,- 
and began to ascend the steps so lightly and 
rapidly, that the marquis could scarcely follow 
him. 

From time to time the king stood still, and 
gazed around him, and then a bright smile illu- 
mined his countenance, and his eyes beamed with 
pleasure. Then hastening onward, he turned hia 
head toward the house that looked so still and 
peaceful, and seemed, with its open doors, ready 
to welcome him. 

At length, having reached the summit, ha 
tumed once more with beaming eyes to look at 




r 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


261 


tl.e lovely landscape wliich was spread before 
liim in smiling luxuriousness. He then hastily 
entered the house and the beautiful room in which 
he had spent so many gay and happy hours w'ith 
his friends. Now his footsteps echoed in the 
lonely room, and none of his friends were there to 
welcome the returning king — ^none but D’Argens, 
the dearest, the most faithful of all. 

The king now turned to him, and a shadow 
overspread his countenance, which had been so 
bright. 

“ D’Argens,” he said, “ we are very poor ; the 
most of our friends have left us forever. The 
prior of Sans-Souci has returned, but his monks 
have all left him but you, marquis ! ” 

“ Does your majesty forget my Lord Marshal, 
the most amiable and intellectual of your monks ? 
It needs but a sign from his beloved prior to re- 
call him from Neufchatel ! ” 

“ It is true,” said the king, smiling ; “ I am not 
BO deserted as I thought. Lord Marshal must re- 
turn to us, and he must live here in Sans-Souci, as 
you will. I must surround myself with those who 
deserve my confidence ; perhaps, then, I can for- 
get how bitterly I have been deceived by others. 
Come, marquis, give me your arm, and we will 
make a tour of these rooms.” 

He placed his hand upon the arm of the mar- 
quis, and they passed through the silent, deserted 
rooms, which seemed to greet the king with a 
thousand remembrances. Perhaps it was that he 
might the more distinctly hear the whispers of 
memory that he had commanded that no one 
should receive him in Sans-Souci, that no servant 
should appear until called for. Without noise or 
ceremony, he desired to take possession of this 
house, in which he had not been the king, but the 
philosopher and poet. He wished to return here, 
at least, as if he had only yesterday left the house. 
But the seven years of care and sorrow went with 
him ; they crept behind him into these silent, de- 
serted halls. He recognized them in the faded 
furniture, in the dusty walls, and in the darkened 
pictures. They were not merely around, but with- 
in him, and he again felt how utterly he had 
changed in these years. 

As they entered the room which Yoltaire had 
occupied, Frederick’s countenance was again 
brightened by a smile, while that of the marquis 
assumed a dark and indignant expression. 

“ Ah, marquis, I see from your countenance that 
you are acquainted with all the monkey-tricks of 
my immortal friend,” said the king, gayly ; “ and 
you are indignant that so great a genius as Vol- 
taire should have possessed so small a soul ! You 
think it very perfidious in Voltaire to have joined 


my enemies when I was in trouble, and then to 
send me his congratulations if I happened to win 
a victory ! ” 

“ Does your majesty know that also ? ” asked 
the astonished marquis. 

“Dear marquis, have we not always good 
friends and servants, who take a pleasure in 
telling bad news, and informing us of those 
things which they know it will give us pain to 
hear? Even kings have such friends, and mine 
eagerly acquainted me with the fact that Voltaire 
wished all manner of evil might befall his friend 
‘ Luic,’ as it pleased him to call me. Did he not 
write to D’Argental that he desired nothing more 
fervently than my utter humiliation and the pun- 
ishment of my sins, on the same day on which 
he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in 
honor of my victory at Leuthen ? Did he not 
write on another occasion to Richelieu, that the 
happiest day of his life would be that on which 
the French entered Berlin as conquerors, and 
destroyed the capital of the treacherous king 
who dared to write to him twice every month 
the tenderest and most flattering things, without 
dreaming of reinstating him as chamberlain with 
the pension of six thousand thalers ? He wished 
that I might suffer ‘ la damnation eternelle' and 
proudly added : ‘ Vbtts voyez^ qite dans la iragedie 
je veux toujours que le crime soil puni' ” 

“ Yes,” replied D’Argens, “ and at the same 
time he wrote here to Formay : ‘ Votre roi est four 
jours un homme unique^ kionnant^ inimitable; il 
fait des vers charmants dans de temps oil un autre 
ne pourrait faire un ligne de prose^ il merite. 
d^Hre heureux' ” 

The king laughed aloud. “ W ell, and what does 
that prove, that Voltaire is the greatest and most 
unprejudiced of poets ? ” 

“ That proves, sire, that he is a false, perfidious 
man, a faithless, ungrateful friend. All his great 
poetical gifts weigh as nothing in the scale against 
the w^eakness and wickedness of his character. I 
can no longer admire him as a poet, because I de- 
spise him so utterly as a man.” 

“ You are too hard, marquis,” said Frederick, 
laughing. “ Voltaire has a great mind, but a 
small heart ; and that is, after all, less his fault 
than his Creator’s. Why should we wish to pun- 
ish him, when he is innocent ? Why should we 
demand of a great poet that he shall be a good 
man ? We will allow him to have a bad heart, he 
can account to Madame Denis for that ; and if we 
cannot love him, we can at least admire him as a 
poet. We can forgive much wickedness in men, 
if it is redeemed by great virtues.” 

“Ah, sire, that is very sad,” said D'Argen^ 


262 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IIIS FAMILY. 


“ and could only be uttered by one who had the 
most profound love or the greatest contempt for 
mankind.” 

“ Perhaps the two are combined in me,” said 
the king. “ As Christ said of the Magdalen, 
‘ She has loved much, much will be forgiven her,’ 
so let us say of Voltaire. He has written much, 
much will be forgiven him. He has lately ren- 
dered an immortal service, for which I could 
almost love him, were it possible to love him at 
all. He undertook with bold courage the defence 
of the unhappy Jean Calas, who was murdered by 
fanatical French priests. The priests, perhaps, 
will condemn him ; we, however, honor him.” 

“ Did not your majesty do the same thing ? ” 
asked D’Argens. “ Did you not also take pity on 
the unhappy family of Jean Calas ? Did you not 
send them a considerable amount of money and 
offer them an asylum in your dominions ? ” 

“ That I did, certainly ; but what is that in com- 
parison with what Voltaire has done ? He gave 
them the strength of his mind and his work, his 
best possession, while I could only give them 
gold. Voltaire’s gift w'as better, more beautiful, 
and I will now take a vow for his sake, that the 
persecuted and oppressed shall always find aid 
and protection in my land, and that I will con- 
sider liberty of spirit a sacred thing as long as I 
live. Freedom of thought shall be a right of my 
subjects. I will call all free and liberal-minded 
persons to come to me ; for liberty of thought 
brings liberty of will, and I prefer to rule a think- 
ing people, to a mass of thoughtless slaves, who 
follow me through stupid obedience. Prussia 
shall be the land of liberty and enlightenment. 
The believers and the unbelievers, the pietists and 
the atheists may speak alike freely ; the spirit of 
persecution shall be forever banished from Prus- 
sia.” 

“ Amen,” cried D’Argens solemnly, as he 
glanced at the excited, beaming countenance of 
the king. “ The spirit of love and of freedom 
hears your words, my king, and they will be writ- 
ten with a diamond-point in the history of Prus- 
sia.” 

“ And now, marquis,” said the king, “ we will 
visit my library, and then we will repose ourselves 
that we may enjoy our meal. In the evening I 
invite you to the concert. My musicians ai’e 
coming from Berlin ; and we will see if my lips, 
which have been accustomed so long to rough 
words of discipline, are capable of producing a 
few sweet notes from my flute.” 

Thus speaking, the king took the arm of the 
marquis, and they passed slowly through the 
room, whose desolate silence made them both sad. 


“ The world is nothing more than a great, gap- 
ing grave, on the brink of which we walk with 
wild courage,” said the king, softly. “There 
is no moment that some one does not stum- 
ble at our side and fall into the abyss, and we 
have the courage to continue in the path until our 
strength fails and we sink, making room for an 
other. Almost all of those who formerly occupied 
these rooms have vanished. How long will it be 
ere I shall follow them ? ” 

“ May that wretched moment be very distant ! ” 
exclaimed D’Argens, with a trembling voice. 
“Your majesty is still so young and full of life 
— you have nothing to do with death.” 

“ No,” said the king ; “ I am very old, for I 
have become indifferent to the world. Things 
which would have deeply distressed me formerly, 
now pass unheeded over my soul. I assure you, 
marquis, I have made great progress in practical 
philosophy. I am old ; I ftand at the limits of 
life, and my soul is freeing itself from this world, 
which, it is to be hoped, I will soon leave.” 


“ Ah, sire,’ 


said D’Argens, smiling, “ you are 


ten years younger than I am, and each time that ,' 
you speak of your rapidly advancing age, I ask 
myself how it is possible that a man so much 
younger than I should complain of old age. 
Only wait, sire ; here, in the quiet of Sans-Souci, 
in a few months you will feel ten and I fifteen years 
younger. In the happiness and comforts of our 
existence, you will live to the age of Abraham 
and I to that of Jacob.” 

“ But I am much older than you, marquis. 
During the last seven years, I have had nothing 
but destroyed hopes, undeserved misfortunes, in 
short, all that the caprice of Fortune could dis- 
cover to distress me. After such experiences it is 
allowable, when one is fifty years old, to say that 
he is old, that he will no longer be the plaything 
of Fortune, that he renounces ambition and all 
those follies which are merely the illusions of in- 
experienced youth. But no more of these sad 
thoughts, for here we are at last at the door of my 
tusculum. Fold your hands, you unbelieving son 
of the Church ; the gods and heroes await us 
in this temple, and you will at least believe in 
these.” 


f 


i: 


They entered the library, and as the door closed 
behind them and they were separate ! from the 
whole world, as they stood in the centre of the 
room whose only ornament consisted of rows of 
books, upon which glittered in golden letters the 
names of the great minds of all ages, whose only 
splendor consisted in the marble busts of Caesar 
and Virgil, of Cicero and Alexander, the king said, 
with beaming eyes ; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


2G3 


“ I am at last in the republic of minds, and I, as 
a humble citizen, approach the great presidents, 
who look down so graciously upon me.” 

And, as the king seated himself in his arm- 
chair before his writing-table, he recovered his 
sparkling humor, his gay wit, and recounted with a 
bright smile to the marquis that he intended to 
work most industriously, that he would certainly 
write a history of this war which he had just 
closed, and that he intended always to live at 
Sans-Souci, as its quiet and repose seemed more 
agreeable to him than the noise and turmoil of the 
great city. He then dismissed the marquis for 
a short time, that he might rest before going to the 
table. 

But the king did not rest. Too many and too 
powerful thoughts were surging in his breast. 
Leaning back in his arm-chair, he thought of the 
future. He recalled his own life and arranged his 
future course. After sitting thus for a long time, 
he suddenly arose, his countenance bright with a 
firm and energetic expression. 

“ Yes, thus it shall be,” he said aloud. “ I will 
be the father of my people. I will live for them, 
forgetting the wickedness of men, or only aven- 
ging myself on them by the prickings of a needle. 
I have no family, therefore my people shall be my 
family. I have no children, therefore every one 
who needs my aid shall become my child, and for 
them I will do the duties of a father. My coun- 
try bleeds from a thousand wounds — to heal these 
wounds shall be the task of my life.” 

True to this resolution, the king called together 
his ministers the next day, and commanded them 
to obtain exact accounts of the condition of his 
provinces ; to inform him of the wants and ne- 
cessities of the people ; and to assist him in re- 
lieving them. True to this resolution, the king 
was untiring in his work for the good of his peo- 
ple. He wished to see all, to prove all. He de- 
sired to be the source from which his subjects re- 
ceived all their strength and power. Therefore he 
must know all their griefs — he must lend an open 
ear to all their demands. 

His first command was, that any one who asked 
for an interview should be admitted. And when 
one of his ministers dared to express his astonish- 
ment at tins order, “ It is the duty of a king,” 
said Frederick, “ to listen to the request of the 
most insignificant of his subjects. I am a regent 
for the purpose of making my people happy. I 
do not dare close my ears to their complaints.” 
And he listened sympathizingly to the sorrows of 
his people, and his whole mind and thoughts were 
given to obtain their alleviation. He was always 
w'lling to aid with his counsel and his strength. 


Untiring in the work, he read every letter, every 
petition, and examined every answer which was 
written by his cabinet council. He and he alone, 
was the soul of his government. 

A new life began to reign in this land, of which 
he was the soul. He worked more than all of 
his ministers or servants, and music and science 
were his only pleasure and recreation. He was a 
hero in peace as well as in war. He did not re- 
quire, as others do, the distraction of gay pleas- 
ures. Study was his chief recreation — conversa- 
tion with his friends was his greatest pleasure. 
Even the hunt, the so-called “ knightly pleasure,” 
had no charms for him. 

“ Hunting,” said the king, “is one of the sense- 
less pleasures which excites the body but leaves 
the mind unemployed. We are more cruel than 
the wild beasts themselves. He who can mur- 
der an innocent animal in cold blood, would find 
it impossible to show mercy to his fellow-man. 
Is hunting a proper employment for a thinking 
creature ? A gentlemen who hunts can only be 
forgiven if he does so rarely, and then to distract 
his thoughts from sad and earnest business mat- 
ters. It would be wrong to deny sovereigns all 
relaxation, but is there a greater pleasure for a 
monarch than to rule well, to enrich his state, and 
to advance all useful sciences and arts ? He who 
requires other enjoyments is to be pitied.” 

♦ 

CHAPTER V. 

• THE ENGRAVED CUP. 

Princess Amelia was alone in her boudoir— 
she was ever alone. She lay upon the sofa, gazed 
at the ceiling, and in utter despair refle'^'^ed upon 
her miserable fate. . For years she had looked 
anxiously forward to the conclusion of this un- 
happy war in which Austria and Prussia were so 
fiercely opposed. So long as they were active en- 
emies, Trenck must remain a prisoner. But she 
had said to herself, “ When peace is declared, the 
prisoners of war will be released, and Maria The- 
resa will demand that her captain, Frederick von 
Trenck, be set at liberty.” 

Peace had been declared four months, and 
Trenck still lay in his subterranean cell at Magde- 
burg. All Europe was freed from the fetters ot 
war. Trenck alone was unpardoned and forgot- 
ten. This thought made Amelia sad unto death, 
banished sleep from her couch, and made her a 
restless, despairing wanderer during the day. 

Amelia had no longer an object — the last ray 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND RIS FAMII Y. 


ii04 

of hope was extinguished. Peace had been con- 
cluded and Trenck was forgotten I God had de- 
nied her the happiness of obtaining Trench’s 
freedom ; He would not even grant her the con- 
solation of seeing him released through others. 
For nine years Trenck had languished in prison — 
for nine years Amelia’s only thought, only desire, 
was to enable him to escape. Her life was con- 
secrated to this one object. She thought not of 
the gold she had sacrificed — she had offered up 
not only her entire private fortune, but had made 
debts which her income was utterly inadequate to 
meet. Money had no value except as it was con- 
secrated to her one great aim. She felt now 
that her heart had been crushed and broken in 
her useless efforts — that her hopes were trampled 
in the dust, and her existence worthless. Peace 
had visited all hearts but hers with new assurance 
of hope. It brought to her nothing but de- 
spair and desolation. While all others seemed to 
recommence life with fresh courage and confi- 
dence, Amelia withdrew to her apartments, brood- 
ing in dark discontent — hating all those who 
laughed and were glad — spurning from her with 
angry jealousy the contented and happy. The 
world was to her a vast tomb, and she despised 
all those who had the mad and blasphemous cour- 
age to dance on its brink. 

Amelia avenged herself on those who avoided 
her, by pursuing them with spiteful jests and bit- 
ter sarcasm, hoping in this way to be relieved 
wholly from their presence. She wished to be 
alone and always alone. Her soul within her was 
desolate, and the outward world should take the 
same dark hue. She lived like a prisoner secluded 
in her own apartments ; and when some great 
court festival compelled her to appear in public, 
she revenged herself by wounding all who ap- 
proached her. The sufferings of others were a bal- 
sam to her heart, and she convinced herself that 
the pain she inflicted assuaged her own torments. 

Amelia was alone ; her maid of honor had just 
read aloud one of Moli^re’s biting, satirical come- 
dies, and received leave of absence for a few hours. 
The princess had also dismissed her chamberlain 
till dinner, and he had left the castle ; only two 
pages waited in the anteroom, which was separated 
by two chambers from the boudoir. Amelia had 
the happy consciousness of being alone in her 
grief, and, fearing no disturbance, she could sigh 
and lament aloud. She dared give words to her 
rage and her despair ; there were no other listen- 
ers than these dead, voiceless walls — ^they had 
been long her only confidants. The stillness was 
Buddenl7 broken by a gentle knock at ^he door, 
and one C'f the pages entered. 


With a frightened look, and begging earnestly 
to be pardoned for having dared to disturb the 
princess, he informed her that a stranger was 
without, who pleaded eagerly to be admitted. 

“ What does he wish ? ” said Amelia, roughly. 
“ I have neither office nor dignity to bestow, and, 
at present, I have no money ! Tell him this, aur 
he will go away cheerfully.” 

“ The stranger says he is a jeweller, your high- 
ness,” said the page. “ It is of great importance 
to him that you should look at his collection of 
gems ; and if you will have the goodness to pur- 
chase a few trifles, you will make them the fashion 
in Berlin, and thus make his fortune.” 

“ Tell him he is a fool ! ” said Amelia, with a 
coarse laugh ; “ I have no desire to see his jewels ! 
Dismiss him, and do not dare disturb me again. 
Well, why do you hesitate? Why are you still 
here ? ” 

“ Ah, princess, the poor man begs so earnestly 
for admittance; he says your highness knew him 
at Magdeburg, and that the governor, the Land- 
grave of Hesse, expressly charged him to show the 
jewels to your highness.” 

These magical words aroused Amelia from her 
apathy. With a quick movement she arose from 
the sofa ; she was endowed with new energy and 
vitality ; she advanced toward the door, then 
paused, and looked silent and thoughtful. 

“Admit the stranger!” said she, “I will see 
his treasures.” 

The page left the room, and Amelia gazed after 
him breathlessly, and with a loudly-beating heart 
It seemed to her an eternity before the stranger 
entered. 

A tall, slender man, in simple but elegant cos- 
tume, approached. He stood at the door, and 
bowed profoundly to the princess. Amelia looked 
at him steadily, and sighed deeply ; she did not 
know this man. Again her hopes had deceived 
her. 

“ You said the Landgrave of Hesse sent you tc 
me ? ” said she, roughly. 

“Yes, princess,” said the man; “he com- 
manded me to seek your highness as soon as I 
arrived in Berlin, and show you my collection, in 
order that you might have the privilege of select- 
ing before all others.” 

Amelia looked once more questioningly and 
fiercely upon the stranger, but he remained cold 
and indifferent. 

“ Well, sir, show me your gems'. 

He placed a large casket upon a table in the 
middle of the room ; he then unlocked it, and 
threw back the lid. In the different compart- 
ments, splendid jewels of wondrous beauty were 





THE JEWELER AND PRINCESS AMELIE. 










FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


265 


to be seen — wrings, pins, bracelets, and necklaces 
of rare workmanship and design. 

“Diamonds,” cried Amelia, contemptuously; 
nothing but diamonds ! ” 

“ But diamonds of a strange fire and wondrous 
design,” said the strange jeweller. “Will not 
your highness graciously draw nearer, and observe 
them ? ” 

“ I have no use for them ; I wear no diamonds j” 
said Amelia; “if you have nothing else to show 
me, close the casket ; I shall make no purchase.” 

“ I have, indeed, other and rarer treasures ; 
some beautiful carved work, by Cellini, some ivory 
carving of the middle ages, and a few rare and 
costly cameos. Perhaps these may please the 
taste of your highaess ? ” 

Tlie jeweller raised the first compartment, and 
taking out a number of beautiful and costly arti- 
cles, he laid them upon the table, explained the 
workmanship and design of each piece, and called 
the attention of the princess to their wondrous 
beauty. 

Amelia listened carelessly to his words. These 
things had no interest for her ; she looked only at 
one object — a round packet, rolled in paper, which 
the stranger had taken with the other articles 
from the casket ; this must be something particu- 
larly costly. It was carefully wrapped in silk 
paper, while every thing else lay confusedly to- 
gether, and yet this seemed the only treasure 
which the jeweller did not seem disposed to ex- 
hibit. Amelia, however, remarked that he raised 
this mysterious packet several times, as if it was 
in his way; changed its place, but every time 
brought it nearer to her. It now lay immediately 
in front of her. 

“ What does that paper contain ? ” said she. 

“Oh, that has no interest for your royal high- 
ness; that is a worthless object! Will you have 
the goodness to examine this seal ? It represents 
the holy Saint Michael, treading the dragon under 
his feet, and it is one of the most successful and 
beautiful works of Benvenuto Cellini.” 

Amelia did not look at the seal; she stretched 
out her hand toward the mysterious packet, and 
giving a searching look at the jeweller, she raised 
and opened it. 

“ A cup 1 a tin cup ! ” she exclaimed, in aston- 
ishment. 

“ As I remarked to your highness, a worth- 
less object ; unless the rare beauty of the work- 
manship should give it some value. The carving 
is indeed beautiful and most wonderful, when you 
know that it was done with a common nail, and 
not even in daylight, but in Ike gloom and dark- 
ness of a subterranean cell.” 


Amelia trembled so violently, that the cup al- 
most fell from her hand. The stranger did not 
remark her emotion, but went on quietly. 

“ Observe, your highness, how finely and cor- 
rectly the outlines are drawn ; it is as artistically 
executed as the copperplate of a splendid engrav- 
ing. It is greatly to be regretted that we cannot 
take impressions from this tin cup ; they would 
make charming pictures. The sketches are not 
only well executed, but they are thoughtfully and 
pathetically conceived and illustrated with beauti- 
ful verses, which are worthy of a place in any al- 
bum. If your highness takes any interest in such 
trifles, I beg you will take this to the light and 
ex.imine it closely.” 

The princess did not answer; she stepped to 
the window, and turning her back to the jeweller, 
looked eagerly at the cup. 

It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art and indus- 
try. The surface was divided by small and grace- 
ful arabesques into ten departments, each one of 
which contained an enchanting and finely-executed 
picture. No chisel could have drawn the lines 
more correctly or artistically, or produced a finer 
effect of light and shade. Under each picture 
there was a little verse engraved in such fine 
characters, that they could only be deciphered 
with difficulty. 

Amelia’s eyes seemed to have recovered the 
strength and power of earlier days. A youthful, 
vigorous soul lay in the glance which was fixed 
upon this cup ; she understood every thing. 

There was a cage with an imprisoned bird ; be 
neath this a verse : 

“ Ce n’est pas un moineao, 

Gar(16 dans cette cage, 

C’est un de ces oiseaux, 

Qul chantent dans I’orage. 

Ouvrez. amis des sages, 

Brisez fers et verroux ; 

Les chants dans vos bocages, 

Kejailliront pour vons.” ♦ 

In the next compartment was again a cage, 
containing a bird, and on the branch of a tree un- 
der which the cage was placed, perched another 
bird, with fluttering wings and open beak ; under- 
neath was written — 

** Le rossignol chante, void la raison, 

Pourquoi il est pris pour chanter en prison; 

Voyez le moineau qui fait tant de dommage, 

Jouir de la vie sans craindre la cage. 

Voila un portrait, 

Qui montre I’efTet 

Du honheur des fripons du ddsastre des sages.” * 

Amelia could not control herself; she could 
look no longer. She rarely wept, but now her 

I eyes were filled with tears. Tltey fell upon th« 
• See note, page 300. 


260 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HI£ FAMILY. 


cup, as if to kiss the letters which had recalled so 
many touching and sad remembrances. But she 
had no time for tears; she must read on! With 
an involuntary movement, she dashed the tears 
from her eyes, and fixed them steadily upon the 
cup. 

Here was another picture. In a cell lay a 
skeleton form, the hands and the feet bound with 
heavy chains. The figure had raised itself slightly 
from the straw bed and gazed with an agonized 
expression at the grating in the wall, behind which 
the grim-bearded face of a soldier was seen, who, 
with wide-open mouth seemed to be calling 
angrily to the prisoner. Beneath this stood 
some verses in German.* 

“ Oh fearful ! most fearful 1 ” sobbed Amelia ; 
and, completely overcome, her head sank upon 
her breast. She cared not that the strange jeweller 
saw her tears and heard the despairing cry of her 
heart ; she had nothing to fear ; she had no more 
to lose. The assembled world might hear and 
see her great grief. But no, no ; this must not 
be. His agony, his tortures, might perhaps be 
increased to punish her through him ! She must 
<i 0 t weep ; she must not complain. Trenck lived ; 
although in prison and in chains, he still lived ; 
so long as he lived, she must conquer the despair 
of her heart. 

As site thought thus, she dried her tears, and 
raised her head with proud resolve. She would 
be calm and self-possessed ; perhaps this man, sent 
to her by the landgrave, had something still to 
say to her. She half turned her head toward him ; 
he appeared not to be thinking of her, but was 
quietly engaged placing his treasures again in his 
casket. 

“ Can you teU me who engraved this cup ? ” 

“ Certainly, your royal highness. A poor pris- 
oner, who has been confined for nine years in a 
subterranean cell in the fortress of Magdeburg, 
engraved it. He is called Frederick von Trenck. 
Your highness has perhaps never heard the name, 
but in Magdeburg every child knows it, and speaks 
it with wonder and admiration I No one has 
seen him, but every one knows of his daring, his 
heroism, his unfaltering courage, and endurance, 
his herculean strength, and his many and marvel- 
lous attempts to escape. Trenck is the hero of 

* See memoirs of Trenck, Thiebault, in which Trenck 
describes one of these cups and the fate which befell it 
One of them was engraved for the Landgrave of Hess.e. 
and in this way fell into the hands of the Emperor Joseph 
the Second, who kept it in his art cabinet Another, 
which had been once in possession of the wife of Fred- 
erick the Great, Trenck afterward recovered in Paris. 
Some of these cups are still to bo seen in art collections 
in Germany, and some are 'n the museum in Berlin. 


tho nursery as well as the saloon. No lady in 
Magdeburg is acquainted with him, but all arc 
enthusiastic in his praise, and all the officers who 
know him love and pity him. Many are ready to 
risk their lives for him ! ” 

The princess sighed deeply, and a ray of joy 
and hope lighted up her countenance. She listened 
with suppressed breath to the jeweller’s words— 
they sounded like far-off music, pleasant bui 
mournful to the soul. 

The stranger continued : “ Some time since, in 
order to dispel the tediousness of his prison-life, 
he began to engrave poems and figures upon his 
tin cup with a nail which he had found in the 
earth while making his last attempt to under- 
mine the floor of his cell. During one of his 
visits of observation, the commandant discovered 
this cup ; he was delighted with the engravings, 
took the cup and sent Trenck another, hoping he 
would continue the exercise of his art. Trenck 
seized the occasion joyfully, and since then he 
has been constantly occupied as an engraver. 
Every officer desires to have a cup engraved 
by him, as a souvenir. Every lady in Magdeburg 
longs for one, and prefers it to the most costly 
jewel. These cups are now the Tuode — indeed, 
they have become an important article in trade. 
If one of the officers can be induced to sell hi* 
cup, it will cost twenty louis d’or. Trenck gets 
no money for his work, but he has gained far 
greater advantages. These cups give him the 
opportunity of making known to the world the 
cruel tortures to which he is subject ; they have 
given him speech, and replaced the writing 
materials of which they have deprived him. 
They have answered even a better and holier 
purpose than this,” said the jeweller, in a low 
voice, “ they have procured him light and air. 
In order to give him sufficient light for his work, 
the officers open the doors into the first corri- 
dor, in which there is a large window ; one of the 
upper panes of this window is open every morn- 
ing. As the days are short in the casemates, the 
commandant looks through his fingers, when 
the officers bring lights to the poor prisoner. 
Trenck feels as if his wretched prison-cell was 
now changed into the atelier of an artist.” 

Amelia was silent and pressed the cup tenderly 
to her lips ; the stranger did not regard her, but 
continued his recital quietly. 

“ An officer of the garrison told me all this, 
your highness, when he sold me this cup. They 
make no secret of their admiration and affection 
for Trenck ; they know they would be severely 
punished if the higher authorities discovered that 
they allowed Trenck any privileges or alleviaticns. 


267 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILT. 


but they boast of it and consider it a humane ac- 
tion.” 

“ May God reward them for it ! ” sighed Ame- 
fia. “ I will buy this cup, sir. I do not wish to 
be behind the ladies of Magdeburg, and as it is 
the mode to possess a cup engraved by Trenck, I 
will take this. Name your price.” 

The jeweller was silent for a moment, then said : 

“ Pardon me, your highness, I dare not sell you 
this cup, or rather I implore your highness not to 
desire it. If possible, I will make it an instru- 
ment for Trenck’s release.” 

“ How can this be done ? ” said Amelia, breath- 
lessly. 

“ I will take this cup to General Riedt, the Aus- 
trian ambassador in Berlin. As all the world is 
interesting itself for Trenck, I do not see why I 
should not do the same, and endeavor to obtain 
his release. I shall therefor go to General Riedt 
with this cup. I am told he is a noble gentleman 
and a distant relation of Trenck ; he cannot fail 
to sympathize with his unfortunate cousin. When 
he hears of his cruel sufferings he will certainly 
strive to deliver him. General Riedt is exactly 
the man to effect this great object; he is thor- 
oughly acquainted wuth all the by-ways and in- 
trigues of the court of Vienna. Maria Theresa 
classes him among her most trusted confidants 
and friends. V/hoever desires to free Trenck 
must consult with General Riedt and win him.” 

Amelia raised her head and looked up quickly 
at the stranger ; his eyes were fixed upon her 
with a searching and significant expression ; their 
glances naet and were steadily fixed for one mo- 
ment, then a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over 
the face of the jeweller, and the princess nodded 
her head. Each felt that they were understood. 

“ Have you nothing more to say ?” said Amelia. 

“No, your highness, I have only to beg you 
will pardon me for not selling you this cup. I 
must take it to General Riedt.” 

“ Leave it with me,” said Amelia, after a few 
moments’ reflection. “ I myself will show it to 
him and seek to interest him in the fate of his 
unhappy relative. If I succeed, the cup is mine, 
and you will not wish to sell it to General Riedt. 
Do you agree to this ? Go, then, and return to 
me at this hour to-morrow, when I will either pay 
you the price of the cup, or return it to you, if I 
am so unhappy as to fail.” 

The jeweller bowed profoundly. “ I will punc- 
tually obey your highness’s commands. To-mor- 
row at this hour I will be here.” 

The stranger took his casket and left the room. 
Tlie princess gazed after him till the door closed. 

“ That man is silent and discreet, I believe he 


can be trusted,” she murmured. “I will write at 
once, and desire an interview with General Riedt.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PRINCESS AND THE DIPLOMAT. 

An hour later the page of the princess announced 
General von Riedt, Austrian ambassador at the 
court of Berlin. Amelia advanced to meet him, 
and gazed with a sharp, piercing glance at the 
general, who bowed respectfully before her. 

“ I have sent for you, general,” said the princess, 
“ to repair an injury. You have been announced 
twice, and both times I declined receiving you.” 

“ That was no injury, your royal highness,” said 
the general, smiling. “ I ventured to call on you 
because etiquette demands that a new ambassador 
should introduce himself to every member of the 
royal house. Your royal highness declined to re- 
ceive me, it was not agreeable, and you were per- 
fectly justifiable in closing your doors against 
me.” 

“ And now you must wonder why I have sent 
for you ? ” 

“ I never allow myself to wonder. Your order 
for me to come has made me happy — that is suffi- 
cient.” 

“ You have no suspicion why I sent for you ? ” 

“ Your royal highness has just informed me you 
kindly wished to indemnify me for my two former 
visits.” 

“ You are a good diplomatist; you turn quickly 
about, are as smooth as an eel, cannot be taken 
hold of, but slip through one’s fingers. I am ac- 
customed to go at once to the point — I cannot 
diplomatize. See here, why I wished to see you 
— ^I wished to show you this cup.” 

She took the cup hastily from the table, and 
gave it to the ambassador. He gazed at it long 
and earnestly; he turned it around, looking at 
every picture, reading every verse. Amelia 
watched him keenly, but his countenance betrayed 
nothing. He was as smiling, as unembarrassed as 
before. When he had looked at it attentively, he 
placed it on the table. 

“Well, what do you think of the workman- 
ship ? ” said Amelia, 

“ It is wonderful, worthy of an artist, your royal 
highness.” 

“And do you know by what artist it wai 
made ? ” 

“I suspect it, your royal highness.” 

“ Give me his name ? ” 


26S 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND' HIS FAMILY. 


“ I think he is called Frederick von Trenck.” 

“ It is so, and if I do not err, he is your rela- 
tive ? ” 

“ My distant relative — yes, your royal high- 
ness.” 

“ And can you bear to have your relative in 
chains ? Does not your heart bleed for his suf- 
ferings ? ” 

“ He suffers justly, I presume, or he would not 
have been condemned.” 

“ Were he the greatest criminal that lived, it 
would still be a crime to make him suffer perpet- 
ually. A man’s sleep is sacred, be he a criminal 
or a murderer. Let them kill the criminal, but 
they should not murder sleep. Look at this pic- 
ture, general ; look at this prisoner lying upon the 
hard floor ; he has been torn from his dreams of 
freedom and happiness by the rough voice of the 
soldiers standing at his door. Read the verse be- 
neath it — is not every word of it bathed in tears ? 
Breathes there not a cry of terror throughout so 
fearful, so unheard-of, that it must resound in 
every breast ? And you, his relative, you will not 
hear him ? You will do nothing to free this unfor- 
tunate man from his prison ? You, the Austrian 
ambassador, suffer an officer of your empress to 
remain a prisoner in a strange land, without a 
trial, w'ithout a hearing.” 

“ When my empress sent me here, she gave me 
her instructions, and she informed me of the ex- 
tent and character of my duties. She did not re- 
quest me to exert myself for the release of this 
unfortunate prisoner ; that i.« entirely beyond my 
sphere of action, and I must be discreet.” 

“ You must be careful and discreet when the 
life of a man, a relative, is concerned ? You have, 
then, no pity for him ? ” 

“ I pity him deeply, your royal highness, but can 
do nothing more.” 

“ Perhaps not you I Perhaps another ! Per- 
haps I ? ” 

“ I do not know if your royal highness interests 
herself sufficiently in the prisoner to work for 
him.” 

“ You know not whether I interest myself suf- 
ficiently in Trenck to serve him,” cried Amelia, 
with a harsh laugh. “You well know it; the 
whole world knows it ; no one dares speak of it 
aloud, for fear of the king’s anger; but it is 
whispered throughout the whole land why Trenck 
languishes in prison. You, you alone, should be 
ignorant of it ! Know, then, that Trenck is im- 
prisoned because I love him I Yes, general, I 
love him ! Why do you not laugh, sir ? Is it 
not laughable to hear an old, wrinkled, broken- 
doi»'n creature speak of love — to see a war 


trembling form, tottering to her grave on a prop 
of love ? Look at this horribly disfigured coun- 
tenance. Listen to the rough, discordant voice 
that dares to speak of love, and then laugh, gen- 
eral, for I tell you I love Trenck. I love him 
with all the strength and passion of a young 
girl. Grief and age have laid a fearful mask upon 
my countenance, but my heart is still young, there 
burns within it an undying, a sacred flame. My 
thoughts, my desires are passionate and youthful, 
and my every thought, my every desire is for 
Trenck. I could tell you of all the agony, all the 
despair I have endured for his sake, but it would 
be useless. There is no question of my suffer- 
ings, but of his who through me has lost his 
youth and his freedom — his all ! Nine years he 
has lain in prison ; for nine years my one aim has* 
been to release him. My existence, my soul, 
my heart, are bound up in his prison walls. I 
only live to release him. Though I have ceased 
to look for human assistance, my heart still prays 
earnestly to God for some way of escape. If 
you know any such, general, show it to me, and 
were it strewed with thorns and burning irons, 

I would wander upon it in my bare feet.” 

She raised her hands and fixed an imploring 
glance upon the general, who had listened to her 
in silence. When she had ceased speaking, he 
raised his head and looked at her. Amelia 
could have cried aloud for joy, for two bright, 
precious tears gleamed in his eye. 

“ You weep,” cried she; “ you have some pity.”" 

The general took her hand, and kneeling rev- 
erentially before her he said ; “ Yes, I weep, but 
not over you. I weep over your great, self-sacri- 
ficing soul. I do not pity you — your grief is too 
great, too sacred — it is above pity. But I bow 
profoundly before you, for your suffering is worthy 
of all reverence. To me you appear much more 
beautiful than all the women of this court who 
dance giddily through life. It is not the diplo- 
matist but the man who kneels before you and 
offers you his homage.” 

Gently Amelia bade him rise. With a sweet, 
happy smile upon her lip she thanked him for his 
sympathy, and hoped they would be good friends 
and counsel with each other. 

The general was silent for a few moments. “ The 
feelings of the empress must be worked upon — 
she must intercede with King Frederick for Trenck- 
He cannot refuse her first request.” 

“ Will you undertake to effect this ? ” said 
Amelia, hastily. “ Will you intercede for your 
unfortunate relative ? ” 

“ I had done so long ago had it been possible. 
Alas, I dared not. Trenck is my relative — mv re 


269 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


^nest would, therefore, have been considered as 
that of a prejudiced person. My exalted empress 
possesses so strong a sense of right that it has 
become a rule of hers never to fulfil a request 
made By any of her own intimate and confiden- 
tial friends for their families or relatives. She 
would have paid no attention to my request for 
Trenck’s release. Moreover, I would have made 
enemies of a powerful and influential party at 
court — with a party whose wish it is that Trenck 
may never be released, because he would then 
I come and demand an account of the gold, jewels, 
and property left him by his cousin, the colonel of 
the pandours, thus causing a great disturbance 
amongst several noble families at court. These 
families are continually filling the ear of the em- 
press with accusations against the unfortunate 
prisoner, well knowing that he cannot defend him- 
self. You must appear to have forgotten that 
poor Trenck is languishing in prison while his 
property is being guarded by stewards who pay 
themselves for their heavy labor with the old colo- 
nel’s money. It is dangerous, therefore, to med- 
dle with this wasp’s nest. To serve Trenck, the 
interceder must be so harmless and insignificant 
that no one will consider it worth while to watch 
him, so that Trenck’s enemies, not suspecting him, 
can place no obstacles in his path.” 

“Lives there such a one ? ” said the princess. 

“ Yes, your royal highness.” 

“ Where is he ? What is his name ? What is 
he?” 

“ The fireman in the apartments of the empress. 
He is a poor Savoyard, without name, without 
rank, without position, but with credit and influ- 
ence.” 

“ A fireman ? ” cried the princess, with amaze- 
ment. 

“ An old, ugly, deformed fellow called by the 
other servants Gnome because of his stubborn 
silence, his want of sociability, his rough manner 
and voice, his caring for nothing but his service, 
which he performs with great method. Every 
morning at six he enters her majesty’s apartment, 
makes the fire, throws back the curtain to admit 
the light, arranges the chairs, and then withdraws 
without the least noise. All this he does without 
committing the slightest indiscretion ; always the 
same; never lingering beyond his time — never 
.eaving before. He is like a clock that maintains 
always the same movement and sound. The em- 
press, accustomed for thirty years to see him en- 
ter daily her apartments, has become used to his 
homeliness, and often in the kindness of her heart 
enters into conversation with him. His answers 
are always laconic, in a tone of perfect indiffer- 
18 


ence — at times brusque, even harsh — but they 
have a sensible and often a deep meaning. When 
the empress speaks with him, he does not cease 
his work for a moment, and when he has finished 
he does not remain a minute longer, but goes 
without asking if she desires to continue the con- 
versation. For thirty years he has had the same 
duties and has fulfilled them in the same manner. 
He has never been accused of a mistake — he has 
never been guilty of inquisitiveness or intrigue. 
Thus the empress has great and firm confidence 
in him. She is so convinced of his truth, disin- 
terestedness, and probity, that he has gained a 
sort of influence over her, and as she knows that 
he is to be won neither by gold, flattery, promises 
of position and rank, she constantly asks his 
opinion on matters of importance, and not seldom 
is biassed by its strong, sensible tone.” 

“ But if this man is so honest and disinterested, 
how are we to influence him ? ” 

“ We must seek to win his heart and his head. 
He must become interested in the fate of the un- 
fortunate prisoner — ^he must become anxious for 
his release. When we have done this much, we 
can question his self-interest and offer him gold.” 

“ Gold ? This w'onder of probity and truth is 
susceptible to bribes ? ” 

“ He never has, perhaps never may be. He 
himself has no desires, no necessities ; but he has 
one weakness — his daughter. She is a young and 
lovely girl, whom he, in his dark distrust of all at 
court in the form of men, has had educated in a 
convent far from Vienna. She is now living with 
some respectable family in Vienna, but she never 
visits him, never enters the castle to inquire for 
him for fear she should be seen by some of the 
court gentlemen. This girl has now formed an 
attachment to a young doctor. They would like 
to marry, but he has no practice, she no money. 
Her father has saved nothing, but spent ail hij 
wages on her education, and has no dowry for his 
daughter.” 

“ And he intends to plead with the empress for 
this dower ? ” 

“ If such a thought came to him he would put 
it away with contempt, for his only ambition con- 
sists in making no requests, receiving no gifts 
from the empress. Nor would he now act for 
this gold alone contrary to his idea of right, were 
his daughter to die of sorrow. As I said before, 
his heart and head must first be won, then only 
must we speak of reward.” 

“If this man has a heart, we cannot fail to win 
it when we tell him all that Trenck has suffered 
and still endures,” cried the princess. “ The ago- 
ny and despair that have been heaped upon the 


270 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Dead of one poor mortal will surely touch both 
head and heart. When we have succeeded, we 
will give his daughter a handsome dower. God 
has so willed it that I am right rich now, and can 
fulfil my promises. My pension as abbess and 
my salary as princess were both paid in yester- 
day. There is a little fortune in my desk, and I 
shall add more to it. Do you think four thousand 
louis d’or will be sufficient to win the Savoyard’s 
heart ? ” 

“ For any other it would be more than suffi- 
cient ; but to win this honest heart, your offer is 
not too great.” 

“ But is it enough ? ” 

“ It Is.” 

“ Now, all that we need is some sure, cunning 
messenger to send to him ; a man whose heart 
and head, soul and body are bound up in the cause 
he advocates. General, where shall we find such 
a man ? ” 

General Riedt laughed. “I thought your royal 
highness had already found him.” 

The princess looked at him in amazement. 

“Ah,” cried she, “the jeweller; the man who 
brought me the cup ; who referred me to you in 
BO wise and discreet a manner.” 

“ I think you desired him to .return early to- 
morrow morning? ” 

“ How do you know that ? Are you acquainted 
with him ? ” 

General Riedt bowed smilingly. “I ventured 
to send him to your royal highness.” 

“Ah! I now understand it all, and must ac- 
knowledge that the jeweller is as great a nego- 
tiator as you are a diplomatist. The cup I showed 
you, you sent to me ? 

“ I received it from the Governor of Magdeburg, 
the Landgrave of Hesse ; as I could do nothing 
with it, I ventured to send it to your royal high- 
ness.” 

“ And I thank you, general, for sending it in so 
discreet, so wise a manner. We may, perhaps, 
succeed in keeping all this secret from my bro- 
ther, so that he cannot act against us. Hasten 
away, general, and give the jeweller, or whatever 
else he may be, his instructions. Send him to 
me early in the morning for his reward.” * 


* The princess succeeded in winning the influence of 
the fireman. How he succeeded with the empress, can 
he seen in “Thi^bault’s Souvenirs de Vingt Ans,” vol. it. 


CHAPTER Nil. 

THE ROYAL HOUSE - SPY. 

The next morning, a carriage drew up before 
the garden of Sans-Souci, and a gentleman, in a 
glittering, embroidered court uniform, crept out 
slowly and with much difficulty. Coughing and 
murmuring peevish words to himself, he slipped 
into the allee leading to the terraces. His back 
was bent, and from under the three-cornered hat, 
ornamented with rich gold lace, came sparsely, 
here and there, a few silver hairs. Who could 
have recognized, in this doubled-up, decrepit form, 
now with tottering knees creeping up the terrace, 
the once gay, careless, unconcerned grand-master 
of ceremonies, Baron von Pollnitz ? Who could 

' , I 

have supposed that this old weather-beaten visage, ■ 
deformed with a thousand wrinkles, once belouge^j 
to the dashing cavalier ? And yet, it was even s(^ 
Pollnitz had grown old, and his back was bowed 
down under the yoke which the monster Time lays 
at last upon humanity ; but his spirit remained 
unchanged. He had preserved his vivacity, his^^ 
malice, his egotism. He had the same passion 
for gold — much gold ; not, however, to hoard, but 
to lavish. His life was ever divided between base 
covetousness and thoughtless prodigality. When 
he had revelled and gormandized through the first 
days of every month, he was forced, during the 
last weeks, to suffer privation and hunger, or to 
borrow from those who were good-natured and 
credulous enough to lend him. There was also 
one other source of revenue which the adroit 
courtier knew how to use to his advantage. He 
was a splendid ecarte player ; and, as it was his 
duty, as grand-master of ceremonies, to provide 
amusements for the court, to choose places and 
partners for the card-tables, he always arranged 
it so as to bring himself in contact with wealthy 
and eager card-players, from some of whom he 
could win, and from others borrow a few louis 
d’or. Beside this, since the return of the king, 
Pollnitz had voluntarily taken up his old trade of 
spy, and informed Frederick of all he saw and 
heard at court ; for this, from time to time, he 
demanded a small reward. 

“ Curious idea,” he said, as, puffing and blow- 
ing, he clambered up the terrace. “ Curious idea 
to live in this wearisome desert, when he has re- 
spectable and comfortable castles in the midst of 
the city, and on a level plain. One might truly 
think that the king, even in life, wishes to draw 
nearer to heaven, and withdraws from the children 
of man, to pray and prepare himself for paradise.” 

[ The baron laughed aloud ; it seemed to him « 


FREDERICK TEE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


271 


iroll idea to look at the king as a prayerful her- 
mit. This conception amused him, and gave him 
i strength to go onward more rapidly, and he soon 
reached the upper platform of the terrace, upon 
which the castle stood. Without difficulty, he 
advanced to the antechamber, but there stood 
Deesen, and forbade him entrance to the king. 

“ His majesty holds a cabinet council,” said he, 
“and it is expressly commanded to allow no one 
to enter.” 

“ Then I will force an entrance,” said Pollnitz, 
stepping boldly to the door. “ I must speak to 
his majesty ; I have something most important to 
communicate.” 

“ I think it cannot be more important than that 
which now occupies the king’s attention,” said 
the intrepid Deesen. “ I am commanded to al- 
low no one to enter ; I shall obey the order of 
the king.” 

“ I am resolved to enter,” said Pollnitz, in a 
loud voice ; but Deesen spread his broad figure 
threateningly before the door. An angry dispute 
arose, and Pollnitz made his screeching voice re- 
sound so powerfully, he might well hope the king 
would hear him, and in this he was not deceived ; 
the king heard and appeared at once upon the 
threshold. 

“ Pollnitz,” said he, “ you are and will always 
be an incorrigible fool ; you are crowing as loud 
as a Gallic cock, who is declaring war against my 
people. I have made peace with the Gauls, mark 
that, and do not dare again to crow so loud. 
What do you want ? Do your creditors wish to 
cast you in prison, or do you wish to inform me 
that you have become a Jew, and wish to accept 
some lucrative place as Rabbi ? ” 

“No, sire, I remain a reformed Christian, and 

■ my creditors will never take the trouble to arrest 
me ; they know that would avail nothing. I 
come on most grave and important matters of 
uusiness, and I pray your majesty to grant me a 
private audience,” 

Frederick looked sternly at him. “ Listen, 
Pollnitz, you are still a long-winded and doubt- 
ful companion, notwithstanding your seventy-six 
years. Deliberate a moment ; if that which you 
tell me is not important, and requiring speedy at- 
tention, I will punish you severely for having 
dared to interrupt me in ray cabinet council ; I 
will withhold your salary for the next month.” 

“ Your majesty, the business is weighty, and 
requires immediate attention; I stake my salary 
upon it.” 

“ Come, then, into my cabinet, but be brief,” 

■ said Frederick, stepping into the adjoining room. 
“Now speak,” said he, as he closed the door. 


Sire, first, I must ask your pardon for daring 
to allude to a subject which is so old that its teeth 
are shaky and its countenance wrinkled.” 

“You wish, then, to speak of yonrself?” said 
Frederick. 

“No, sire; I will speak of a subject which 
bloomed before the war, and since then has 
withered .and faded in a subterranean prison; but 
it now threatens to put forth new buds, to unfold 
new leaves, and I fear your majesty will find that 
undesirable.” 

“ Speak, then, clearly, and without circumlocu- 
tion. I am convinced it is only some gossiping 
or slander you wish to retail. You come as a 
salaried family spy who has snapped up some 
greasy morsels of scandal. Your eyes are glow- 
ing with malicious pleasure, as they always do 
when you are about to commit some base trick. 
Now, then, out with it! Of whom will you 
speak ? ” 

“ Of the Princess Amelia and Trenck,” whis- 
pered Pollnitz. 

The king gazed at him fiercely for a moment, 
then turned and walked silently backward and 
forward. 

“Well, what is your narrative,” said Frederick, 
at last, turning his back upon Pollnitz, and step- 
ping to the window as if to look out. 

“ Sire, if your majesty does not interfere, the 
Princess Amelia will send a negotiator to Vienna, 
who undertakes to induce the Empress Maria 
Theresa to apply to you for the release of Treuck. 
This negotiator is richly provided with gold and 
instructions; and the Austrian ambassador has 
pointed out to the princess a sure way to reach 
the ear of the empress, and to obtain an inter- 
cessor with her. She will appeal to the fireman 
of the empress, and this influential man will 
undertake to entreat Maria Theresa to ask foi 
Trenck’s release. This will take place imme- 
diately ; an hour since the messenger received his 
instructions from General Riedt, and a quarter of 
an hour since he received four thousand louis d’or 
from the princess to bribe the fireman. If the 
intrigue succeeds, the princess has promised him 
a thousand louis d’or for himself.” 

“Go on,” said the king, as Pollnitz ceased 
speaking. 

“ Go on I ” said Pblitniz, with a stupified air. 

“ I have nothing more to say ; it seems to me the 
history is sufficiently important.” 

“ And it seems to me a silly fairy tale,” said 
Frederick, turning angrily upon the grand-master 
“If you think to squeeze gold out of me by sucb 
ridiculous and senseless narratives, you are great 
ly mistaken. Not one farthing will I pay foi 


Z72 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


these lies. Do you think that Austria lies on the 
borders of Tartary ? There, a barber is minister ; 
and you, forsooth, will make a hreman the confi- 
dential friend of the empress ! Why, Schehere- 
zade would not have dared to relate such an 
absurd fairy tale to her sleepy sultan, as you, sir, 
now seek to impose upon me ! ” 

“ But, sire, it is no fairy tale,- but the unvar- 
nished truth. The page of the princess listened, 
and immediately repeated all that he heard to 
me.” 

“ Have you paid the page for this intelligence, 
which he asserts he overheard ? ” 

“No, sire.” 

“ Then go quickly to Berlin and reward him by 
two sound boxes on the ear, then go to bed and 
drink chamomile tea. It appears to me your head 
is weak.” 

“But, sire, I have told you nothing but the 
pure truth ; no matter how fabulous it may ap- 
pear.” 

Frederick gazed at him scornfully. “It is a 
silly tale,” he cried, in a loud commanding voice. 
“ Do not say another word, and do not dare to 
repeat to any one what you have now related. 
Go, I say ! and forget this nonsense.” 

Pollnitz crept sighing and with bowed head to 
the door, but, before he opened it, he turned once 
more to the king. 

“ Sire, this is the last day of the month, this 
wretched October has thirty-one days. Even if 
in your majesty’s wisdom you decide this story to 
be untrue, you should at least remember my 
zeal.” 

“ I should reward you for your zeal in doing 
evil ? ” said Frederick, shaking his head. “ But 
truly this is the way of the w'orld ; evil is re- 
warded and good actions trodden under foot. 
You are not worth a kick! Go and get your 
reward ; tell my servant to give you ten Fred- 
ericks d’or — but on one condition.” 

“What condition? ” said Pollnitz, joyfully. 

“ As soon as you arrive in Berlin, go to the 
castle, call the page of the princess, and box him 
soundly for his villany. Go ! ” 

The king stood sunk in deep thought in the 
window-niche, long after Pollnitz had left the 
room ; he appeared to forget that his ministers 
were waiting for him ; he thought of his sister 
Amelia’s long, sad life, of her constancy anc 
resignation, and a profound and painful pity fillec 
his heart. 

“ Surely I dare at length grant her the poor 
consolation of having brought about his release,” 
said he to himself. “She has been so long anc. 
BO terribly punished for this unhappy passion, 


that I will give her the consolation of plucking t 
few scentless blossoms from the grave of her 
heart. Let her turn to the fireman of thep 
empress, and may my pious aunt be warmed up 
by his representations and prayers ! I will not 
interfere; and if Maria Theresa intercedes for 
Trenck, I will not remember that he is a rebellious 
subject and a traitor, worthy of death. I will re- 
member that Amelia has suffered inexpressibly for 
his sake, that her life is lonely and desolate — a 
horrible night, in which one feeble ray of sunshine 
may surely be allowed to fall. Poor Amelia 1 
she loves him still ! ” 

As Frederick stepped from the window and 
passed into the other room, he murmured to him. 
self: 

“ There is something beautiful in a great, rich 
human heart. Better to die of grief and disap- 
pointment than to be made insensible by scorn , 
and disdain — to be turned to stone 1 ” 


CHAPTER Vlil. 

THE CLOUDS GATHER. 

While the king lived alone and quiet in Sans- 
Souci, and occupied himself with his studies and 
his government, the gayeties and festivities con- 
tinued uninterrupted in Rheinsberg. It seemed 
that Prince Henry had no other thought, no other 
desire than to prepare new pleasures, new amuse-^^ 
ments for his wife. His life had been given up'. 
for so many years to earnest cares, that he now 
sought to indemnify himself by an eager pursuit 
after pleasure. Fete succeeded fete^ and all of the 
most elegant and accomplished persons in Berlin, 
all those who had any claim to youth, beauty, and 
amiability, were invariably welcome at the palace 
of the prince. 

It was late in the autumn, and Prince Henry 
had determined to conclude the long succession 
of wood and garden parties by a singular and fan- 
tastic entertainment. Before they returned to 
the saloons, the winter-quarters of pleasure, they 
wished to bid farewell to Nature. The nymphs 
of the wood and the spring, the hamadryads of 
the forests, the fauns and satyrs should reign once 
more ii^the woods before they placed the sceptre 
in the hands of winter. The guests of Rheinsberg 
should once more enjoy the careless gayety of a 
happy day, before they returned to the winter 
saloons, on whose threshold Etiquette awaited 
them, with her forced smile, her robes of cere 
mony and her orders and titles. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


273 


The ladies and gentleman had been transformed, 


prince had selected an ideal and fanciful hunter’s 


therefore, into gods and goddesses, nymphs, and 
hamadryads, fauns, satyrs, and wood-spirits. 
The horn of Diana resounded once more in the 
wood, through which the enchanting huntress 
passed, accompanied by Endymion, who was pur- 
sued by Actaeon. There was Apollo and the charm- 
ing Daphne ; Echo and the vain Narcissus ; and, 
on the bank of the lake, which gleamed in the 
midst of the forest, the water-nymphs danced in a 
fairy-circle with the tritons. 

The prince had himself made all the arrange- 
ments for this fantastic fete ; he had selected the 
character, and appointed the place of every one, 
and, that nothing should fail, he had ordered all 
lo seek their pleasures and adventures as they 
would — only, w'hen the horn of the goddess Diana 
should sound, all must appear on the shore of the 
lake to partake of a most luxurious meal. The 
remainder of the day was to be given to the 
voluntary pleasures which each one would seek 
or make for himself, and in this the ladies and 
gentlemen show’ed themselves more ingenious 
than usual. In every direction goddesses were to 
be seen gliding through the bushes to escape 
the snares of some god, or seeking some agreeable 
rendezvous. At the edge of the lake lay charm- 
ing gondolas ready for those who wished to rest 
and refresh themselves by a sail upon the dancing 
waves. For the hunters and huntresses targets 
were placed upon the trees ; all kinds of fire-arms 
and cross-bows and arrows lay near them. Scat- 
tered throughout the forest, were a number of 
small huts, entirely covered with the bark of trees, 
and looking like a mass of fallen wood, but com- 
fortably and even elegantly arranged in the in- 
terior. Every one of these huts was numbered, 
and at the beginning of the fete every lady had 
drawn a number from an urn, which was to des- 
ignate the hut which belonged to her. Chance 
alone had decided, and each one had given her 
word not to betray the number of her cabin. 
From this arose a seeking and spying, a following 
and listening, which gave a peculiar charm to the 
fUe. Every nymph or goddess could find a refuge 
in her cabin ; having entered it, it was only neces- 
sary to display the ivy wreath, which she found 
within, to protect herself from any further pursuit, 

. for this wreath announced to all that the mistress 
of the hut had retired within and did not wish her 
solitude disturbed. That nothing might Inar the 
harmony of this fete^ the prince and his wife had 
placed themselves on an equal footing with their 
guests ; the princess had declined any conspicu- 
ous role^ and was to appear in the simple but 
j charming costume of a wood-nymph, while the 


costume. Even in the selection of huts the Prin- 
cess Wilhelmina had refused to make any choice, 
and had drawn her number as the others did, even 
refusing a glimpse of it to her husband. 

This day seemed given up to joy and pleasure. 
Every countenance was bright and smiling, and 
the wood resounded with merry laughter, with 
the tones of the hunter’s horn, the baying of the 
hounds, which were in Diana’s train, and the 
singing of sweet songs. And still on how many 
faces the smile was assumed, how many sighs 
arose, with how many cares and sorrows were 
many of these apparently happy creatures weighed 
down? Even the noble brow of the goddess 
Diana w^as not so unruffled as Homer describes it, 
her countenance expressed care and unrest, and in 
her great black eyes there glowed such fire as had 
never shone in the orbs of the coy goddess. 

See, there is the goddess Diana crossing the 
wood breathlessly, and hurriedly, looking anxious- 
ly around her, as if she feared the approach of 
some pursuers ; then seeing that no one is near, 
she hastens forward toward the hut, which stands 
amidst those bushes. The ivy wreath is hanging 
before this cabin, but Diana does not notice this, 
she knows what it means and, besides, no one has 
a right to enter this hut but herself, for it bears 
the number which she drew. 

As she entered, Endymion, the beautiful hunter, 
advanced to greet her. “ At length you have 
come, Camilla,” he whispered, gently ; ‘‘ at length 
you grant me the happiness of a private interview 
Oh, it is an eternity since I beheld you. You aix 
very cruel to me to refuse me all intercourse with 
you, and to leave me languishing in the distanct 
for one glance from you.” 

“ As if it depended on me to allow you to ap 
proach me. As if I was not guarded with argus 
eyes as a prisoner that is expected to break loose 
and vanish at any moment. How much trouble, 
how much cunning and deftness have I been com- 
pelled to exercise to come here now. It was a 
detestable idea of the princess to give me the roh 
of Diana, for I have behind me a band of spies, 
and I assure you that ray coy huntresses are so 
fearfully modest, that the sight of a man fills them 
with dread, and they flee before him into the 
wildest thicket of the woods.” 

“ Perhaps because they have a lover concealed 
in the thicket,” said Endymion. 

Camilla laughed aloud. “ Perhaps you are right. 
But when my huntresses fly, there still remains 
that horrible argus who guards me with his thou- 
sand eyes and never leaves my side. It was from 
pure malice that the prince gave that rdlc to nij 


274 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


detestable stepfather, and thus fastened him upon 
me.” 

“ How did you succeed in escaping the watch- 
fulness of your argus to come here ? ” 

“I escaped at the moment the princess was 
speaking to him, and my huntresses were pursu- 
ing Actason, which character the Baron von Kap- 
hengst was representing with much humor. I 
wanted to speak with you, for I have so much to 
relate to you. I must open to you my broken, 
my unhappy heart. You are my dear, faithful 
cousin Kindar, and I hope you will not leave your 
poor cousin, but give her counsel and assistance.” 

Baron von Kindar took Camilla’s offered band 
and pressed it to his lips. “ Count upon me as 
upon your faithful slave, who would gladly die for 
you, as he cannot live for your sake.” 

“ Listen then, beau cousin,'^ whispered Camilla, 
smiling. “ You know that my stern, upright hus- 
band has left Berlin in order to receive the post of 
an ambassador at Copenhagen. I would not accom- 
pany him because I was daily expecting the birth 
of my child, and the little creature was so sensi- 
ble as not to enter the world until after the de- 
parture of its honored father, who, before leaving, 
had delivered me a lecture on the subject of his 
fidelity and tenderness, and of my duties as a 
louely wife and young mother. I was compelled 
to swear to him among other things that I would 
not receive my beau cousin at my house.” 

“And you took that oath?” interrupted Kin- 
dar, reproachfully. 

“ I was forced to do so, or he would not have 
gone, or he would have taken me with him. Be- 
sides this, he left behind his old confidant the 
tutor, and told him that you should never be al- 
lowed to visit me. And to place the crown upon 
his jealousy, he betrayed the secret of his sus- 
picions to my stepfather, and demanded of him 
the friendly service of accompanying me to all 
fHes and balls, and to prevent you from approach- 
ing me.” 

“ Am I then so dangerous ? ” said Kindar, with 
a faint smile. 

“ These gentlemen at least appear to think so ; 
and if I did not care so much for you, I should 
really hate you, I have suffered so much on your 
account.” 

Baron von Kindar covered her hand with burn- 
ing kisses for an answer to this. 

“ Be reasonable, beau cousin^ and listen to me,” 
said Camilla, as she laughingly withdrew her hand. 
“ My husband has been, as I said, in Copenhagen 
for eight weeks, and has already entreated me to 
join him with the child, as 1 have entirely re- 
covered.” 


“ The barbarian ! ” murmured Kindar. 

“ I have declined up to this time under one pro 
text or another. But yesterday I received a let 
ter from my husband, in which he no longer en- 
treats me, but dares, as he himself expresses it, 
to command me to leave Berlin two days after the 
receipt of his letter.” 

“ But that is tyranny which passes all bounds,” 
cried Kindar. “Does this wise lord think that 
his wife must obey him as a slave ? Ah, Camil- 
la, you owe it to yourself to show him that you 
are a free-born woman, whom no one dare com- 
mand, not even a husband.” 

“How shall I show him that?” asked Camilla. 

“By remaining here,” whispered Kindar. “You 
dare not think of leaving Berlin, for you know 
that the hour of your departure would be the 
hour of my death. You know it, for you have 
long known that I love you entirely, and that you 
owe me some recompense for the cruel pain I suf- 
fered when you married another.” 

“ And in what shall this recompense consist ? ” 
asked Camilla with a coquettish smile. 

Baron von Kindar placing his arm around her, 
whispered : “ By remaining here, adored Camilla, 
for ray sake — in declaring to your hated husband 
that you will leave Berlin on no account — that 
your honor demands that you should prove to him 
in the face of his brutal commands, that these 
are no commands for you — and that you will fol- 
low' your own wiU and inclination. Therefore you 
will remain in Berlin.” 

“ Will you write this letter for me ? ” 

“ If I do so, will you consent to remain here, 1 
and to open your door to me in spite of the or- ■ 
ders of your husband, or the argus-eyes of your 
stepfather ? ” ; 

“ Write the letter, the rest will arrange itself,” j 
said Camilla. i 

“ I will write it to-night. May I bring it to you 
myself to-morrow morning ? ” 

“ If I say no, will you then be so kind as to 
give it to my maid ? ” 

1 

“ 1 swear by my honor that I will only give the j 
letter into your own hands.” 

“ Well, then, my tyrannical cousin, you force 
me to open my door to you in spite of my husband 
and my stepfather, and in the face of this Cerbe- 
rus of a tutor who guards my stronghold.” 

“ But what do I care for these open doors so 
long as your heart remains closed against me, Ca- 
milla ? Ah, you laugh — ^}’Ou mock at my suffer- ' 
ings. Have you no pity, no mercy ? You see 
w'hat I suffer, and you laugh.” 

“I laugh,” she whispered, “because you are so 
1 silly, beau cousin. But listen, there is the call of 


275 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Qiy huntresses— I must hasten to them, or they 
will surround this cabin and they might enter. 
Farewell. To-morrow I will expect you with the 
letter. Adieu.” Throwing him a kiss with the 
tips of her fingers, she hastily left the hut. 

Baron von Kindar looked after her with a sin- 
gular smile. “ She is mine,” he whispered. “We 
will Save a charming little romance, but it will 
terminate in a divorce, and not in a marriage. I 
have no idea of following up this divorce by a 
marriage. God protect me from being forced to 
marry this beautiful, frivolous, coquettish woman.” 

While this scene was taking place in one part 
of the forest, ih^fite continued gayly. They sang 
and laughed, and jested, and no one dreamed 
that dark sin was casting its cold shadow over 
this bright scene — that the cowardly crime of 
treachery had already poisoned the pure air of 
this forest. None suspected it less than Prince 
Henry himself. He was happy and content that 
this fite had succeeded so well — that this bright 
autumn day had come opportunely to his aid. The 
sun penetrated to his heart and made it warm and 
joyous. He bad just made a little tour through 
the forest with some of his cavaliers, and had re- 
turned to the tent on the bank of the lake, 
where he had last seen the princess amid a bevy 
of nymphs, but she was no longer there, and none 
of the ladies knew where she had gone. 

“ She has retired to her hut,” said the prince to 
himself, as he turned smilingly toward the thick 
woods. “ The only thing is to discover her hut ; 
without doubt she is there and expects me to seek 
her. Now, then, may fortune assist me to discov- 
er my beloved. I must find her if only to prove 
to her that my love can overcome all difficulties 
and penetrate every mystery. There are twenty- 
four huts — I know their situation. I will visit 
each, and it will be strange indeed if I cannot dis- 
cover my beautiful Wilhelmina.” 

He advanced with hasty steps in the direction 
of the huts. By a singular coincidence they were 
all vacant, the ivy wreath was displayed on none, 
and the prince could enter and convince himself 
that no one was within. He had visited twenty- 
three of the huts without finding the object of his 
search. “ I will go to the last one,” said the 
prince, gayly ; “ perhaps the gods have led me 
astray only that I might find happiness at the end 
of my path.” He saw the last hut in the dis- 
tance. It nestled in the midst of low bushes, 
looking quiet and undisturbed, and on the door 
hung the ivy wreath. The heart of the prince 
beat with joy, and he murmured, “ She is there — 

I have found her,” a, she hastened toward the hut. 
“No,” he said, “I dare not surprise her. I 


must consider the law sacred which I made. The 
ivy wreath is before the door — no one dare enter. 
But I will lie down before the door, and when she 
comes out she must cross my body or fall into my 
arms.” The prince approached the hut quietly, 
careful to avoid making any noise. When he had 
reached it, he sank slowly upon the grass, and 
turned his eyes upon the door, which concealed his 
beloved one from his view. 

Deep silence reigned. This was a charming 
spot, just suited for a tender rendezvous, and full 
of that sweet silence which speaks so eloquently 
to a loving heart. In the distance could be heard 
the sound of the hunter’s horn, whilst the great 
trees rustled their leaves as though they wished 
to mingle their notes in the universal anthem. 
The prince gave himself up for a long time to the 
sweet pleasures of this solitude, turning his smi- 
ling glance first to the heavens where a few white 
clouds were floating, and then again to earth, 
where some glittering insect attracted his gaze. 

But what was it which pierced through him 
with a deadly horror — which made him become 
so pale, and turn his flashing eyes with an inde- 
scribable expression of dread toward the hut ? 
Why did he partially arise from his reclining posi- 
tion as the hunter does, w’ho sees the prey ap- 
proach that he wishes to destroy ? What was it 
that made him press his lips so tightly, one against 
the other, as if he would repress a cry of agony, 
or an execration ? And why does he listen now 
with bated breath, his gaze fixed upon the hut, 
and both hands raised, as if to threaten an ap- 
proaching enemy ? Suddenly he sprang up, and 
rushed trembling to the door, and, while in the act 
of bursting it open, he fell back, pale as death, as 
if his foot had trodden upon a poisonous serpent. 
Thus retreating, with wildly staring eyes, with 
half-open lips, which seemed stiffened in the very 
act of uttering a shriek, he slowly left the hut, 
and then suddenly, as if he could no longer look 
at any thing so frightful, he turned and fled from 
the spot as if pursued by furies. Farther, always 
farther, until his strength and his breath were ex- 
hausted ; then he sank down. 

“ It was cowardly to fly,” he murmured ; “ but 
I felt that I should murder them, if they came out 
of the hut before my eyes. A voice within whis- 
pered, ‘ Fly, or you will be a murderer ! ’ I obeyed 
it almost against my wilL It was cowardly — an 
unpardonable error, but I will return to the hut.” 

He sprang forward like a tiger, ready to fall 
upon his prey. His hand involuntarily sough* 
his side for his sword. 

“Ah, I have no weapon,” he said, gnashing his 
teeth, “ I must murder them with my hands.” 


276 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


He advanced with uplifted head, defiant as a 
conqueror, or as one who has overcome death and 
has nothing to fear. The hut was again before 
him, but it no longer smiled at him ; it filled him 
with horror and fury. Now he has reached it, and 
with one blow he bursts open the door ; but it is 
empty. The prince had not remarked that the 
ivy-wreath was no longer displayed, and that the 
hut was therefore vacant. 

“ They are gone,” he murmured. “ This time 
they have escaped punishment, but it surely 
awaits them.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

A MONTH had passed since Amelia dispatched 
her emissary to the queen’s fireman, and she had 
as yet received no definite intelligence. General 
Riedt had called but once ; he told her he had 
succeeded m interesting the Savoyard in Trenek’s 
fate, and he had promised to remind the empress 
of the unfortunate prisoner. But a condition 
must be attached to this promise : no one must 
approach him again on this subject ; it must be 
kept an inviolable secret. Only when Trenck 
was free would the fireman receiv^e the other half 
of the stipulated sum ; if he failed in his attempt, 
he would return the money he now held. 

This was all that the princess had heard from 
Vienna ; her heart was sorrowful — almost hope- 
less. Trenck still sat in his wretched prison at 
Magdeburg, and she scarcely dared hope for his 
release. 

It was a dark, tempestuous November day. 
The princess stood at the window, gazing at the 
whirling snow-fiakes, and listening to the howling 
of the pitiless storm. They sounded to her like the 
raging shrieks of mocking, contending spirits, and 
filled her heart with malignant joy. 

“ Many ships will go down to destruction in the 
roaring sea; many men will lose all that they pos- 
sess,” she murmured, with a coarse laugh. “ God 
sends His favorite daughter, the bride of the winds ; 
she sings a derisive song to men ; she shows them 
how weak, how pitiful they are. She sweeps away 
their possessions — ^touches them on that point 
whei-e alone they are sensitive. I rejoice in the 
howling, whistling tempest ! This is the voice of 
the great world-spirit, dashing by in the thunder, 
and making the cowardly hearts of men tremble. 
They deserve this punishment ; they are utterly 
nnworthy and contemptible. I hate, I despise 
them all ! Only when I see them suffer can I be 


reconciled to them. Aha ! the storm has seized a 
beautifully-dressed lady. How it whirls and 
dashes her about ! Look how it lifts her robe, 
making rare sport of her deceitful, affected mod- 
esty. Miserable, variegated butterfly that you 
are, you think yourself a goddess of youth and 
beauty. This wild tempest teaches you that you 
are but a poor, pitiful insect, tossed about in the 
I world like any other creeping thing — a powerless 
atom. The storm first takes possession of your 
clothes, now of your costly hat. Wait, my lady, 
wait ! one day it will take your heart ; it will be 
crushed and broken to pieces — there will be none 
to pity. The world laughs and mocks at the 
wretched. Misfortune is the only disgrace which 
is never forgiven. You may be a thief, a mur- 
derer, and you will be pardoned if you are adroit 
enough to slip your head from the noose. Crimi- 
nals are pitied and pardoned, unfortunates never. 
Ah, this is a mad, gay world, and they are fools 
who take it earnestly ; who do not laugh — laugh 
even as I do.” 

The princess laughed aloud — ^if that could be 
called a laugh, from which she shuddered back 
herself in terror. 

“ It is bitter cold here,” she said, shuddering ; 
“I think I shall never be warm again. I am 
always freezing, and this miserable frost has 
turned my heart and soul to ice. I would like to 
know if they will thaw in the grave ? ” 

She stepped slowly from the window, and crept 
through the large, empty room to the chimney, 
where a large wood-fire was burning — now flicker- 
ing up in clear flames, now breaking into glowing 
coals. 

Amelia took the poker, and amused herself by 
dashing the coals apart, and watching the flash- 
ing, dancing flames. The fire seemed to embrace 
her whole figure, and threw a rosy shimmer over 
her wan and fallen cheeks. Slip gazed deep down 
into the glowing coals, and murmured broken, dis- 
connected words. From time to time a mocking 
smile trembled on her lips, then heavy sighs 
wrung her breast. Was she perhaps telling the 
fire of the flames which raged within her bosom ? 
Was she perhaps a magician, who understood the 
language of these mysterious tongues of flame, 
and answered their burning questions ? The 
hasty opening of the door aroused her from her 
dreams, and a page appeared and announced in a 
loud voice — “ His majesty the king ! ” 

Amelia bowed her head, and advanced slowly 
and with a stern countenance to meet the king, 
who now appeared at the threshold. 

“ May I enter, my sister, or do you command 
me to withdraw ? ” said Frederick, smiling. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“The king has no permission to ask,” said 
Amelia, earnestly ; “ he is everywhere lord and 
master. The doors of all other prisons open be- 
fore him, and so also do mine.” 

Frederick nodded to the page to leave the room 
and close the door, then advanced eagerly to 
meet his sister. Giving her his hand, he led her 
to the divan, and seated himself beside her. 

“You regard me then as a kind of jailer,” he 
said, in a gentle, loving voice. 

“Can a king be any thing but a jailer? ” she 
I said, roughly. “ Those who displease him, he ar- 
I rests and casts into prison, and not one of his 
subjects can be sure that he will not one day dis- 
please him.” 

“You, at least, my sister, have not this to fear, 
i and yet you have just called this your prison.” 

“ It is a prison, sire.” 

1^'^ “And am I, then, your jailer? ” 

^ P “No, sire, life is my jailer.” 

^ ^-“You are right, there, Amelia. Life is the 
j universal jailer, from whom death alone can release 
us. The wmrld is a great prison, and only fools 
I think themselves free. But we are involuntarily 
commencing an earnest, philosophical conversa- 
* tion. I come to you to rest, to refresh myself ; 
to converse harmlessly and cheerfully, as in our 
earlier and happier days. Tell me something^ 
dear sister, of your life, your occupations, and your 
friends ? ” 

“That is easily done, and requires but few 
words,” said Amelia, hoarsely. “ Of my life I 
have already told you all that can be said. Life 
is my jailer, and I look longingly to death, who 
alone can release me. As to my well-being, there 
is nothing to say ; all is evil, only evil continually. 
My occupations are monotonous, I am ever asleep. 
Night and day I sleep and dream ; and why should 
I awake ? I have nothing to hope, nothing to do. 
I am a superfluous piece of furniture in this cas- 
tle, and I know well you will all rejoice when I 
am placed in the vault. I am an old maid, or, if 
you prefer it, I am a wall-frog, who has notliing 
to do but creep into my hole, and, when I have vi- 
tality enough, to spit my venom upon the passers- 
! by. As to my friends, I have nothing to relate; 

1 I have no friends ! I hate all mankind, and I am 
; hated by all. I am especially on my guard with 
' those who pretend to love me ; I know that they 
are deceitful and traitorous, that they are only 
actuated by selfish motives.” 

“ Poor sister,” said the king, sadly ; “ how un- 
happy must you be to speak thus ! Can I do 
nothing to alleviate your misfortune ? ” 

Amelia laughed loudly and scornfully. “ For- 
give me, your majesty, but your question reminds 


211 

me of a merry fairy tale I have just read of a can 
nibal who is in the act of devouring a young girl. 
The poor child pleaded piteously for her life, nat- 
urally in vain. ‘ I cannot, of course, give you your 
life,’ said the cannibal, ‘ but I will gladly grant 
you any other wish of your heart. Think, then, 
quickly, of what you most desire, and be assured 
I will fulfil your request.’ The pretty maiden, 
trembling with horror and despair, could not col- 
lect her thoughts. Then, after a short pause, the 
cannibal said, ‘ I cannot wait ; I am hungry ! but 
in order to grant you a little longer time to de- 
termine upon the favor you will ask, I will not, as 
I am accustomed to do, devour the head first, I 
w'ill commence with the feet.’ So saying, he cut 
off the legs and ate them, and on cutting off 
each limb he graciously asked the poor shudder- 
ing, whimpering being, ‘ Well, why do you not 
think ? Is there, then, no favor I can show you ? ’ 
Confess now, sire, that this w'as a most magnani- 
mous cannibal.” 

Frederick laughed heartily, and appeared not to 
understand his sister’s double meaning. 

“ You are right,” said he ; “ that is a merry 
fairy tale, and brings the tears to my eyes — I 
scarcely know whether from laughter or w'eeping. 
Where did you read it, my sister ? ” 

“ The fire-spirits w'ho spring up and down in 
the chimney so lustily, related it to me. Oh, sire, 
these are merry sprites ; and often in my solitude, 
when I am sitting in my arm-chair in the chim- 
ney-corner, they nod to me, and chat freely of 
by-gone times, and the days w'hich are to come.” 

“ I fear they have not much that is cheerful or 
encouraging, certainly not much that is interest- 
ing to tell you,” said Frederick. 

“ To those who, like us, have passed the merid- 
ian of life, and are going rapidly down-hill, the 
surroundings become ever duller and more drear ; 
for us there are no more great and agreeable sur- 
prises ; the farther they advance, the more lonely 
and desolate it appears ; life has no more to 
offer, and they are glad at last to reach the valley 
and lie down in quiet graves. But while we live 
and are still wanderers, Amelia, w'e must not fold 
our hands in idleness ; we must work and achieve. 
You also, my sister, must be active and energetic; 
an unusual opportunity is now offered you. The 
Abbess of Quedlinberg is dead, and you can now 
enter upon her duties.” 

“ And your majesty thinks it is really a worthy 
vocation for me to go to Quedlinberg and become 
the shepherdess of that fearful flock of old maids 
who took refuge in a nunnery because no man 
desired them ? No, your majesty, do not send me 
to Quedlinberg ; it is not my calling to build up 


278 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILF. 


the worthy nuns into saints of the Most High. I 
am too unsanctified myself to be an example to 
them, and, in fact, I feel no inclination to purify 
them from their sins.” 

“Well, that might be found a difficult task,” 
said the king, laughing, “ and it would not make 
you beloved. Men love nothing so much as their 
vices, and they hate those who would free them 
from their cherished yoke. You can, however, 
remain in Berlin and still accept this office, once 
so worthily filled by the lovely Aurora of Konigs- 
mark. King Augustus gave her, at least, with 
this refuge, provided by his love, a rich widow’s 
income ; and you can now, Amelia, enjoy the 
fruit of that love which at one time filled all 
Europe with admiration. The salary of the ab- 
bess amounts to seventeen thousand thalers, and 
I think this addition to your fortune will be 
welcome. Your income will now be forty thou- 
sand thalers.” 

“ Lodging and fuel included,” said Amelia, with 
a sarcastic laugh. “ Look you, sire, I see that I 
have nothing to complain of. My hospital is 
splendidly endowed, and if I should ever become 
miserly, I may be able to lay aside a few thalers 
yearly.” 

“ I will gladly put it in your power to lay 
aside a larger sum, if you become covetous,” 
said the king ; “ and I beg you, therefore, to allow 
me the pleasure of raising your salary as princess, 
six thousand thalers.” * 

AmelLa looked at him distrustfully. “You are 
very gracious to me to-day, my brother. You 
grant favors before I ask them. I confess to 
you this alarms and agitates me. You have per- 
haps some bad news to disclose, and fearing I 
will be crushed by it, you desire, beforehand, to 
apply a balsam.” 

The king’s glance was tender and sympathetic. 

Poor Amelia ! you will, then, never believe in 
my affection,” said he, mildly. “You distrust 
even your brother ! Oh, Amelia I life has hard- 
ened us both. We entered upon the stage of 
life with great but fleeting illusions. How glori- 
ously grand and beautiful did the world appear to 
us ; now we look around us soberly, almost hope- 
lessly 1 What remains of our ideals ? What has 
become of the dreams of our youth ? ” 

“ The storm-winds have shattered and scattered 
them,” cried Amelia, laughing. “ The evil fiend 
has ploughed over the fair soil of your youth and 
turned it to stone and ashes. I am content that this 
is so. I would rather wander amongst ruins and 
dust and ashes than to walk gayly over a smooth 


* History of Berlin ana Court. 


surface with whose dark caves and pitfalls 1 ;?as 
unacquainted, and which might any day ingulf 
me. When both foundation and superstructure 
lie in ruins at your feet, you have nothing more ^ 
to fear. But I say this for myself, sire, not for 
you, the fame-crowned king, who has astonislied * 
the world by his victories, and now fills it with 
admiration by the wisdom with which he governs 
his subjects and advances the glory of his king- 
dom ! ” 

“ My child,” said the king, mildly, “ fame has 
no longer any attraction for me. Nero was also 
renowned ; he burned cities and temples, and , 
tortured Seneca to death. Erostratus succeeded 
in making his name imperishable. I am utterly 
indifferent as to the world’s admiration of my wis- 
dom and power to govern. I try to do ray duty 
as a king. But I tell you, child, in one little 
corner of the king’s heart there remains ever 
something human ; and the poor creature man 
sometimes cries out for a little personal comfort 
and happiness. One may be very rich as a king, 
but poor — oh, how poor — as a man ! Let us, n 
however, dismiss these sad thoughts. I was 
speaking to you of money, Amelia. We will re- 
turn to this theme. I cannot prevent your heart 
from suffering, but I can secure to you every out- 
ward good. Your income, until now, has been 
small ; tell me what debts you have contracted, 
and I will pay them ! ” 

“ Your majesty falls into my room like a shower 
of gold,” cried Amelia ; “ you will find no Dan® 
here, only an ugly old maid, who is, however, 
ready to receive the glittering treasure ; but you 
give me credit for too good a memory when you 
think I know the amount of my debts. I only 
know the sum now in my casket.” 

“ And what is the amount, Amelia ? ” 

“ A cipher, sire ; your majesty knows this is the 
end of the month.” 

“ I know it, my sister ; and I therefore beg you 
to accept from me to-day a small sum in advance. 

I dreamt last night that you had recently been 
called upon to pay out four thousand louis d’or. 
This dream was significant ; it seemed to me a 
suggestion to give you this sum. I therefore 
sent, in your name, an order on my treasurer for 
four thousand louis d’or.” 

Amelia looked at him and trembled with terror. 

“ Do you know the use to which I have applied 
this sum ? ” said she, breathlessly. 

“My dream was silent on this point,” said 
Frederick, rising ; “ it only told me that you 
needed this amount, nothing more. If I had been 
curious, I might have asked your page, who has an 
acute ear, and for whom no key-hole is too small.” 


27S 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY 


Ah, he has betrayed me, then,” murmured 
Amelia. 

Frederick did not appear to hear her ; he took 
his hat, and offered his sister his hand. Amelia 
did not see it ; she stood as if turned to stone in 
the middle of the room, and as the king advanced 
toward the door, she stepped slowly and mechan- 
ically after him. 

Suddenly the king turned and looked at his 
sister. 

“ I had almost forgotten to tell you a piece of 
news,” said he, carelessly ; “ something which will 
perhaps interest you, Amelia. Even at this moment 
a prisoner is being released from his cell and re- 
stored to life and liberty. The Empress Maria 
Theresa, influenced by ner fireman, it is said, has 
appealed to me — ” 

Princess Amelia uttered a heart-rending shriek, 
and rushing forward she seized the arm of the 
king with both her trembling hands. 

“ Brother ! oh, brother, be merciful ! do not 
make cruel sport of me. I acknowdedge I ap- 
pealed to the fireman of the empress. I offered 
him four thousand louis d’or if he would intercede 
for Trenck. I see that you know all ; I deny 
nothing. If I have committed a crime worthy of 
death, condemn me ; but do not inflict such fear- 
ful tortures before my execution. Do not mock 
at my great grief, but be pitiful. Look upon me, 
brother ; look at my withered limbs, my deformed 
visage ; is not my punishment sufficient ? torture 
me no longer. You return me the sum of money 
I sent to Vienna : does that mean that you have 
discovered and destroyed my plot ? Is this so, 
brother ? Have you the heart to play this cruel 
jest with me ? Having thus made my last attempt 
fruitless, do you tell me in mockery that Trenck 
is free ? ” She held the arm of the king firmly, 
and half sinking -to her knees, she looked up at 
him breathlessly. 

. “No, Amelia,” said Frederick, and his voice 
trembled with emotion. “ No, I have not that 
cruel courage. The hand of your clock points 
now to twelve ; at this moment Trenck leaves 
Magdeburg in a closed carriage, accompanied by 
two soldiers. To-morrow he will reach Prague, 
and then he is free to go where he will, only not 
in Prussia. Trenck is free.” 

“ Trenck is free ! ” repeated Amelia, with a shout 
of joj ; she sprang from her knees, clasped the 
king in a close embrace, and wept upon his bosom 
such tears as she had not shed for many long 
years — tears of holy happiness, of rapture inex- 
pressible ; then suddenly releasing him, she ran 
rapidly about the room, in the midst of bitter 
weeping breaking out into loud ringing laughter, 


a laugh which rung so fresh, so joyous, it seemed 
an echo from her far-off happy childhood. “ Trenck 
is free ! free ! ” repeated she again ; “ and, oh, un- 
speakable happiness ! I obtained him his liberty ! 
ah, no, not I, but a poor Savoyard who wished a 
dower for his daughter. Oh, ye great ones of the 
earth, speak no more of your glory and power, a 
poor Savoyard was mightier than you all ! But 
no, no ; what have I said ? you, my brother, you 
have released him. To you Trenck owes his life 
and liberty. I thank you that these fearful chains, 
which held my soul in bondage, have fallen apart. 
Once more I breathe freely, without the appalling 
consciousness that every breath I draw finds this 
echo in a cavern of the earth. You have released 
me from bondage, oh, my brother, and henceforth 
I will love you with all the strength of my being. 
Yes, I will love you,” cried she, eagerly ; “ I will 
cling to you with unchanging constancy ; you will 
ever find in me a faithful ally. I can be useful. 
I cannot act, but I can listen and watch. I will 
be your spy. I will tell you all I see. I will read 
all hearts and make known to you their thoughts. 
Even now I have something to disclose ; do not 
trust your brothers. Above all others put no 
faith in Prince Henry ; he hates you with a per- 
fect hatred for the sake of Augustus William, who, 
he says, died of your contempt and cruelty. Trust 
him in nothing ; he is ambitious, he envies you 
your throne ; he hates me also, and calls me al- 
ways ‘ Za fee malfaisanV He shall be justified 
in this ! I will be for him La fU malfaisani. I 
will revenge myself for this hatred. Without my 
help, however, he will soon be sufficiently pun- 
ished. His beautiful Wilhelmina will revenge 
me.” 

She broke out in wild and convulsive laughter, 
and repeated again and again in joyous tones, 
“ Yes, yes, his beautiful Wilhelmina will punish 
him for calling me an old witch.” 

The king shuddered at her mad laughter, and 
was oppressed by her presence ; her mirth was 
sadder than her tears. He bade her a silent adieu, 
and hastened away as if flying from a pestilence. 
The princess did not detain him ; she had fallen 
upon a chair, and staring immovably before her, 
she cried out : “ Trenck is free ! Trenck is free ! 
Life is his once more ! I must, I will live till I 
have seen him once more. Then, when my poor 
eyes have looked upon him yet once again, then I 
will die — die ! ” * 


* This wish of the princess Avas fulfilled after the death 
of Frederick the Great. Trenck received permission from 
his successor, Frederick William II., to return to Berlin, 
lie was graciously received at court ; his first visit, even 
before he Avas announced to the king, was paid to the 


280 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Suddenly she sprang from her seat. “ I must 
know Trench’s future ; I must draw his horoscope. 
I must question the cards as to his destiny, and 
know whether happiness or misery lies before 
him. Yes, I will summon my fortune-teller. 
There is a destiny which shapes our ends.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE STOLEN CHILD. 

It was a dark, stormy December night. The 
long-deserted streets of Berlin were covered with 
deep snow. . By the glare of a small oil-lamp af- 
fixed to a post, the tall form of a man, wrapped 
in a large travelling-cloak, could be seen lean- 
ing against a wall ; he was gazing fixedly at the 
houses opposite him. The snow beat upon his 
face, his limbs were stiff from the cold winter wind, 
his teeth chattered, but he did not seem to feel it. 
His whole soul, his whole being was filled with 
one thought, one desire. What mattered it to him 
if he suffered, if he died. As a dark shadow ap- 
peared at the opposite door, life and energy once 
more came back to the stoic. He crossed the 
street hastily. 

“ Well, doctor,” said he, eagerly, “ what have 
you discovered?” 

“ It is as your servant informed you, my lord. 
Your wife. Lady Elliot, is not at home. She is at 
a ball at Count Verther’s, and will not return till 
after midnight.” 

“ But my child ? my daughter ? ” said Lord El- 
liot, in a trembling voice. 

Princess Amelia. She received him in the. same room 
in which, forty-seven years before, they had passed so 
many happy hours. Upon the same spot where, beautiful 
in youth and grace, they had once sworn eternal love and 
faith, they now looked upon each other and sought in vain, 
in these fallen and withered features, for any trace of those 
charms, which had once enraptured them. Trenck re- 
mained many hours with her ; they had much to relate, 
lie confessed freely all the events of his fantastic and ad- 
venturous life. She listened with a gentle smile, and for- 
gave him for all his wanderings and all his sins. On 
taking leave, he promised the princess to bring his oldest 
daughter and present her, and Amelia promised to be a 
mother to her. Death, however, prevented the fulfil- 
ment of these promises. It appeared as if this interview 
had exhausted her remaining strength. In 1786, a few 
days after her meeting with Trenck, Amelia died. Trenck 
lived but a few years; he went to France, and died under 
the guillotine in 1793. As he sat with his companions 
upon the car on their way to execution, he said to the 
gaping crowd : ‘‘ JS'A Men, eh Men, de quoi nous ^mer- 
veiUez-^om t Ceci n'est q'lCune comedie d la Robes- 
fpierre." These were Trenck’s last words ; a few mo- 
ments afterward his head fell under the guillotine. 


“ She, of course, is at home, my lord. She ifi .a 
the chamber adjoining your former sleeping apa^ 
ment. No one but the nurse is with her.” |H 
It is well — I thank you, doctor. All I now 
require of you is to send my valet, whom I sent 
to your house after me, with my baggage. Fare 
well ! ” 

He was rushing away, but the doctor detained 
him. 

“My lord,” said he, in a low and imploring 
voice, “ consider the matter once more before you 
act. Remember that you will thus inform all Ber- 
lin of your unfortunate wedded life, and become 
subject to the jeers and laughter of the so-called 
nobility ; lowering the tragedy of your house to a 
proverb.” 

“ Be it so,” said Lord Elliot, proudly, “ I have 
nothing to fear. The whole world knows that my 
honor is stained ; before the whole world will I 
cleanse it.” 

“ But in doing so, my lord, you disgrace your 
wife.” 

“ Do you not think she justly deserves it ? ” 
said Lord Elliot, harshly. 

“ But you should have pity on her youth.” 

“Doctor, when one has suffered as I have, 
every feeling is extinguished from the heart but 
hatred. As I have not died of grief, I shall live to 
revenge my sufferings. My determination is unal- 
terable. I must and will tear my child from the 
bad influence of her mother, then I will punish the 
guilty.” 

“ Consider once more, my lord — wait this one 
night. You haye just arrived from a hasty, dis- 
agreeable journey ; you are excited, your blood is 
in a fever heat, and now, without allowing your- 
self a moment’s rest, you wish to commence your 
sad work.” 

“ I must have my child. You know that as it 
is a girl the mother can dispute this right with me, 
for by the laws of this land in case of divorce, the 
daughters are left to their mother.” 

“ You should endeavor to obtain her by kind- 
ness.” 

“ And suppose that Camilla, not out of love to 
the child, but to wound and torture me, should re- 
fuse me my daughter, what then ? Ah ! you are 
silent, doctor ; you see I cannot act otherwise.” 

“ I fear, my lord, you will have some trouble 
in getting the child. Lady Elliot has lately 
changed all the servants engaged by you, not one 
of them was allowed to remain. It is most likely 
that none of the present servants know you, and 
therefore you will not be obeyed.” 

“ My plans are all arranged, they shall not pro- 
vent me from fulfilling them.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


281 


“ But if they refuse to let you enter ? ” 

“ Ah, but I shall not ask them, for I have the 
keys necessary to enter my own house. When I 
left home, Camilla threw them laughing and jest- 
ing into my trunk — I now have them with me. 
All your objections are confuted. Again, fare- 
well. If you wish to give me anothei token of 
your friendship, meet me at the depot in an hour. 
I will be there with my child.” 

He pressed the doctor’s hand tightly, and then 
hurried into the house. Noiselessly he mounted the 
steps. He now stood in front of the large glass 
door leading to his dwelling ; he leaned for a mo- 
ment against the door gasping for breath — for a 
moment a shuddering doubt overcame him ; he 
seemed to see the lovely countenance of Camilla, 
bedewed with tears, imploring his mercy, his pity. 

“ No, no ! no pity, no mercy,” he murmured ; 
“ onward, onward ! ” 

He drew forth a key, opened the door and closed 
it noiselessly behind him. A bright lamp burned 
in the hall ; sounds of laughing and merry-making 
could be heard from the servants’ hall ; the cries 
of a child, and the soft lullaby of a nurse from 
above. No one saw or heard the dark form of 
their returned master pass slowly through the 
hall. No one saw him enter his former sleeping 
apartments. He was so conversant with the room 
that he found his way in the dark without diffi- 
culty to his secretary. Taking from it a candle 
and some matches, he soon had a bright light. 
He then glanced sternly around the room. All 
was as usual, not a chair had been moved since he 
left. Beneath the secretary were the scraps of 
letters and papers he had torn up the day of his 
journey. Even the book he had been reading that 
morning lay upon the table in frcnt of the sofa ; 
beside it stood the same silver candlesticks, with 
the same half-burnt candles. It had all been un- 
touched ; only he, the master of the apartment, 
had been touched by the burning hand of misfor- 
tune — ^he alone was changed, transformed. He 
smiled bitterly as his eye glanced at every object 
that formerly contributed to his happiness. Then 
taking up the light, he approached the table upon 
which stood the two silver candlesticks ; lighting 
one after the other, the large, deserted-looking 
chamber became illuminated, bringing the pictures 
on the walls, the heavy satin curtains, the hand- 
some furniture, the tables covered wdth costly 
knick-knacks, the large Japan vases, and a huge 
clock upon the mantel-piece, into view. All bore 
a gay and festive appearance, much at variance 
with the unfortunate man’s feelings. 

His glance had wandered everywhere. Not 
once, however, had his eye strayed to two large 


pictures hanging on the left side of the room 
The one was of himself— gay, smiling features, a 
bright glance such as was never now seen upon 
his countenance. The other was Camilla — Ca- 
milla in her bridal robes, as beautiful and lovely 
as a dream, with her glorious, child-like smile in 
which he had so long believed — for which, seeing 
in A the reflection of her pure, innocent soul, she 
was so unspeakably dear to him. To these two 
pictures he had completely turned his back, and 
was walking sadly up and down the room. He 
now raised his head proudly, and his countenance, 
which but a moment before had been sad and de- 
jected, was now daring and energetic. 

“ It is time,” murmured he. 

With a firm hand he grasped a bell lying 
upon the table. Its loud, resounding ring dis- 
turbed the deep stillness that reigned throughout the 
apartments, causing Lord Elliot’s heart to tremble 
with woe. But there was no noise — all remained 
quiet. Lord Elliot waited awhile, then opening 
the door passed into the hall. Returning, he 
again rang the bell long and loudly. “ They can- 
not fail to hear me now,” said he. 

Several doors were now opened by some of the 
servants, but their terror was such that they re- 
treated in haste, slamming the doors behind them. 

Lord Elliot rang again. A servant now hast- 
ened forward ; another soon followed ; a third 
door was opened from which sprang a lively, trim- 
looking lady’s maid. She was followed by the 
house-girl. Even the cook rushed up the steps. 
All hurried forward to a room which was gener- 
ally kept locked, but which now stood wide open. 
All gazed at the man standing there scanning 
them with an earnest, commanding glance. They 
stood thus lost in wonder for a moment, then Lord 
Elliot approached the door. 

“ Do you know me — you, there ? ” said he. 

“No, we do not know you,” said the waiter, 
with some hesitation. “We do not know you, 
and would like to know by what right — ” 

“ There is no question here of your likes or dis- 
likes, but of the orders you will receive from me. 
Do you know the picture next to the one of you’' 
mistress ? ” 

“ We have been told that it is our master. Lord 
'Elliot.” 

Lord Elliot advanced nearer the picture, and 
stood beneath it. “ Do you know me now ? ” said 
he. 

The servants examined him critically for a time, 
then whispered and consulted together. 

“ Now do you know me ? ” repeated Lord Elliot. 

“ We think we have the honor of seeing his ex- 
cellency, Lord Elliot,” said the waiter 


282 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“Tes, Lord Elliot,” repeated the lady’s-maid, 
the house-girl, and the cook, bowing respectfully. 

He ordered them to enter the room. Trem- 
blingly they obeyed him. 

“ Are these all the servants, or are there any 
more of you ? ” said he. 

“No one but the nurse, who is with the little 
lady, and the coachman who is in the stable.” 

“ That is right. Come nearer, all of you.” 

As they obeyed, he closed and locked the door, 
dropping the key in his pocket. The servants 
looked at him in wonder and terror, hardly daring 
to breathe. Though they had never seen their 
master, they knew by his stern, expressive coun- 
tenance that something remarkable was about to 
transpire. Like all other servants, they were well 
acquainted with the secrets, the behavior of their 
employer. They were, therefore, convinced that 
their mistress was the cause of their master’s 
strange conduct. 

“ Do not dare to move from this spot — do not 
make a sound,” said Lord Elliot, taking a light 
and advancing to a second door. “ Remain here. 
If I need you I will call.” Thro wing a last look 
at the servants. Lord Elliot entered the adjoining 
room, drawing the bolt quickly behind him. 

“All is right now,” said he, softly. “ None of 
them can fly to warn Camilla to return.” Candle 
in hand, he passed through the chamber, looking 
neither to right nor left. He wished to ignore 
that he was now in Camilla’s room, which was as- 
sociated with so many painfully sweet remembran- 
ces to him. He entered another room — he hur- 
ried through it. As he passed by the large bed- 
stead surrounded by heavy silk curtains, the can- 
dle in his hand shook, and a deep groan escaped 
his breast. He now stood at the door of the next 
chamber. He stopped for a moment to gain breath 
and courage. With a hasty movement he threw 
open the door and entered. His heart failed him 
when he beheld the peaceful scene before him. A 
dark shady carpet covered the floor, simple green 
blinds hung at the windows. There were no hand- 
some paintL/igs on the wall, no glittering chande- 
lier, no bright furniture, and still the apartment 
contained a wondrous tenement, a great treasure. 
For in the middle of the room stood a cradle, in 
the cradle lay his child, his flrst-born — ^the child of 
his love, of his lost happiness. He knew by the 
great joy that overcame him, by the loud beating 
of his heart, by the tears that welled to his eyes, 
that this was his child. He prayed God to bless 
it— he swore to love it faithfully to all eternity. 
He at last found the strength to approach the lit- 
tle sleeping being whose presence filled him with 
ouch wild joy. 


The nurse sat by the cradle fast a^sleep. She 
did not see Lord Elliot kneel beside the cradle and 
look tenderly at the sleeping face of her nursling 
— ^she did not see him kiss the child, then lay its I 
little hands upon his own bowed head as if he 
needed his little daughter’s blessing to strengthen 
him. But all at once she was shaken by a strong 
hand, and a loud, commanding voice ordered her 
to wake up, to open her eyes. She sprang from 
her chair in terror — she had had a bad dream. 
But there still stood the strange man, saying in a 
stem voice, “ Get up and prepare to leave here at 
once with me.” 

She wished to cry for help, but as she opened 
her mouth, he threw his strong arm around her. 

“ If you make a sound, I take the child and leave 
you here alone. I have the right to command 
here — I am the father of this child.” 

“ Lord Elliot ! ” cried the nurse, in amazement. 

Lord Elliot smiled. This involuntary recogni- 
tion of his right did him good and softened him. | 

“Fear nothing,” said he, kindly, “no harm 
shall happen to you. I take you and the child. 

If you love and are kind to it, you shall receive * 
from me a pension for life ; from to-day your 
wages are doubled. For this I demand nothing, 
but that you should collect at once the necessary 
articles of clothing of this child, and put them to- 
gether. If you are ready in fifteen minutes, I will 
give you this gold piece.” 

He looked at his watch, and took from his 
purse a gold piece, which lent wings to the stout 
feet of the nurse. 

“ Is all you need in here ? ” said he. 

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he took 
his light and left Ine chamber. Before leaving, 
however, he locked another door leading into the 
hall, so as to prevent the possible escape of the 
nurse. 

As he entered Camilla’s boudoir his countenance 
became dark and stern ; every gentle and tender 
feeling that his child had aroused now fled from 
his heart. He was now the insulted husband, the 
man whose honor was wounded in its most sensi- 
tive point — who came to punish, to revenge, to 
seek the proofs of the guilt he suspected. He 
placed the light upon the table, and opened his 
wife’s portfolio to seek for the key of her drawer, 
which was generally kept there. It was in its 
usual place. Lord Elliot shuddered as he touched 
it ; it felt like burning fire in his hand. 

“ It is the key to my grave,” murmured he. 

With a firm hand he put the key in the lock, 
opened the drawer, and drew out the letters and 
papers it contained. There were his own letters, 
the letters of love and tenderness ho had sent her 


283 


FREDERICK THE GREA.T 

from Copenhagen ; among them he found others 
full of passionate proofs of the criminal and un- 
holy love he had come to punish. Camilla had 
not had the delicacy to separate her husband’s 
from her lover’s letters ; she had carelessly thrown 
them in the same drawer. As Lord Elliot saw this 
he laughed aloud, a feeling of inexpressible con- 
tempt overpowered his soul and deadened his pain. 

He could not continue to love one who had not 
only been faithless to him, but wanting in delicacy 
to the partner of her sin. 

Lord Elliot read but one of the heau coudrCz 
letters, then threw it carelessly aside. He did 
not care to read more of the silly speeches, the 
guilty protestations of constancy of her insipid 
lover. He searched but for one letter ; he wished to 
find the original of the last one Camilla had writ- 
ten to him, for he knew her too well to give her 
credit for the composition of that cold, sneering, 
determined letter. He wished, therefore, to find 
the author, whose every word had pierced his soul 
like a dagger, driving him at first almost to mad- 
ness. 

A wild, triumphant cry now escaped from him, 
resounding fearfully in the solitary chambers. He 
had found it ! The letter was clutched tightly in 
his trembling hands as he read the first lines. It 
was in the same hand as the others, it was the 
writing of his rival. Von Kindar, her hemi cousin. 

Lord Elliot folded the paper carefully and hid 
it in his bosom ; then throwing the others into the 
drawer, he locked it, placing the key in the port- 
folio. 

“ It is well,” said he, “ I have now all I need. 

This letter is his death-warrant.” 

He took the light and left the room. Fifteen 
minutes had just elapsed when he entered his 
daughter’s chamber. The nurse advanced to meet 
him, the child and a bundle of clothes in her 
arms, and received the promised gold piece. 

“ Now, we must hasten,” said he, stepping into 
the hall. 

They passed silently through the house, down 
the steps, and into the court-yard. Lord Elliot 
walked hastily on, followed by the wondering 
nurse. He stopped at the stable door, calling 
loudly upon the coachman to get up and prepare 
the horses. At twelve o’clock the coachman was 
to go for his mistress ; he was therefore dressed, 
and had only laid down for a short nap. 

“ Put the horses to the carriage,” repeated Lord 
Elliot. 

The coachman, raising his lamp, threw a full 
glare of light upon the stranger. 

“I do not know you,” said he, roughly ; “I re- 
ceive orders from no one but my mistress.” 


AND HIS FAMILY. 

For answer, Lord Elliot drew from h.s breast a 
pocket pistol. 

“If you are not ready in five minutes, I will 
shoot you through the head,” said Lord Elliot, 
quietly, tapping the trigger. 

“ For God’s sake, obey him, John,” cried the 
nurse ; “ it is his excellency Lord Elliot ! ” 

In five minutes the carriage was ready, owing 
much more to the loaded pistol still in Lord El- 
liot’s hand than to the conviction that this strange, 
angry-looking man was his master. 

“ To the depot ! ” cried Lord Elliot, placing the 
child and nurse in the carriage, then jumping in 
after them — “ to the depot in all haste ! ” 

They reached the building in a few minutes. 
There stood the horses in readiness, and beside 
them Lord Elliot’s servant, with his baggage. He 
sprang from the carriage, and, giving the coach- 
man a douceur.^ ordered him to loosen the horses 
and return home with them. 

“But, your honor,” stammered the mystified 
coachman, “ how am I to call for my lady if you 
take the carriage ? ” 

“ My lady can wait,” said Lord Elliot, jeeringly. 
“ If she reproaches you, tell her that Lord Elliot 
wishes to be remembered to her ; that he will re- 
turn in eight days with her carriage.” 

“ But she will dismiss me from her service, my 
lord.” 

“ Wait patiently for eight days, and then you 
shall enter mine. And now, away with you ! ” 

The coachman dared not answer, and soon dis- 
appeared with his horses. 

The fresh horses were put to the carriage, the 
servant swung himself up to his seat ; Lord Elliot 
stood in front of the carriage with his friend Dr. 
Blitz. 

“ All has happened as I desired,” said he. “ I 
take my child away with me, and, with God’s will, 
she shall never know but that death deprived her 
of her mother. Poor child ! she has no mother, 
but I will love her with all the strength of a father, 
all the tenderness of a mother, and I have a noble 
sister who will guard and watch over her. She 
awaits me at Kiel. I accompany my child so 
far, but as soon as she is in the faithful hands of 
my sister, as soon as I have placed them upon 
the ship sailing for Copenhagen, I return here.” 

“ Why should you return, my lord ? ” said the 
doctor, in terror. “ Is it not sufficient that you 
have deprived the mother of her child ? that yen 
have branded the woman with shame befciB the 
whole world ? What more would you do, my 
lord?” 

With a strange smile, Lord Elliot laid his hand 
upon the doctor’s shoulder. 


284 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FAMILY. 


“ Flows there milk instead of blood in your 
reins, man ? or have you forgotten that I have 
been hit by a poisoned arrow ? I must be re- 
renged, if I would not die of this wound.” 

“ Let your wounds bleed, my lord — the longer 
they bleed, the sooner they will heal. But why 
destroy the arrow that wounded you ? Will you 
recover the sooner or suffer the less ? ” 

“Again I ask you, is there milk instead of 
blood in your veins ? My honor is stained — I 
must cleanse it with the blood of my enemy.” 

“ A duel, then, my lord ? You will suffer chance 
to decide your most holy and sacred interests — 
your honor and life ? And if chance is against 
you ? If you fall, instead of your adversary ? ” 

“ Then, my friend, God will have decided it, and 
I shall thank Him for relieving me from a life 
which will from henceforth be a heavy burden to 
me. Farewell, doctor. I will be with you in 
eight days, and will again need your assistance.” 

“ It is then irrevocable, my lord ? ” 

“ Irrevocable, doctor.” 

“ I shall be ready. God grant that if this sad 
drama is to end in blood, it may not be yours ! ” 
They pressed each other’s hands tenderly. Lord 
Elliot sprang into the carriage, the coachman 
whipped his horses, and the carriage in which 
were the unfortunate man and the stolen child 
rolled merrily along the deserted streets. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE DISCOVERT. 

Prince Henry stood at the window and looked 
down into the garden. He saw his wife walking 
in the park with her ladies, and enjoying the 
clear, cool winter day ; he heard their gay and 
merry laughter, but he felt no wish to join them 
and share their mirth. 

Since that day in the wood, a change had come 
upon the prince — a dark, despairing, melancholy 
had taken possession of him, but he would not 
let it be seen ; he forced himself to a noisy gayety, 
and in the presence of his wife he was the same 
tender, devoted, complaisant lover he had been 
before ; but the mask under which he concealed 
his dislike and scorn was a cruel torture and ter- 
rible agony ; when he heard her laugh he felt as 
if a sharp dagger had wounded him ; when he 
touched her hand, he could with difficulty sup- 
press a cry of pain ; but he conquered himself, and 
kept his grief and jealousy down, down in his heart. 
It was possible he was mistaken. It was possible 


his wife was innocent ; that his friend was true. 
His own heart wished this so earnestly; hia 
noble and great soul rebelled at the thought of de- 
spising those whom he had once loved and trusted 
so fully. He wished to believe that he had had a 
hurtful dream ; that a momentary madness had 
darkened his brain ; he would rather distrust all 
his reflections than to believe that this woman, 
whom he had loved with all the strength of his 
nature, this man whom he had confided in so 
entirely, had deceived and betrayed him. It was 
too horrible to doubt the noblest and most beau- 
tiful, the holiest and gentlest — to be so con- 
founded, so uncertain in his best and purest 
feelings. He could not banish doubt from his 
heart ; like a death-worm, it was gnawing day and 
night, destroying his vitality — poisoning every 
hour of the day, and even in his dreams uttering 
horrible words of mockery. Since the fHe in the 
wood he had been observant, he had watched 
every glance, listened to every word ; but he had 
discovered nothing. Both appeared unembar- 
rassed and innocent ; perhaps they dissembled ; 
perhaps they had seen him as he lay before the 
hut, and knew that he had been since that day 
following and observing them, and by their can- 
dor and simplicity they would disarm his sus- 
picions and lull his distrust to sleep. This thought 
kept him ever on his guard ; he would, he must 
know if he had been betrayed; he must have 
absolute certainty. He stood concealed behind 
the curtains of his window, and looked down into 
the garden. His eyes were fixed with a glowing, 
consuming expression upon the princess, who, with 
one of her ladies, now passed before his window 
and looked up, but she could not see him ; he was 
completely hidden behind the heavy silk cur- 
tains. 

The princess passed on, convinced that if her 
husband had been in his room, he would have 
come forward to greet her. 

The prince wished her to come to this conclu- 
sion. “ Now,” thought he, “ she feels secure ; 
she does not suspect I am observing her, at last I 
may find an opportunity to become convinced.” 

Count Kalkreuth was there ; he had gone down 
into the garden. He advanced to meet the prin- 
cess, they greeted each other, but in their simple, 
accustomed manner, he, the count, respectfully 
and ceremoniously — ^the princess dignified, care- 
less, and condescending. And now they walked 
near each other, chatting, laughing, charmingly 
vivacious, and excited by their conversation. 

The prince stood behind his curtain with a 
loudly-beating heart, breathless from anxiety; 
they came nearer ; she led the way to the little 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


285 


lake whose smooth and frozen surface shone like 
a mirror. The count pointed to the lake, and 
seemed to ask a question ; the princess nodded 
affirmatively, and turning to her ladies, she spoke 
a few words ; they bowed and withdrew. 

“They are going to skate,” murmured the 
prince. “She has sent her ladies to bring her 
skates ; she wishes to be alone with the count,” 

Breathless, almost in death-agony, he watched 
them ; they stood on the borders of the lake, and 
talked quietly. The expressions of their coun- 
tenances were unchanged, calm, and friendly ; 
they were certainly speaking of indifferent things. 
But what means that? The princess dropped 
her handkerchief, seemingly by accident. The 
count raised it and handed it to her ; she took it 
and thanked him smilingly, then in a few moments 
she put her hand, with a sudden movement, under 
her velvet mantle. The prince cried out ; he had 
seen something white in her hand which she con- 
cealed in her bosom. 

“ A letter ! a letter I ” cried he, in a heart- 
Dreaking tone, and like a madman pursued by 
furies, he rushed out. 

The ^^rincess Wilhelmina was in the act of 
having her skates fastened on by her maid, when 
Prince Henry advanced with hasty steps from the 
alley which led to the lake. 

Count Kalkreuth advanced to meet him, and 
greeted him with gay, jesting words; but the 
prince had no word of reply for him ; he passed 
him silently, with a contemptuous glance, and 
stepped directly in front of the princess, who 
looked up with a kindly smile. He said ; 

“ Madame, it is too cold and rough to skate to- 
day ; I will have the honor to conduct you to 
your rooms.” . 

Princess Wilhelmina laughed heartily. “ It is a 
fresh, invigorating winter day, my husband. If 
you are cold, it is not the fault of the weather, 
but of your light clothing. I pray you to send 
for your furs, and then we will run a race over 
the ice and become warm.” 

Prince Henry did not answer. He seized the arm 
of the princess and placed it in his own. “ Come, 
madame, I will conduct you to your apartment.” 

Wilhelmina gazed at him with astonishment, 
but she read in his excited and angry counte- 
nance that she must not dare oppose him. “ Per- 
mit me, at least, to have my skates removed,” 
said she, shortly, giving a sign to her maid. The 
prince stood near, while her maid knelt before 
her and removed the skates. Count Kalkreuth 
was at some distance. 

Not one word interrupted the portentous si- 
£nce. Once the prince uttered a hasty and 

19 


scornful exclamation. He had intercepted a 
glance which the princess exchanged with Count 
Kalkreuth, and a glance full of significance and 
meaning. 

“ What is the matter with you, prince ? ” sai-? 
Wilhelmina. 

“ I am cold,” said he roughly, but the pei-spira- 
tion was standing in large drops on his forehead. 

When the skates were taken off, the prince 
drew his wife on quickly, without a word or greet- 
ing to his friend. Kalkreuth stood pale and im- 
movable, and gazed thoughtfully upon the glittering 
ice. “ I fear he knows all,” murmured he. “ Oh my 
God,' my God ! Why will not the earth open and 
swallow me up ? I am a miserable, guilty wretch, 
and in his presence I must cast my eyes with 
shame to the ground. I have deceived, betrayed 
him, and yet I love him. Woe is me!” He 
clasped his hands wildly over his face, as if he 
would hide from daylight and the glad sun the 
blush of shame which burned upon his cheeks ; 
then slowly, with head bowed down, he left the 
garden. 

The prince, during this time, had walked rapidly 
on with his wife ; no word was exchanged between 
them. Only once, when he felt her arm trem 
bling, he turned and said harshly: 

“ Why do you tremble ? ” 

“ It is cold I ” said she, monotonously. 

“And yet,” said he, laughing derisively, “it is 
such lovely, invigorating winter weather.” 

They went onward silently; they entered the 
castle and ascended the steps to the apartment of 
the princess. Now they were in her cabinet — ^in 
this quiet, confidential family room, where Prince 
Henry had passed so many happy hours with his 
beloved Wilhelmina. Now he stood before her, 
with a cold, contemptuous glance, panting for 
breath, too agitated to speak. 

The princess was pale as death ; unspeakable 
anguish was written in her face. She dared not 
interrupt this fearful silence, and appeared to be 
only occupied in arranging her toilet ; she took 
off her hat and velvet mantle. 

“ Madame,” said the prince at last, gasping at 
every word, “ I am here to make a request of 
you 1 ” 

Wilhelmina bowed coldly and ceremoniously 
“ You have only to command, my husband I ” 

“ Well, then,” said he, no longer able to main- 
tain his artificial composure, “I command you to 
show me the letter you have hidden in your 
bosom.” 

“ What letter, prince ? ” stammered she, step- 
ping back alarmed. 

“ The letter which Count Kalkreuth gave you 


286 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


in the garden. Do not utter a falsehood ; do not 
dare to deny it. I am not in a mood to be re- 
strained by any earthly consideration.” 

As he stood thus, opposed to her, with flashing 
eyes, with trembling lips, and his arm raised 
threateningly, Wilhelmina felt that it would be 
dangerous, indeed impossible to make any opposi- 
tion. She knew that the decisive moment had 
arrived, the veil must be lifted, and that deception 
was no longer possible. 

“The letter! give me the letter!” cried the 
prince, with a menacing voice. 

Wilhelmina gazed at him steadily, with eyes 
full of scorn and hatred. 

“ Here it is,” taking the letter calmly from her 
bosom, and handing it to the prince. 

He snatched it like a tiger about to tear his 
prey to pieces ; but when he had opened it and 
held it before him, the paper trembled so in his 
bands, he was scarcely able to read it. Once he 
murmured : “ Ah ! he dares to say thou to you ; 
he calls you his ‘ adored Wilhelmina ! ’ ” He read 
on, groaning, sometimes crying out aloud, then 
muttering wild imprecations. ' 

The princess stood in front of him, pale as 
death, trembling in every limb ; her teeth were 
chattering, and she was forced to lean against her 
chair to keep from falling. 

When the prince had finished reading the let- 
ter, he crushed it and thrust it in his bosom, then 
fixed his eyes upon his wife with an expression of 
such intense, unspeakable misery, that the princess 
felt her heart moved to its profoundest depths. 

“Ob, my husband,” she said, “curse me! — 
murder me! — but do not look upon me thus.” 
She then sank as if pressed down by an invisible 
power, to her knees, and raised her hands to him 
imploringly. 

The prince laughed coarsely, and stepped back. 
“Rise, madanie,” said he, “ we are not acting a 
comedy — it is only your husband who is speaking 
with you. Rise, madame, and give me the key to 
your secretary. You will understand that after 
having read this letter I desire to see the others. 
As your husband, I have at least the right to 
know how much confidence you have placed in your 
lover, and how far you return his passion.” 

“You despise me,” cried Wilhelmina, bursting 
into tears. 

“I think I am justified in doing so,” said he, 
coldly. “ Stand up, and give me the key.” 

She rose and staggered to the table. “ Here is 
the key.” 

The prince opened the secretary. “ Where are 
the letters, madame ? ” 

“ In the upper drawer to the left.” 


“ Ah,” said he, with a rude laugh, “ not even 
in a secret compartment have you guarded these 
precious letters. You were so sure of my blind 
confidence in you that you did not even concea 
your jewels.” 

Princess Wilhelmina did not answer, but as the 
prince read one after the other of the letters, she 
sank again upon her knees. “ My God, my God ! ” 
murmured she, “ have pity upon me ! Send Thy 
lightning and crush me. Oh, my God ! why will 
not the earth cover me and hide me from his 
glance ! ” 

Rivers of tears burst from her eyes, and raising 
her arms to heaven, she uttered prayers of an- 
guish and repentance. 

The prince read on, on, in these unholy letters. 
Once he exclaimed aloud, and rushed with the let- 
ter to the princess. 

“Is this *rue?” said he — “ is this which you 
have written, true ? ” 

“ What ? Is what true ? ” said Wilhelmina, ri- 
sing slowly from her knees. 

“ He thanks you in this letter for having writ- 
ten to him that you have never loved any man 
but himself — ^him — Kalkreuth alone ! Did you 
write the truth ? ” 

“ I wrote it, and it is the truth,” said the prin- 
cess, who had now fully recovered her energy and 
her composure. “Yes, sir, I have loved no one 
but Kalkreuth alone. I could not force, my heart 
to love you — you who in the beginning disdained 
me, then one day in an idle mood were pleased to 
love me, to offer me your favor. I was no slave 
to be set aside when you were in the humor, and 
to count myself blessed amongst women when 
you should find me worthy of your high regard. 
I was a free-born woman, and as I could not give 
my hand to him I loved, I gave my heart — that 
heart which you rejected. You have the right to 
kill me, but not to despise me — to dishonor me.” 

“ Do I dishonor you when I speak the truth ? ” 
cried the prince. 

“ You do not speak the truth. I have sinned 
heavily against you. I suffered your love — x could 
not return it. I had not the courage when I saw 
you, who had so long disdained me, lying at my 
feet, declaring your passion and imploring my love 
in return, to confess to you that I could never love 
you — that my heart was no longer free. This is 
my crime — this alone. I could not force my heart 
to love you, but I could be faithful to my duty, 
and I have been so. It is not necessary for mo 
to blush and cast my eyes dovvn before my hus- 
band. My love is pure — my virtue untarnished 
I have broken no faith with you.” 

“ Miserable play on words ! ” said the prince 


287 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“You have been a hypocrite — your crime is two- 
fold: you have sinned against me — you have 
sinned against your love. You have been a base 
coward who had not the courage to do justice to 
the feelings of your own heart. What mean 
you by saying you have broken no faith with 
me? You have acted a daily lie. Oh, madame, 
how have I loved you! Both body and soul 
were lost in that wild love. When you stood 
with your lover and listened well pleased to 
those glowing confessions of his sinful love, 
you excused yourself and thought, forsooth, you 
were breaking no faith ! You have defrauded me 
of the woman I loved and the friend whom I 
trusted. May God curse you, even as I do ! May 
Heaven chastise you, even as I shall 1 ” 

He raised both his hands over her as if he 
would call down Heaven’s curse upon her guilty 
head, then turned and left the room. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MORNING AT 8ANS-S0UCI. 

It was five o’clock in the morning. Deep 
silence reigned, the darkness of night still encom- 
passed the world, the weary might still sleep and 
rest, life had recommenced nowhere, nowhere ex- 
cept at Sans-Souci, nowhere except in the apart- 
ment of the king ; while his people slept, the king 
watched, he watched to work and think for his peo- 
ple. Without the wind howled and blew the snow 
against his window, and made even the fire in his 
room flicker; but the king heeded it not. He had 
completed his toilet and drunk his chocolate ; now 
he was working. It did not disturb him that his 
room was cold, that the candle on his table gave 
but a poor light, and even seemed to increase the 
appearance of discomfort in his apartment ; it gave 
suflScient light to enable him to read the letters 
which lay upon his table, and which had arrived 
the previous day. His ministers might sleep — the 
king waked and worked. He read every letter and 
petition, and wrote a few words of answer on the 
margin of each. After reading all business commu- 
nications, the king took his own letters, those that 
were addressed to him personally, and came from 
his absent friends. His countenance, which before 
was grave and determined, assumed a soft and 
gentle expression, and a smile played upon his 
lips. The receipts for to-day were small. There 
were but few letters, and the large proportion of 
them came from relations of the king, or from 
distant acquaintances. 


“No letter from D’Argens,” said the king, smil- 
ing. “ My ecclesiastic letter has accomplished the 
desired end, and the good marquis will arrive here 
to-day to rail at, and then forgive me. Ah, 
here is a letter from D’Alembert. Well, this is 
doubtless an agreeable letter, for it will inform me 
that D’Alembert accepts my proposal, and has de- 
cided to become the president of my Academy of 
Science.” 

He hastily broke the seal, and while he read a 
dark cloud overshadowed his brow. “He de- 
clines my offer,” he said, discontentedly. “ His 
pride consists in a disregard for princes ; he 
wishes posterity to admire him for his unselfish- 
ness. Oh, he does not yet know posterity. She 
will either be utterly silent on this subject or, 
should it be spoken of, it will be considered an 
act of folly which D’Alembert committed. He is 
a proud and haughty man, as they all are.” He 
again took the letter and read it once more, but 
more slowly and more carefully than before ; 
gradually the clouds disappeared from his brow, 
and his eyes beamed with pleasure. 

“ No,” he said ; “ I have misjudged D’Alembert. 
My displeasure at a disappointed hope blinded 
me ; D’Alembert is not a small, vain man, but a 
free and great spirit. He now refuses my presi- 
dency, with a salary of six thousand thalers, as he 
last year refused the position of tutor to the heir 
of the throne of Russia, with a salary of a hundred 
thousand francs. He prefers to be poor and needy, 
and to live up five flights of stairs, and be his own 
master, than to live in a palace as the servant of 
a prince. I cannot be angry with him, for he has 
thought and acted as a wise man ; and were I not 
Frederick, I would gladly be D’Alembert. I will 
not love him less because he has refused my 
offer. Ah, it is a real pleasure to know that 
there are still men who are independent enough 
to exercise their will and judgment in opposition 
to the king. Princes would be more noble, if 
those with whom they associated were not s» 
miserable and shallow-hearted. D’Alembert shall 
be a lesson and a consolation to me ; there are 
still men who are not deceivers and flatterers, 
fools and betrayers, but really men.” 

He carefully refolded the letter, and, before 
placing it in his portfolio, nodded to it as pleas- 
antly as if it had been D’Alembert himself. He 
then took another letter. 

“ I do not recognize this writing,” he said, as 
he examined the address. “ It is from Switzer- 
land, and is directed to me personally. From 
whom is it ? ” 

He opened the letter, and glanced first at the 
signature. 


288 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Ah,” he said, “ from Jean Jacques Rousseau ! 
I promised him an asylum. The free Switzers 
persecuted the unhappy philosopher, and my 
good Lord Marshal prayed my assistance for him. 
Lord Marshal is now in Scotland, and it will not 
benefit him to have his friend here. Well, per- 
haps it may lead to his return, if he hopes to find 
Rousseau here. I must see what the philosopher 
says.” 

The letter contained only a few lines, which 
the king read with utter astonishment. 

“ Vraiment ! ” he exclaimed ; “ philosophers all 
belong to the devil. This Jean Jacques does not 
content himself with declining my offer, but he 
does it in an unheard-of manner. This is a work 
of art ; I must read it again.” 

The king read aloud in a most pathetic voice : 
“ Votre majeste m’ofire un asyle, et m’y promet 
la liberte ; mais vous avez une ep6e, et vous §tes 
roi. Vous m’offrez une pension, k moi, qui n’a 
rien fait pour vous. Mais en avez-vous donne k 
tous les braves gens qui ont perdu bras et jambes 
en VOS services ? ” 

“ Well,” said the king, laughing, “ if being a 
ruflBan makes one a philosopher, Jean Jacques 
Rousseau deserves to be called the greatest phi- 
losopher in the world. Truly, Fortune is playing 
curious pranks with me to-day, and seems deter- 
mined to lower my royal pride. Two refusals at 
one time ; two philosophers who decline my invi- 
tation. No, not two philosophers — ^D’Alembert is 
a philosopher, but Rousseau is in truth a fool.” 

He tore this letter, and threw the pieces in the 
fire. He then seized another letter, but laid it 
down again before opening it. He had heard the 
great clock in the hall strike eight. That was the 
sign that the business of the day, which he shared 
with his attendants, should begin, and that the 
king had no more time to devote to his private 
correspondence. The last stroke of the clock had 
scarcely sounded, as a light knock was heard at 
the door, which was instantly opened by the com- 
mand of the king. 

Baron von Kircheisen, the prefect of Berlin, 
entered the room. He came to make his weekly 
report to the king. His respectful greeting was 
returned merely by a dark side-glance, and the 
king listened to his report with evident displeasure. 

“ And that is your entire report ? ” asked his 
majesty, when the prefect had finished. “ You 
are the head of police for the city of Berlin, and 
you have nothing more to tell me than any police- 
men might know. You inform me of the number 
of arrivals and departures, of the births and 
deaths, and of the thefts which have been com- 
mitted, and that is the extent of your report.” 


“But I cannot inform your majesty of thing* 
that have not occurred,” returned Baron von Kir- 
cheisen. 


“ So nothing else has occurred in Berlin. Ber- 


lin is then a most quiet, innocent city, where at the 
worst a few greatly-to-be-pitied individuals occur 
sionally disturb the repose of the righteous by 
mistaking the property of others for their own. 
You know nothing. You do not know that Ber^ 
lin is the most vicious and immoral of cities. YouRj 
can tell me nothing of the crimes which are cer-Jj 
tainly not of a kind to be punished by the laWjlj 
but which are creeping from house to housed* 
poisoning the happiness of entire families, and* 
spreading shame and misery on every hand. You 


know nothing of the many broken marriage-vows, 


w 


of the dissension in families, of the frivolity of the^ 
young people who have given themselves up 
gambling and dissipation of all kinds. Much mis- 
ery might be avoided if you knew more of these 
matters, and were ready with a warning at thej^| 
right moment.” i - ' 

“ Sire, will you permit me to say that is not the'| 
task of the ordinary police ; for such mattei*3 a 
secret police is required.” 

“Well, why do you not have a secret police? 
Why do you not follow the example of the new 
minister of police at Paris, De Sartines? That| 
man knows every thing that happens in Paris. He " 
knows the history of every house, every family, 
and every individual. He occasionally warns the 
men when their wives are on the point of flying 
from them. He whispers to the wives the names 
of those who turn their husbands from them. 

He shows the parents the faro-bank at whicli 
their sons are losing their property, and some- 
times extends a hand to save them from de- 
struction. That is a good police, and it must be^ 
acknowledged that yours does not resemble it.” 

“If your majesty desires it, I can establish" 
such a police in Berlin as De Sartines has in Pari.s.* 
But your majesty must do two things ; First, you ^ 
must give me a million of thalers annually.” 

“Ah! a million! Your secret police is rather 
expensive. Continue. What do you desire be- 
sides the million ? ” 

“ Secondly, the permission to destroy the peace 
of families, the happiness of your subjects — to 
make the son a spy upon his father — the mother 
an informer against her daughter — the students 
and servants the betrayers of their teachers and 
employers. If your majesty will permit me to 
undermine the confidence of man to his fellow- 
man — of the brother to his sister — of the parents 
to their children— of the husbands to their wives 
by buying their secrets from them — ^if I may re 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


ward such treachery, then, your majesty, we can 
have such a police as De Sartines has in Paris. 
But I do not think that it will promote propriety 
01- prevent crime.” 

The king had listened to him with increasing 
interest, his brow growing clearer and clearer as 
the bold speaker continued. When he finished, 
the king ceased his walk, and stood motionless 
before him, looking fully into his excited counte- 
nance, 

“ It is, then, your positive conviction that a se- 
cret police brings with it those evils you have de- 
picted ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, it is my positive convic- 
tion.” 

“ He may be right,” said the king, thoughtfully. 
“Nothing demoralizes men so much as spies and 
denunciations, and a good government should 
punish and not reward the miserable spies who be- 
tray their fellow-creatures for gold with the wicked 
intention of bringing them into misfortune. A 
good government should not follow the Jesuits’ 
rule — ‘ That the end consecrates the means.’ ” 

“ Will your majesty, then, graciously allow me 
to dispense with a secret police? ” 

“Well, yes. We will remain as we are, and 
De Sartines may keep his secret police. It would 
not suit us, and Berlin shall not be still further 
demoralized by spies and betrayers. Therefore, 
no more of the secret police. When crime shows 
itself by day we will punish it. We will leave it 
to Providence to bring it to light. Continue to 
report to me, therefore, who has died and who 
has been boi*n ; who have arrived and who have 
departed; who has stolen and who has done a 
good business. I am well pleased with you — ^you 
have spoken freely and bravely, and said openly 
what you thought. That pleases me ; I am 
pleased when my agents have the courage to 
speak the truth, and dare occasionally to oppose 
me. I hope you will retain this virtue.” 

He bowed pleasantly to the prefect, and offered 
him his hand. He then dismissed him, and or- 
dered the ministers to enter with their reports and 
proposals. After these came the council, and only 
after the king had worked with them uninterrupt- 
edly for three hours, did he think of taking some 
repose from all this work, which had occupied him 
from six o’clock in the morning until nearly 
twelve. He was on the point of entering his li- 
brary as loud voices in the anteroom arrested his 
attention. 

“But I tell you that the king gives no au- 
diences to-day,” he heard one of the servants say. 

“ The king has said that every man who wishes 
to speak to him shall be admitted ! ” exclaimed 


289 

another voice. “I must speak to the king, and 
he must hear me.” 

“ If you must speak to him, you must arrange 
it by writing. The king grants an audience to all 
w'ho demand it, but he fixes the hour himself.” 

“ Misery and despair cannot await a fixed 
hour ! ” cried the other. “ If the king will not 
fisten to unhappiness when it calls to him for re- 
dress, but waits <until it pleases him to hear, he is 
not a good king.” 

“ The man is right,” said the king, “ I will listen 
to him immediately.” 

He hastily advanced to the door and opened it. 
Without stood an old man, poorly dressed, with a 
pale, thin face, from whose features despair and 
sorrow spoke plainly enough to be understood by 
all When his great, sunken eyes fell upon the 
king, he cried, joyfully, “ God be thanked, there la 
the king ! ” 

The king motioned to him to approach, and the 
old man sprang forward with a cry of delight. 

“ Come into the room,” said the king ; “ and 
now tell me what you wish from me ? ” 

“ Justice, your majesty, nothing but justice. I 
have been through the war, and I am without 
bread. I have nothing to live upon, and I have 
twice petitioned your majesty for a situation which 
is now vacant.” 

“And I refused it to you, because I had :Tom- 
ised it to another.” 

“ They told me that your majesty would refuse 
me this situation,” cried the man, despairingly. 
“ But I cannot believe it, for your majesty owes it 
to me, and you are usually a just king. Hasten, 
your majesty, to perform your duty, and justify 
yourself from a suspicion which is unworthy of 
your kingly fame.” 

The king measured him with a flashing glance, 
which the pale, despairing suppliant bore with 
bold composure. 

“ By what authority,” asked the king, in a 
thundering voice, as he approached the man, with 
his arm raised threateningly — “ by what authoiity 
do you dare speak to me in such a tone ? and on 
what do you ground your shameless demands ? ” 

“ On this, your majesty, that I must starve if 
you refuse my* request. That is the most sacred 
of all claims, and to whom on earth dare I turn 
with it if not to my king ? ” 

There lay in these words a sorrow so heart- 
breaking, a plaint so despairing in the voice, that 
the king was involuntarily much moved. He let 
fall his uplifted arm, and the expression of his 
countenance became gentle and tender. 

“ I see that you are very unhappy and despair* 
ing,” he said, kindly ; “ you were right to come to 


R90 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


me. You shall have the place for which you 
asked. I will arrange it. Come here to-morrow 
to the Councillor Muller. I will give you some 
money, that you may not starve until then.” 

He silenced the delighted man’s expressions of 
gi atitude, and ringing his bell he summoned Dee- 
sen, who kept his purse, in order to give the man a 
gold piece. But Deesen did not appear, and the 
second chamberlain announced in an embarrassed 
manner that he was not in the palace. The king 
commanded him to give the man the promised 
gold piece and then to return to him. 

“ Where is Deesen ? ” asked the king, as the 
chamberlain returned. 

*• Sire, I do not know,” he stammered, his eyes 
sinking beneath the piercing glance of the king. 

“ You do know I ” said the king, gravely. 
“ Deesen has positive orders from me to remain 
in the anteroom, because I might need him. If he 
dares to disobey my orders, he must have a pow- 
erful reason, and you know it. Out with it ! I 
will know it.” 

“ If your majesty commands, I must speak,” 
said the chamberlain, sighing. “ Your majesty 
will not permit us to be married, but we were 
made with hearts, and we sometimes fall in love.” 

“ Deesen is in love, then ? ” said the king. 

“Yes, your majesty, he loves a beautiful girl in 
Potsdam, whose name is Maria Siegert. And al- 
though he cannot marry her, she has consented to 
be his beloved. And as to-day was the great re- 
port day, Deesen thought that your majesty would 
not need him, and that he had time to go to Pots- 
dam to visit his sweetheart. He seems to have 
been delayed. That is the reason, your majesty, 
that Deesen is not in the anteroom.” 

“Very well,” said the king; “as soon as Dee- 
sen returns he must come to my library. I forbid 
you, however, to repeat one word of this conver- 
sation.” 

“Ah, your majesty, I am well pleased that I 
need not do it, for Deesen is very passionate, and 
if he learns that I have betrayed his secret he is 
capable of giving me a box on the ear.” 

“ Which Avould, perhaps, be very wholesome for 
you,” said the king, as he turned toward his li- 
brary <• 

A quarter of an hour later, Deesen entered the 
library with a heated, anxious face. 

The king, who was reading his beloved Lucre- 
tius while he paced the floor, turned his great, 
piercing eyes with a questioning expression on 
the anxious face of his attendant. “ I called for 
you, and you did not come,” said the king. 

“ I beg your majesty to pardon me,” stammered 
Deesen. 


“ Where where you ? ” 

“ I was in my room writing a lettei, she.” 

“ Ah, a letter. You were no doubt writing to 
that beautiful bar-maid at the hotel of the Black 
Raven at Amsterdam, who declined the attentions 
of the servant of the brothers Zoller.” 

This reference to the journey to Amsterdam 
showed Deesen that the king was not very angry. 
He dared, therefore, to raise his eyes to those of 
the king, and to look pleadingly at him. 

“ Sit down,” said the king, pointing to the wri- 
ting-table. “I called you because I wished to 
dictate a letter for you to write. Sit down and 
take a pen.” 

Deesen seated himself at the table, and the king 
began walking up and down as before, his hands 
and book behind him. 

“ Are you ready ? ” asked the king. 

“I am ready, sire,” returned Deesen, dipping 
his pen into the ink. 

“ Write then,” commanded the king, as he 
placed himself immediately in front of Deesen — 
“ write, then, flrst the heading : ‘ My beloved — ’ ” 

Deesen started, and glanced inquiringly at the 
king. Frederick looked earnestly at him, and re- 
peated, ‘ My beloved — ’ ” 

Deesen uttered a sigh, and wrote. 

“ Have you written that ? ” asked the king. 

“ Yes, sire, I have it — ‘ My beloved.’ ” 

“ Well, then, proceed. ‘ My beloved, that old 
bear, the king — ’ Write,” said the king, inter- 
rupting himself as he saw that Deesen grew pale 
and trembled, and could scarcely hold the pen — 
“ write without hesitation, or expect a severe pun- 
ishment.” 

“ Will your majesty have the Idndness to dic- 
tate ? I am ready to write every thing,” said Dee- 
sen, as he wiped his brow. 

“ Now then, quickly,” ordered the king, and he 
dictated — ‘That old bear, the king, counts every 
hour against me that I spend so charmingly with 
you. That my absence may be shorter in the fu- 
ture, and less observed by the old scold, I wish 
you to rent a room near here in the suburbs of 
Brandenburg, where we can meet more conve- 
niently than in the city. I remain yours until 
death. Deesen.’ 

“ Have you finished ? ” asked the king. 

“ Yes, sire, I have finished,” groaned Deesen. 

“ Then fold the letter and seal it, and write th« 
address ‘ To the unmarried Maria Siegert, Yunker 
Street, Potsdam.’ ” 

“ Mercy, sire, mercy ! ” cried Deseen, springing 
up and throwing himself at the feet of the king 
“ I see that your majesty knows all — that I have 
been betrayed.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


291 


“You have betrayed yourself, for to-day is the 
tenth time that I have called for you when you 
were absent. Now send your letter off, and see 
that your Siegert gets a room here. If, however, 
you are again absent when I call, I will send your 
beautiful Maria to Spandau, and dismiss you. Go, 
now, and dispatch your letter;” 

Deesen hurried off, and the king looked smi- 
lingly after him for a moment, and was on the 
point of returning to his reading, when his atten- 
tion was attracted by the approach of a carriage. 

“ Ah,” he murmured anxiously, “ I fear that I 
shall be disturbed again by some cousin, who has 
come to rob me of my time by hypocritical pro- 
fessions of love.” 

He looked anxiously toward the door. It was 
soon opened, and a servant announced Prince 
Henry. 

The king’s countenance cleared, and he ad- 
vanced to meet his brother with a bright smile. 
But his greeting was not returned, and the prince 
did not appear to see the extended hand of the 
king. A heavy cloud lay upon his brow — his 
cheeks were colorless and his lips compressed, as 
if he wished to suppress the angry and indignant 
words which his flashing eyes expressed. 

“ Ah, my brother,” said the king, sadly, “ it 
seems that you have come to announce a misfor- 
tune.” 

“ No,” said the prince, “ I only came, your ma- 
jesty, to recall a conversation which I held with 
you ten years ago in this same room, on this very 
spot.” 

“ Ten years ago ? ” said the king. “ That was 
at the time of your marriage, Henry.” 

“ Yes, the conversation I refer to concerned my 
marriage, sire. You had pursued me so long with 
that subject, that I had at length concluded to 
submit to the yoke which was to free me from 
those unworthy and humiliating persecutions.” 

“ I think that you could select more fitting ex- 
pressions, my brother,” said the king, with flash- 
ing eyes. “ You forget that you are speaking to 
your king.” 

“ But I remember that I am speaking to my 
brother, whose duty it is to hear the complaints 
which I have to utter against the king.” 

“Speak,” said the king, after a slight pause. 
“ Your brother will hear you.” 

“ I come to remind you of that hour,” said the 
prince, solemnly, “ in which I gave my consent to 
be married. As 1 did so, sire, I said to you that I 
should hold you responsible for this marriage 
which was made for puntical purposes and not 
from love — that I would call you to account be- 
fore the throne of God, and there ask you by what 


right you robbed me of mj liberty, by what right 
you laid a chain upon my hand and heart which 
love could not help me to bear. I said further, 
sire — if the weight of this chain should become 
too heavy, and this unnatural connection of a mar- 
riage without love should drive me to despair, 
that upon your head would rest the curse of my 
misery, and that you would be answerable for my 
destroyed existence, for my perished hopes.” 

“ And I,” said the king, “ I took this responsi- 
bility upon me. As your king and your elder 
brother, I reminded you of your duty to give the 
state a family — sons who would be an example 
of courage and honor to the men, and daughters 
who would be a pattern of virtue and propriety 
to the women. In view of these duties, I de- 
manded of you to be married.” 

“ I come now to call you to account for this 
marriage,” exclaimed the prince, solemnly. “I 
have come to tell you that my heart is torn with 
pain and misery ; that I am the most wretched 
of men, and that you have made me so — ^you, 
who forced me into this marriage, although you 
knew the shame and despair of a marriage with- 
out love. You had already taken a heavy respon- 
sibility upon yourself by your own marriage; and 
if you were compelled to endure it so long as my 
father lived, you should have relieve! yourself 
from it so soon as you were free ; that is, so soon 
as you were king. But you preferred to continue 
in this unnatural connection, or rather you put 
the chains from your hands, and let them drag at 
your feet. Not to outrage the world by your 
divorce, you gave it the bad example of a wretched 
marriage. You made yourself free, and you made 
a slave of your poor wife, who has been a martyr 
to your humors and cruelty. You profaned the 
institution of marriage. You gave a bad and 
dangerous example to your subjects, and it has 
done its work. Look around in your land, sire. 
Everywhere you will see' unhappy women who 
have been deserted by their husbands, and miser- 
able men who have been dishonored by their 
faithless wives. Look at your own family. Our 
sister of Baireuth died of grief, and of the humil- 
iation she endured from the mistress of her 
husband. Our brother, Augustus William, died 
solitary and alone. He withdrew in his grief to 
Oranienburg, and his wife remained in Berlin. 
She was not with him when he died ; strangers 
received his last breath — strangers closed his 
eyes. Our sister of Anspach quarrelled with her 
husband, until finally she submitted, and made a 
friend of his mistress. And I, sire, I also stand 
before you with the brand of shame upon my 
brow. I also have been betrayed and deceived. 


292 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


and all this is your work. If the king mocks 
at the sacred duties of marriage, how can he 
expect that his family and subjects should respect 
them ? It is the fashion in your land for husbands 
and wives to deceive one another, and it is you 
who have set this fashion.” 

“ I have allowed you to finish, Henry,” said the 
king, when the prince was at length silent. “ I 
have allowed you to finish, but I have not heard 
your angry and unjust reproaches, I have only 
heard that my brother is unhappy, and it is, I 
know, natural for the unhappy to seek the source 
of their sorrows in others and not in themselves. 
I forgive aU that you have said against me ; but 
if you hold me responsible for the miserable 
consequences of the war, which kept the men 
at a distance for years and loosened family ties, 
that shows plainly that your judgment is un- 
reliable, and that you cannot discriminate with 
justice. I did not commence this war heedlessly ; 
I undertook it as a heavy burden. It has made 
an old man of me ; it has eaten up my life before 
my time I see all the evil results, and I con- 
sider it my sacred duty to bind up the wounds 
which it has inflicted on my country. I work for 
this object day and night; I give all of my 
energies to this effort ; I have sacrificed to it all 
my personal inclinations. But I must be con- 
tented to bind up the wounds. I cannot make 
want disappear; I cannot immediately change 
sorrow into gladness.” 

“Ah, sire, you seek to avoid the subject, and 
to speak of the general unhappiness instead of 
my special grief. I call you to account, because 
you forced me to take a wife that I did not know 
— a wife who has made me the most miserable of 
men — a wife who has outraged my honor, and be- 
trayed my heart. You gave me a wife who has 
robbed me of all I held dear on earth — of the 
wife I loved, and of the friend I trusted.” 

“ Poor brother,” said the king, gently, “ you 
are enduring the torments from which I also suf- 
fered, before my heart became hardened as it now 
is. Yes, it is a fearful pain to be forced to de- 
spise the friend that you trusted — to be betrayed 
by those we have loved. I have passed through 
that grief. The man suffered deeply in me be- 
fore his existence was merged in that of the 
king.” 

“ Sire,” said the prince, suddenly, “ I have 
come to you to demand justice and punishment. 
You have occasioned the misery of my house, it 
is therefore your duty to alleviate it, as far as in 
you lies. I accuse my wife, the Princess Wilhel- 
mina, of infidelity and treachery. I accuse Count 
Kalkreuth, who dares to love my wife, of being a 


traitor to your royal family. I demand your con- 
sent to my divorce from the princess, and to the ; j 
punishment of the traitor. That is the satisfac ^ j 
tion which I demand of your majesty for the ruin - [ 
which you have wrought in my life.” 

“ You wish to make me answerable for the ca- , 
priciousness of woman and the faithlessness of r ] 
man,” asked the king, with a sad smile. “ You do i 
that because I, in performing my duty as a king, / 
forced you to marry. It is true you did not love 
your intended wife, because you did not know her, 
but you learned to love her. That proves that I t 
did not make a bad choice ; your present pain is a " 
justification for me. You are unhappy because w 
you love the wife I gave you with your whole K 
heart. For the capriciousness of women you can- S 
not hold me responsible, and I did not select the 
friend who has so wickedly betrayed you. You ’ 
demand of me that I should punish both. Have 
you considered, my brother, that in punishing them 
I should make your disgrace and misery pub- 
lic to the world ? Do not imagine, Henry, that 
men pity us for our griefs ; when they seem most 
deeply to sympathize with us they feel an inward 
pleasure, especially if it is a prince who suffers. 

It pleases men that fate, which has given us an 
exceptional position, does not spare us the ordi- 
nary sorrows of humanity.” 

“ I understand, then, that you refuse my re- 
quest,” said the prince. “ You will not consent to 
my divorce, you will not punish the traitor ? ” 

“No, I do not refuse your request, but I beg 
you will take three days to consider what I have 
said to you. At the end of that time, should you 
come to me, and make the same demand, I will 
give my consent; that is, I will have you publicly 
separated from your wife, I will have Count Kal- 
kreuth punished, and will thus give the world the i 
right to laugh at the hero of Freiburg.” , ‘ 

“ Very w’ell, sire,” said the prince, thoughtfully, ■ ■ 
“I will remind you of your promise. I beg you 
will now dismiss me, for you see I am a very man j 
and no philosopher, un\vorthy to be a guest at 
Sans-Souci.” jl-l 

He bowed to the king, who tenderly pressed his 
hand, and silently left the room. ^ 

Frederick looked after him with an expression J! 

of unutterable pity. Si 

“ Three days will be long enough to deaden his 
pain, and then he will be more reasonable and 
form other resolutions.” • 




FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


293 


OHAPTER XIII. 

A husband’s revenge. 

Camilla lay upon a sofa in her boudoir, and 
listened with breathless attention to the account 
her beau cousin gave of the adventures of the last 
eight days. She listened with sparkling eyes to 
the witty description he gave of his duel with Lord 
Elliot, and declared that she found him extraordi- 
narily brilliant. Camilla was indeed proud of her 
handsome lover. Kindar explained minutely how 
he had compelled Lord Elliot, who for a long time 
avoided and fled from him, to fight a duel with 
him. How he forced him on his knees to ac- 
knowledge that he had done his wife injustice, and 
■to apologize for the insult he had offered to Kin- 
dar, in charging him with being the lover of his 
pure and virtuous wife. 

“ And be did this ? ” cried Camilla ; “ he knelt 
before you and begged your pardon ? ” 

“ Yes, he knelt before me, and begged my par- 

doUi” V 

“ Then he is even more pitiful than I thought 
him,” said Camilla, “ and I am justified before the 
whole world in despising him. Nothing can be 
more contemptible than to beg pardon rather than 
tight a duel, to kneel to a man to save one’s mis- 
erable life. I am a woman, but I would scorn 
such cowardice. I would despise the man I loved 
most fondly if he were guilty of such an act of 
shame.” 

Camilla was much excited ; she did not notice 
how Kindar started, turned pale, and fixed his eyes 
on the floor. She was so charmed with the cour- 
asre of her beau coicsin that 'she could think of 

O 

nothing else. Even her frivolous nature had this 
feminine instinct — she prized personal daring and 
courage in a man more than all other things ; of 
strength of mind she knew nothing, and therefore 
she could not appreciate it, but she demanded 
courage, dignity, and strength of ’physique. She 
laid her hands upon her cousin with cordial appro- 
bation, and gazed lovingly at him. 

“You are as beautiful as a hero and a demi- 
god, and it seems to me I never loved you sc 
fondly as at this moment, when you stand before 
me as the victor over my cowardly husband. 
Ah, I wish I could have witnessed that scene ; 
you proud and grand, and he lying trembling like 
this miserable 'windspiel at your feet, repeating the 
words of retraction and repentance which you dic- 
tated.” 

“It was indeed worth seeing,” said Kindar; 
“ but let ua speak now of something more impi'r- 
tant, dear Camilla. You must leave Berlin to-day. 


and for a few weeks at least withdraw to your es- 
tate, till the violence of the storm has blown over. 
It is, of course, most agreeable and flattering to 
me to have my name coupled with that of so 
lovely and charming a woman — ^to be looked upon 
with jealousy and alarm by the cowardly husbands 
of Berlin. It will not, however, be agreeable to you 
to be torn to pieces by slanderous tongues. Every 
old maid, every prude, and every hypocritical co- 
quette (and of such base elements the feminine 
world is composed), will find this a happy occa- 
sion to exalt her own modesty and virtue, and de- 
nounce and condemn you.” 

“ Not so,” said Camilla, proudly, “ I will re- 
main in Berlin. I have courage to defy the whole 
world for your sake — I will remain to prove that 
I am not ashamed of my love. The whole world 
shall know that the brave and handsome Kindar, 
the beloved of all women, is my lover. Ah, cousin, 
you merit this compensation at my hands; you 
defended my honor against the aspersions of my 
husband, and compelled him to a shameful re- 
traction.” 

“ Does Baron von Kindar make this boast ? ” 
cried a voice behind her. 

Camilla turned and saw Lord Elliot standing in 
the door ; he looked at her with a cold, contemp- 
tuous glance, which wounded her far more than a 
spoken insult would have done. 

“ Why are you here, sir ? ” she cried. “ With 
what right do you dare force yourself into my pres- 
ence ? ” 

Lord Elliot made no reply, but smiled coolly, 
and Camilla’s eyes filled with tears of rage. 

“ Cousih,” said she, turning to Kindar, “ will 
you not free me from the presence of this con- 
temptible creature, who dares to affront and — 

Suddenly she stopped speaking and gazed in 
amazement at her handsome cousin ; his counte- 
nance was not serene; he was indeed livid, and 
stood trembling and with downcast eyes before 
her husband. 

“ Well,” said Lord Elliot, raising himself proud- 
ly, “ do you not hear your cousin’s command ? 
Will you not dismiss this poor creature who dares 
disturb this tender interview ? ” 

‘ I will withdraw,” stammered Kindar, “ I am 
de trop. I have no right to interfere between Lord 
Elliot and his wife. I take my leave.” 

He tried to step through the door, but the pow- 
erful hand of Lord Elliot held him back. 

“ Not so, my handsome gentleman,” said Lord 
Elliot, with a hoarse laugh, “ you are by no means 
de trop ; on the contrary, I desire your presence ; 
you will remain here and listen to the charming 
and merrv narrative I am about to relate to Lady 


294 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


Elliot. I have come, madame, to give your lady- 
ship the history of a hunt; not, however, of a 
chase after wild beasts, of the hart and the hare, 
but of an all-conquering cavalier, who, however, 
judging from the manner in which he fled and 
sought to save himself, must possess the coward- 
ice of the hare, and the fleet foot of the hart. You 
know, I presume, that I speak of your beau cousin 
and myself.” 

While Lord Elliot spoke, Camilla stared in 
breathless agony at her cousin. She seemed to 
hope to read in his pale face the explanation of 
this incomprehensible riddle ; she expected him to 
command her husband to be silent, and to offer 
him some new insult. But Kindar did not speak, 
and Camilla came to a desperate'resolution. She 
was determined to know why he stood so pale and 
trembling before her husband. She would force 
him to an explanation. 

“ It is wholly unnecessary, my lord,” she said, 
in a haughty tone, “ to relate your history to me ; 
I am acquainted with all the particulars of the 
chase of which you speak. I know your degrada- 
tion and humiliation — I know that you fell upon 
your knees and pleaded for pardon when satisfac- 
tion was demanded of you.” 

“ Ah ! I see, le beau cousin has changed roles 
with me,” said Lord Elliot. “ That was indeed 
most amiable. Your lover must, of course, 
alw'ays play the most important part, and no 
doubt, he thought to do me honor by this change. 
I cannot take advantage of this generous inten- 
tion, and must correct a few errors in his nar- 
rative.” 

“ Speak ! then ; speak ! my lord,” said Ca- 
milla, whose eyes were still fixed sternly upon her 
lover. 

“ As you graciously permit it, madame, I will 
give you an account of the chase. But first, 
madame, I must clear myself from an accusation. 
I am suspected of having challenged Von Kindar, 
because he was the lover of my wife. I look 
upon that, however, as an accident, and nothing 
more. Le beau cousin happened to be at hand 
when my susceptible, ardent wife looked around 
for a lover, and she accepted him ; he was the 
first, but he will not be the last. I was not driven 
to pursue him by jealousy. I am a true son of 
this enlightened age, and shall not, like the 
knights of the olden time, storm heaven and 
earth because my wife has a lover. I am a phi- 
losopher. For a noble wife, who had made me 
happy in her love, I might perhaps feel and act 
diflerently. I, however, married a heartless fool, 
and it would have been mad folly to risk my life 
Tith a brainless fop for her sake.” 


“Speak, cousin!” cried v Camilla, springing 
forward, white with passion. “ Speak ! Do you 
not hear these insults?” She laid her hands 
upon his arm ; he muttered a few incomprehen- 
sible words and tried to shake them off. 

“ He has heard every word,” said Lord Elliot, 
scornfully ; “ but he is without doubt too polite 
to interrupt me. He will have the goodness still 
to listen silently.” 

Camilla let her hands fall ; gnashing her teeth 
she turned away and seated herself upon the 
divan. Her lover and her husband stood before 
her ; the one, trembling like a broken reed, 
leaned against the wall, the other erect and 
4)roudly conscious of his own worth and dignity. 

“ I said that I would not have dreamed of 
risking my life with a brainless fop, for the sake 
of a heartless fool; but this fop was guilty of 
another crime : he was not only the betrayer of 
my wife, but he was the author of a shameful 
and most insulting letter, which you, madame, 
had the effrontery to copy and send me.” 

“ How do you know' that he wrote this letter ? ” 
cried Camilla. 

“ In the first place, madame, you are not even 
capable of composing such a letter. I took the , 
liberty of removing the original of this letter from |, 
your w'riting-desk. Armed with this proof, I p 
sought le beau cousin^ and demanded satifaction. 
Lieutenant Kaphengst, a former friend of this ii 
handsome cavalier, accompanied me. When you ! 
deal with such a man as the one who stands j 
cowering before me, witnesses are necessary. He j 
is quite capable of denying every thing, and 
changing the roles. The baron had left home, he 
had gone to Mecklenberg. Certainly he did not 
know that I had come to Berlin to seek him, or 
he would have had the courtesy to remain and 
receive my visit. I was too impatient to aw'ait his 
return, and followed his traces, even as ardently 
as he has followed you, madame. I found him 
at last, in the hotel of a little village. Like all 
other sentimental lovers, he longed for solitude ; 
and, not wishing to be disturbed in his sweet 
dreams, he rented the entire hotel. I was, how- 
ever, bold enough to seek him — with swords and 
pistols — and gave him choice of weapons ; he was 
peaceable, and refused both sword and pistol. 

I therefore took my third weapon, my trusty 
walking-stick. It was a beautiful bamboo-rod, 
and neither broke nor split, though I beat away 
valiantly on the back of the knightly cavalier.” 

“ This cannot be true. This is a lie ! ” cried Car 
milla. 

Lord Elliot raised his arm and pointed slowly 
to Kindar. “ Ask him, madame, if this is a lie.** 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FA.MIL Y. 


295 


Camilla turned, and as her eye rested upon him, 
*he felt that she had no need to ask the question. 

Kindar leaned with pale cheek and tottering 
knees against the wall. He was a living picture 
of cowardly despair and trembling terror. 

Camilla groaned aloud, and with a look of un- 
speakable aversion she turned from him to her 
husband. For the first time, she did not find him 
ugly. He was indeed imposing. His proud bear- 
ing, his noble intellect, and manly worth impressed 
her. To her he had ever been but the fond, ten- 
der, yielding lover — ^now she saw before her the 
firm and angry man, and he pleased her. Kindar, 
who had been so handsome and so irresistible, was 
now hateful in her eyes. 

“ Go on,” murmured Camilla. 

“Well, I beat this man with my cane till he 
consented to fight with me. We had, however, 
played this little comedy too energetically. The 
people of the hotel heard the noise, and fearing 
some fatal result, rushed to the rescue of this 
handsome cavalier. We deferred the duel, there- 
fore, till the next day, but lo ! the next moiTiing 
le beau cousin had fled. Without doubt he had 
forgotten our little arrangement, and his thirst to 
see you lured him back to Berlin. I was barbarian 
enough to follow him, and I swore to shoot him 
down like a mad dog if he did not consent to fight. 
This comparison was doubtless somewhat insult- 
ing, and he resolved at last to fight.” 

“Ah, he accepted the challenge ! ” cried Camil- 
la, casting a sudden glance upon Kindar ; but oh, 
how ugly, how pitiful, how repulsive did he now 
appear to her ! She closed her eyes, in order not 
to see him. 

“ We rode on with our seconds and our weapons 
to the little village of Bernan, on the border of 
Saxony ; but I saw, madame, that your cavalier 
had no. inclination to fight this duel. Besides, I 
thought of you — of your great grief if he should 
fall, and thus deprive you of your pretty plaything 
before you had time to replace it. You know that 
my heart was ever soft and compassionate. I 
resolved, therefore, to be merciful to le beau 
comin. Arrived on the ground, I proposed to 
Kindar, instead of fighting with me, to sign a pa- 
per which I had prepared, in which he implores 
my pardon and ray mercy, acknowledges himself 
to be an unworthy scoundrel and liar, and solemnly 
ewears that every accusation he brought against 
me in the letter you copied was a lie — declares me 
to be an irreproachable cavalier, who has been de- 
ceived and betrayed by himself and Lady Elliot. 
Baron Kindar found this somewhat strongly ex- 
pressed, and preferred to fight rather than sign it.” 

“God be thanked!” murmured Camilla. 


“ Well, we were resolved to fight, and I was 
obliging enough to give Kindar the first shot. He 
accepted this advantage readily, and I confess he 
aimed well. His hand trembled, and he shot too 
high, just over my head. Now it was my turn. 
I raised the pistol, and I swear to you, madame, 
my hand did not tremble. Perhaps Kindar no- 
ticed this — perhaps he wished to live and find a 
compensation in your love for the terrible tor- 
ments of the last few days. It suffices to say, he 
called out to me not to shoot, as he was ready to 
sign the paper confessing he was a scoundrel and 
a liari He signed it kneeling at my feet, and beg- 
ging pardon. I then gave him permission to re- 
turn to Berlin. For myself, I drove to Sans-Souci, 
asked an audience of the king, and obtained his 
consent to a divorce. You know', madame, that 
I have a soft and yielding nature. I never could 
refuse a wish of your heart. I therefore implored 
his majesty to allow of your immediate marriage 
with Baron Kindar.” 

“ Never, never, wall that marriage take place ! ” 
cried Camilla, springing from the divan and ga- 
zing with abhorrence upon Kindar. 

“ It will take place 1 ” said Lord Elliot, firmly 
and imperiously ; “ you love him, you betrayed 
me for his sake — ^he is a base coward, despised by 
every man, but still you will marry him. We are 
divorced, and the king commands this marriage. 
From this hour we are nothing to each other — you 
are the betrothed of Baron von Kindar. Allow me 
to give you this paper, w'hich he signed to save 
his pitiful life, as a bridal present.” 

He laid the paper upon the table, and bowed to 
Camilla, who was pale and terrified, and whose 
teeth chattered as if in an ague-fit. 

“ Madame,” said Lord Elliot, “ I have the honor 
to bid you adieu. I wish you a long and happy 
wedded life ! ” 

Lord Elliot left the room and passed on to the 
apartment which had been his own. Every thing 
had been removed, all the pictures taken from the 
wall but one ; only Camilla’s portrait, taken in her 
bridal dress, remained. He stood long before this 
lovely picture, and gazed steadily, as if to impress 
every lineament upon his soul. He felt that in 
taking leave of this painting he was bidding adieu 
to youth, to happiness, to all the sweet illusions 
of life. 

“Farewell!” said he, aloud— “ farewell, Ca- 
milla ! my bride ! the dream is over ! ” 

He took a little knife from his pocket and cut 
the picture in two pieces, from the top to the bot- 
tom, then slowly descended the steps to his car- 
riage, in which his friend. Doctor Blitz awaited 
him. 


296 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ I am ready, doctor, and 1 beg you to ^ve me 
a bed in your house for the present. During the 
last ten days I have had a burning fever.” 

While Lord Elliot was driving off, Camilla and 
le beau cousin stood confronting each other ; j 
neither dared to break the fearful silence, or even j 
to look at each other. 

Suddenly the door opened, and General von Sal* 
(iern, the adjutant of the king, entered the room. 
Camilla had not the strength to advance to meet 
him ; she returned his salutation by a faint incli- 
nation of the head. The general did not appear 
to see Kindar, and made no response to his pro- 
found bow. 

“ Madame,” said the general, solemnly, “ I come 
at the command of the king ; by his authority as 
king and judge, and as head of the church, he has 
annulled your marriage with Lord Elliot. This 
was done as a proof of his regard to Lord Elliot. 
Out of regard to your own family, he insists upon 
your immediate marriage with Baron Kindar, who 
has been dismissed from the king’s service.” 

“ No, no,” cried Camilla, “ I will never marry 
him ! Leate me, sir — I will never become the 
wife of this man ! ” 

“ It is his majesty’s express command that you 
should be married without delay,” said General 
Saldern ; “ he has also commanded me to say to 
you that this scandalous intrigue, insulting to mor- 
als and good manners, should no longer be brought 
before the public. You are both, therefore, ban- 
ished from his court, from Potsdam and Berlin, 
and commanded to take refuge at your country 
seat, and lead there a solitary and quiet life. This 
is the only punishment he inflicts upon you, and I 
have nothing more to announce. If agreeable to 
you, madame, we will go at once ! ” 

“ Where ? ” cried Camilla, drawing back in ter- 
ror from the general, who approached her. 

“ In the next room, madame, a priest is waiting, 
who, at the express command of his majesty, will 
now perform the marriage ceremony.” 

Camilla uttered a loud shriek and fell senseless 
into the arms of le beau cousin^ who advanced tow- 
ard her at a nod from the general. 

When consciousness returned, the priest was 
before her and Kindar at her side. The ceremony 
was performed, and the unhappy couple left Ber- 
lin at once, never to return. The remainder of 
their lives was passed in sorrow, solitude, and self- 
eon tempt. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

V THE SEPARATION. 

The three days the king had allowed his brothel 
to make up his mind in, were past. Prince Hei> 
ry had made up his mind. On the morning of the 
second day, he had sent off two couriers — one to 
the king at Sans-Souci, the other to his wife at 
Rheinsberg. He had remained in Berlin, and had 
taken possession of the splendid palace opposite 
the opera-house, that the king had lately built 
and furnished for him. He had ordered his ma- 
jor-domo to prepare a handsome dinner, as he 
wished to open his house by entertaining all the 
nobility of Berlin. 

The feast was to take place the third day after 
the king’s interview with the prince. 

The courier who left the morning before, carried 
a letter to Princess Wilhelmina, requesting her in 
a few cold, ceremonious words, to come to Berlin 
and preside at the proposed dinner and concert. 

This invitation was to the princess a command 
she dared not resist. She left Rheinsberg early 
in the morning and arrived at the palace an hour 
before dinner. 

Prince Henry met bis wife in the large vestibule 
leading to the front building. He advanced tow- 
ard her with a bright smile, passed her arm 
through his, and led her, pale and trembling, up 
the steps, making her observe the style of the 
building and the many conveniences of their new 
dwelling. He spoke cheerfully, walking slowly so 
as to give the followers of the princess, who were 
occupied with her baggage, time to collect around 
her and witness the perfect understanding between 
her and her husband. When they had mounted 
the last step, the prince laughingly pointed to the 
two halls leading from the stairway. 

“ Here, madame, commence our separate apart- 
ments. To you belong the right, to me the left 
wing of the castle. I will pass through the hall 
to the right and lead you to the apartments 
whose mistress you will now become.” 

The princess threw a timid, inquiring glance at 
him. She had been so convinced that her hus- 
band would demand a divorce, that she had al- 
lowed her thoughts to linger upon this possible 
mode of escape. Now her heart trembled within 
her. “ Perhaps,” murmured she, as they passed 
through the long hall — “ perhaps he will murder 
me, as the Duke of Orleans did his wife because 
she loved the Count de Guiche.” She hesitated, 
therefore, as the prince opened a door and bade 
her enter. She looked anxiously around for hei 
followers. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


“ Cannot my maids accompany us ? ” said she, 
loftly. 

“ No, madame,” said the prince, roughly. “ We 
go alone.” 

He drew her into the room, entered after her, 
then closed and locked the door. 

Princess Wilhelmina shrieked in terror, and 
drew away from him. “ Why do you lock the 
door ? ” said she, trembling. “ Do you wish to 
murder me ? ” 

Tfie prince laughed aloud. “ Ah, you wish a 
tragic end to your romance, madame,” said he. 
“ Not so, however. It will be quiet and prosaic. 
You will act neither the part of a martyr nor a her- 
oine. I wish neither to reproach nor punish you. 
I leave that to God and your conscience. I wish 
only to arrange with you the details of our fu- 
ture life. I locked the door, as I do not wish to 
be disturbed.” 

“ What are these details ? ” said the princess. 

“We will speak of them hereafter, madame. 
Will you fii'st do me the honor to read this letter 
I have just received from the king in answer to 
mine ? Have the kindness to read it aloud.” 

The ])rincess received the letter and read : 

“ My Dear Brother — Your letter has been a 
great source of consolation to me, for it assures 
me that you are again a man, and have over- 
eome your grief. It is not your lot to be only a 
tender or an avenging husband. You are, be- 
fore all else, a prince and a man. Both quali- 
fications have duties forcing you to submit to 
life and to become worthy of it. There is 
still much to be done in this world by both 
of us, and a true man should not be turned 
from his path because a foolish woman places a 
few thorns beneath his pillow. Stifling his pain, 
he continues his road quietly. I am glad this is 
alao your opinion — that you have given up all 
thought of a public scandal and denunciation. In 
relation to the princess, I give you full power to 
make any and every arrangement you see fit. As 
to Kalkreuth, he shall receive the place you men- 
tioned. I have appointed him lieutenant-general 
of the third army corps in Prussia. He will leave 
here at once. I desire you to inform him of his 
promotion. As soon as you dismiss him, send 
him to me at Sans-Souci. You tell me you are 
about to give a feast. That pleases me right well. 
It is better to stifle your pain with bright flowers 
and gay music, than to tear out your hair and re- 
tire to a convent. May your feast be a bright 
one, and may it last forever ! Frederick.” 

Princess Wilhelmina, having finished the letter, 
handed it to her husband. “I see,” whispered 
ihe, softly, “ that you have been noble and gener- 


297 

ous, my husband. You shower benefits upon uj 
instead of just anger.” 

“ I do neither the one nor the other,” said the 
prince, coldly ; “ I simply wish to pass a peaceful 
life, and above all things I would not have the 
world think me unhappy, for unhappy I am not 
nor ever mean to be.” 

The princess gave a timid glance at his counte- 
nance, so at variance with his words. The last 
three days had worked such a fearful change. His 
cheeks were thin and pale, his brow dark and 
clouded — about his mouth were deep lines of care 
never more to be effaced. Princess Wilhelmina 
was deeply touched when she saw this change. 

“ My husband,” said she softly, raising her 
hands imploringly to him, “ have pity on yourself 
— on me. Hear me before you decide. I feel 
that I have sinned heavily against you, but 
I will endeavor to expiate my sin. In look- 
ing at you and seeing how much you have 
suffered, the pain that almost bursts my heart 
tells me how dear you are to me. I repent — I 
repent, my husband. I will force my heart 
to love you, and you alone. From now on, I will 
be a faithful wife ; the one aim of my life shall be 
to make you happy. Here I swear, as before God’s 
altar, that I will love and obey you as my husband 
and master. Will you accept this heart, that comes 
to you full of repentance ? Henry, will you ? ” 

She held out her hand, with a bright, beaming 
glance, but he did not take it. 

“No; it is too late,” said he. “I raised you 
a temple in my heart. You have destroyed it, 
and wish now to build another with the shattered 
ruins. No, princess ; that which the lightning 
has struck must remain in ashes. I could never 
believe in the stability of your building, but 
would be expecting it to fall daily. This temple 
can never be rebuilt. I forgive, but can never 
more love you. We are separated before God 
and our own hearts. But to the world we are 
still wedded. We shall both inhabit this palace, 
but we shall seek never to meet one another. 
On grand fete days, when etiquette demands it, 
we shall dine together, but preside at separate 
tables. And you must forgive me if I never ad. 
dress you. We are dead to one another ; and the 
dead do not speak. In the summer I shall live at 
Rheins’'org ; the king presented it to me on my 
marriage with you, and I think I have paid dearly 
enough for it to be allowed to spend my time 
there alone. You will not follow me there, but 
will remain in Berlin, or travel, as it suits you. 
Do you accept my conditions, madame ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the princess, proudly. “ I ac- 
cept them. We will live like two galley-slaves^ 


298 


FREDERIiCK THE GREA.T AND HIS FAMILY. 


bound together in chains, without one thought 
or feeling in unison. You nave devised a severe 
punishment for me, my prince. My only fear is 
that I am not the only victim — ^that you also suf- 
fer?” 

“ I told you before, that I wished to punish no 
one. All I seek is a little rest — a little peace, 
and your presence in this palace cannot endanger 
that, for you, madame, have not only annihilated 
my love for you, but also the remembrance of it. 
And now, as you have accepted my conditions for 
our future life, I have nothing more to say than 
farewell, until death ! Farewell, madame ; may 
your life be a happy one ! ” 

“ Farewell, prince ! ” murmured Wilhelmina, in 
a voice choked with tears. “ Farewell ! and may 
God teach your heart to pity and forgive ! ” 

“You will now have the kindness, madame, to 
arrange your toilet, then to follow me with your 
court to the great reception-room. We give 
to-day a splendid dinner. At this fete we will 
take an eternal adieu of the past. It will be the 
last time we dine together. Farewell, madame ; 
I await you.” 

He bowed profoundly, then moved to the door. 
The princess gazed after him breathlessly, and 
the tears that had long stood in her eyes now 
rolled slowly down her cheeks. 

When the prince had reached the threshold, 
she started forward, crying in a piteous voice ; 

“ Henry ! oh, Henry ! ” 

The prince did not turn, but opened the door 
and passed out of the room. 

^’ifteen minutes later, a gay crowd was as- 
sembled in the reception-room. The prince re- 
ceived his guests in his usual gay, cordial manner. 
But the princess was ditferent. She was more quiet 
and formal than usual. Her eyes did not sparkle ; 
her cheeks were pale in spite of her rouge ; her 
voice was low and tremulous, and the smile she 
called to her lip was hard and forced. A still 
more remarkable change had taken place in 
Count Kalkreuth’s appearance. He who gener- 
ally sparkled with gayety and wit, whose merry 
jests had been the delight of the court — he who 
had been the very shadow of the princess, her 
most devoted cavalier — stood now pale and 
speechless at a window, gazing sadly at the 
prince, who was laughing and talking with his 
guests, and who had passed him repeatedly with- 
out turning his head. The courtiers, however, 
saw only the outward signs of that agony that 
had almost distracted the count in the last four 
days. 

For four days, since their last meeting in the 
garden of Rhein sberg, the prince had not spoken 


to him. It was in vain he had wi'tten and ini' 
plored an audience. The prince returned hia 
letters unopened. In vain that at almost every 
hour during these four wretched days he had had 
himself announced to the prince. Prince Henry 
would not receive him. And still he felt the in- 
evitable necessity of having an explanation with 
the prince. His heart craved it as the dying man 
craves the last consolations of religion. This 
friendship for the prince, notwithstanding he had 
betrayed and wounded it, was, and had always 
been to him a sort of religion; he had sinned 
against it in the folly of his passion, but he had 
now come to his senses, and he repented his guilt 
bitterly. Not a thought of the princess lingered 
in his heart ; it was the prince he yearned after ; 
he must speak to him ; he must be forgiven by 
him. His love for him was greater than ever. 
Now that he had turned from him, he knew how 
much he had lost. He had not yet given up the 
hope of an interview; for this alone had he 
come to the dinner. But whenever he endeavored 
to approach the prince, he had turned from him 
and entered into earnest conversation with some 
bystanders. 

Now the prince stood alone at a window ; now 
or never must the count succeed in speaking 
to him. Passing through the room hastily, he 
stood before Prince Henry 

“ My prince,” murmured the count, softly, 
“ have pity on me. I entreat you to listen to 
me for fifteen minutes ! ” 

The prince fixed his piercing eyes upon the 
count’s pale, agitated countenance, but did not 
speak. Then passing proudly before him, he 
advanced to meet Prince Frederick William, who 
had just arrived. 

The doors of the dining-saloon were now thrown 
open, and the guests approached the richly-cov- 
ered table, at one end of which sat the prince and 
his wife. Not far from them was Count Kal- 
kreuth. For more than two hours he had borne 
the agony of being near the prince without being 
addressed by him. For two hours he had stood 
the inquiring, malicious smiles and glances of the 
courtiers, who were looking on with delight at his 
humiliation. 

His martyrdom was almost ovti. Dinner was 
finished, and all awaited a sign from the princely 
couple to rise from the table. Prince Henry arose, 
glass in hand, and said, in a loud voice : 

“ And now, my guests, I have pleasant neTvs for 
you ; as you are all friends of Count Kalkreuth, 
what is good news to him will be to you also 
His majesty has appointed him lieutenant-general 
of Prince Frederick William’s army corps in 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


299 


Prussia. The king, knowing my true friendship 
for him, granted me the privilege of announcing 
his promo don. I am sorry to say that through it 
we lose^him, for his majesty desires him, as soon 
as we leave the table, to hasten to Sans-Souci to 
i^receive his commission. And now, gentlemen, fill 
It your glasses, we will drink to the lieutenant-gen- 
eral’s w’elfare.” 

All arose to drink the toast except Count Kal- 
kreuth. His head was bent almost upon his breast, 
[. as if he were ashamed to show his pale, agitated 
countenance. He would have given all he pos- 
A, ®sessed to have flown from the hall. Princess Wil- 
hehnina sat opposite, she had not yet looked at 
him, but she now threw him a glance full of in- 
M expressible pity, and raised her glass hastily to her 
Blips. It was not wine, but her own tears that she 
■drank. 

K The prince now led the princess to the recep* 
I tion-room. He stood beside her when Kalkreuth 
li . approached. The guests were grouped about the 
room, every eye was fixed eagerly upon this trio. 

Count Kalkreuth was still pale and unmanned ; 
with tottering, trembling steps he advanced tow- 
ard the princely couple. 

The prince turned laughingly to his guests, say- 
ing: “ See the strange effect of joy. It has trans- 
formed our gay and witty count. He is stern and 
i solemn as if, instead of an honor, he had received 
B a degradation.” 

If No voice answered the prince. Finally, in midst 
I of deep silence, the count said : 
f “I come to take leave of your royal highness 
E before going to that exile which his majesty has 
kindly chosen for me. For, although it is promo- 

I tion, you must permit me to reiterate that it is 
, also banishment, for at Konigsberg I shall not see 
my prince. But I shall carry your picture in my 
heart — there it shall forever dwell.” 

1 “ We will not make our parting more hard by 
sweet words,” said Prince Henry, emphasizing the 
last words. “ Bid adieu to my wife, kiss her hand, 
and then God be with you ! ” 

. The princess, muttering a few incomprehensible 
words, gave him her hand, white and colorless as 
™ that of a corpse. Count Kalkreuth touched his 
lips to it, and they were so cold that the princess 

■ shuddered as if she had been embraced by death 
itself. 

It w»3 their last meeting ! — a cold, formal fare- 

■ well for life. The count now turned to the prince, 
who gave him his hand smilingly. 

‘‘Farewell, count,” said he. Stooping to em- 
brace him, he whispered in his ear ; “You once 
saved my life, we are now quits, for you have 
9Qurdered my heart. Farewell ! ” 


He turned from him. The count, no longer able 
to suppress his tears, covered his face with his 
hands and tottered from the room. 

A few hours later he stood in the king’s ante 
chamber at Sans-Souci. He had just been an 
nounced. He waited long — no one came to con* 
duct him to the king; every door remained closed, 
every thing around him was dull and deserted. It 
was dark; the sharp April wind was beating 
against the window and howling through the chim- 
ney. The count’s conscience was busy at work in 
this gloomy chamber. He could endure it no 
longer, and was preparing to leave, when the door 
was opened, and an adjutant entered to conduct 
him to the king’s apartments. 

The king was in his sitting-room. As Count 
Kalkreuth entered, he laid aside the book he had 
been reading, and rose. In a stem, imperious 
manner he advanced to meet him. 

“As my brother desired it, I have appointed 
you lieutenant-general of the third army corps,” 
said he, harshly. “ You leave at once for Konigs- 
berg — you know your duties. Go, and endeavor 
to fulfil them.” 

“ Sire ! ” said the count, softly. 

“ Go ! not another word ! ” 

Count Kalkreuth, almost unable to make the 
military salute, left the room, stifling his anger. 

The king looked after him thoughtfully. “ Poor 
Henry ! ” murmured he, softly, “ had you also to 
receive the Judas-kiss from a friend ? Poor broth- 
er ! you were so happy — why did cruel fate disen- 
chant you ? There is much in being happy in 
your own estimation — there is upon the earth no 
other sort of happiness ; and whether true or false, 
the peace it brings is alike. I, I am so poor that 
I no longer believe in the one or the other. And 
still men envy me ! Envy a poor, disenchanted, 
solitary man — envy him because he wears a crown ! 
What sort of an existence have I ? My life is full 
of work, full of sorrow, nothing else ! I work for 
my subjects; they do not thank me, and will greet 
and welcome my successor some day, be he ever 
so mean and contemptible, as they once greeted 
and welcomed me. The love of a people for their 
king is a love full of egotism and self-interest. 
Who has ever loved me otherwise than selfishly ? 
I met my friends with an open heart — when with 
them I forgot that I was a king, but they never 
forgot it ; not one, not a single one loved in mo 
the man. The foolish populace call me a hero, 
and speak of the laurels that crown my brow, but 
of the thorns they have woven in it they know 
nothing. Would I need have no more to do with 
men, for they have poor, slavish souls 1 They de 
ceive themselves — they all deceive me.” 


300 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY. 


As the king ceased speaking, he felt his foot 
touched. Somewhat startled, he looked down. 
His greyhound Diana was lying at his feet, gazing 
at him with her large, intelligent eyes. A soft 
smile crossed Frederick’s countenance. Stooping 
to caress her, he said : 

“ You come to remind me that there is still love 
and truth upon the earth, but one must not be 
silly enough to look for it among men. Come 
here, Diana, my little companion ; I was wrong to 
call myself solitary, for are you not here ? and 
then have I not my flute ? Is she not a loving. 


trustworthy friend, to whom every thing can b« 
confided ? You two shall be my sole companions 
this evening” 

Raising his flute, he commenced to play softly, 
walking up and down his room. Diana followed 
him slowly, listening in seeming devotion to the 
long, wailing tones of her rival. 

Sad and wonderful to hear was the music of 
this solitary king ; like broken, dying sighs and 
sobs were its tones ; and the howling wind, rushing 
in through the window, added its mournful wail to 
Frederick the Great’s song of woe. 


NOTES. 


(Pa6k 80.) 

ODE TO COUNT BEUHL. 

Inscription . — “ It is not necessary to make ourselves 
uneasy about tbe future.’’ 

“ High Destiny’s unhappy slave, 

Absolute lord of a too indolent king. 

Oppressed with work w'hose care Importunes him — 
Bruhl, leave the useless perplexities of grandeur. 

In the bosom of thine opulence 
I see the God of the wearied ones, 

And in thy magnificence 
Repose makes thy nights. 

“ Descend from this palace, whose haughty dome 
Towering o’er Saxony, rises to the skies ; 

In which thy fearful mind confines the tempest, 
Which agitates at the court, a nation of enviers. 

Look at this fragile grandeur, 

And cease at last to admire 
The pompous shining of a city 
Where all feign to adore thee, 

“ Know that Fortune is light and inconstant; 

A deceiver who delights in cruel reverses ; 

She is seen to abuse the wise man, the vulgar 
Insolently playing with all this weak universe. 

To-day it is on my head 
That she lets her favors fall. 

By to-morrow she will be prepared 
To carry them elsewhere. 

“ Does she fix on me her wayward fickleness. 

My heart will be grateful for the good she does me ; 
Docs she wish to show elsewhere her benevolence, 

I give her back her gifts without pain — without regret 
Filled with strongest virtue, 

1 will espouse Poverty, 

If for dower she brings me 
Honor and probity.” 


• (Pagb 179.) 

* Adieu, D’Argens 1 In this picture 
Thou wilt see the cause of my death ; 

At least do not think, a nothing In the vault, 
That I aspire to apotheosis. 


All that friendship by these lines proposes 
Is only this much, that here the celestial torch 
May clear thy days while I repose. 

And each time when the Spring appears anew 
And from her abundant breast offers thee the flowoff 
there enclosed. 

That thou with a bouquet of myrtle and rose 
Wilt deign to decorate my tomb.” 

(Page 225.) 

“ Under a most happy omen, 

The goddess of love 
Wished that a now sacrifice 
Should consecrate to her our bright days. 
Already the fagots are lighted. 

The altar glows, the incense fumes, 

The victim is adorned — 

By love itself it is consumed. 

The mystery accomplished.” 

(Page 226.) 

“ It is thine, swan of the Saxons, 

To draw the secret from the miser Nature ; 

To soften with thy songs the hard 

Amd detestable sounds of a barbarous tonguei” 

(Page 265.) 

“This is not a sparrow 
Kept in this cage. 

It is one of those birds 
Who sing in storms. 

Open, friend of the wise, 

Break iron and bolts, 

The songs in your woods 
Shall fly back to you.” 

(Page 265.) 

“ The nightingale sings, and this is the reason * 

That he is taken to sing in a prison. 

See now the sparrow, who does so much evil, 

Plays with life without fear of cages. 

See in this portrait, 

Which shows the effect 

Of the good luck of rogues, and the mlsfortane ci 
sagos.” 


THE end. 



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Look you ! look nt thopo two littU* foot ; tlioy are niy apsepsor?.” 


p. -Ls. 



BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; 


OR, 


PEEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 




AN HISTORICAL NOV^LIo, 

' ' \ 

bt 

L. mOhlbach, 

r • 

AUTHOR OP “JOSEPH H. AND HIS COURT,” “FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COiniT,’ 
“the empress JOSEPHINE,” “ANDREAS HOFER,” ETC., ETC. 

n K 


I a'‘ 

■ ,'ii' 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN, BY 

MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS. 


Mith IHuattiaiions 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 

1890. 

k 






i 









Ektebed, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
D. APPLETON & CO., 

Iti the Clect’B Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern DiRtidct ci 

New York. 


0 


/ 


COKTEE'TS. 




BOOK 1. 


PAGE 

BOOK III. 

PAGE 

lAP. I.— The Alchemist’s Incantation, 

6 

Chap. I. — The Actors in HaUe, . 

145 

II. — The Old Courtier, 

• 

8 

II. — The Student Lupinus, 

147 

in. — The Morning Hours of a King, 

14 

in.— The Disturbance in the Thea- 


IV. — The Pardoned Courtier, 


20 

tre, .... 

160 

V. — How the Princess Ulrica he- 


IV.— The Friends, 

151 

came Queen of Sweden, 

« 

26 

V. — The Order of the King, 

154 

VI. — The Tempter, 


31 

VI. — The Battle of Sohr, 

156 

■nri.— The First Interview, . 

• 

38 

VII. — After the Battle, 

159 

Vni. — Signora Barbarina, 


43 

Vin.— A Letter pregnant with Fate, 

163 

IX. — The King and Barbarina, 

• 

46 

IX. — The Return to Berlin, . 

169 

X. — ^Eckhof, 


62 

X. — Job’s Post, . 

171 

XI.— A Life Question, 

• 

57 

XI. — The Undeceived, 

176 

im. — Superstition and Piety, 


61 

XTI.— Trenck’s First Flight, 

182 




XHI.- The Flight, 

191 




Xrv.— I will. 

197 




XV. — The Last Struggle for Power, 
XVI. — The Disturbance in the Thea- 

203 




tre, .... 

209 

BOOK II. 



XVn.— Sans-Souci, . 

213 

Chap. I.— The Two Sisters, . 


69 



II. — The Tempter, 

III. — The W edding - Festival 

of 

74 



the Princess Ulrica, 


76 



IV.— Behind the Curtain, 


79 

BOOK IV 


V. — The Shame-faced King, 


81 



VI.— The First Kendezvous, 


87 

Chap. I. — The Promise, . 

217 

VII. — On the Balcony, 


90 

n. — ^Voltaire and his Ro3’^al 


VIII.— The First Cloud, 


95 

Friend, 

224 

IX.— The Council of War, 


101 

ni.— The Confidence-Table, . 

234 

X. — The Cloister of Camens, 


104 

IV. — The Confidential Dinner, 

244 

XI. — The King and the Abbot, 

• 

107 

V.— Rome Sauvee, 

252 

XII. — The Unknown Abbot, . 


111 

VI. — A Woman’s Heart, . 

256 

XIII. — The Levee of a Dancer, 


114 

VII.— Madame von Cocceji, 

262 

XIV.— The Studio, 


121 

VIII. — ^Voltaire, 

267 

XV.— The Confession, 


126 

IX. — A Day in the Life of Voltaire, 

274 

XVI.— The Traitor, 


129 

X.— The Lovers, 

283 

XVII. — The Silver-Ware, . 


135 

XI. — Barbarina, . 

2S9 

XVin.- Tlie First Flash of Light- 


XII.— Intrigues, , 

294 

ning. 


137 

Xin.— The Last tstruggre. 

.300 




• •■'■ ■ 't 




, ' : t 64 '■ 





Jl.>> : op, 



BERLIN AND SANS-SOUOI; 

OB, 

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS, 


BOO 

CHAPTER I. 

THE alchemist’s INCANTATION. 

It was a loyely May morning I The 
early rays of the sun had not withered 
the blossoms, or paled the fresh green 
' of the garden of Charlottenburg, but 
quickened them into new life and beau- 
ty. The birds sang merrily in the 
groves. The wind, with light whis- 
pers, swept through the long avenues 
of laurel and orange trees, which sur- 
rounded the superb greenhouses and 
conservatories, and scattered far and 
wide throughout the garden clouds of 
intoxicating perfume. 

The garden was quiet and solitary, 
and the closed shutters of the castle 
proved that not only the king, but the 
entire household, from the dignified and 
important chamberlain to the frisky gar- 
den-boy, still slept. Suddenly the si- 
lence was broken by the sound of hasty 
steps. A young man in simple citizen 
costume, ran up the great avenue which 
led from the garden gate to the con- 
servatory; then, cautiously looking 
about him, he drew near to a window 


K I . 

of the lower story in a wing of the cas- 
tle. The window was closed and se- 
cured with inside shutters; a small 
piece of white paper was seen between 
the glass and the shutter. A passer-by 
might have supposed this was acciden- 
tal, but the young burgher knew that 
this little piece of paper was a signal. 
His light stroke upon the window dis- 
turbed for a moment the deathlike si- 
lence around, but produced no other 
effect; he struck again, more loudly, 
and listened breathlessly. The shutters 
were slowly and cautiously opened from 
within, and behind the glass was seen 
the wan, sick face of Fredersdorf, the 
private secretary and favorite of the 
king. When he saw the young man, 
his features assumed a more animated 
expression, and a hopeful smile played 
upon his lip ; hastily opening the win- 
dow, he gave the youth his hand. 
“ Good-morning, Joseph,” said he ; “I 
have not slept during the whole night, 
I was so impatient to receive news from 
you. Has he shown himself? ” 

Joseph bowed his head sadly. “ He 
has not yet shown himself,” he replied, 
in a hollow voice ; “ all our efforts have 


6 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


been in vain; we have again sacrificed 
time, money, and strength. He has 
not yet appeared.” 

Alas I ” cried Fredersdorf, “ who 
could believe it so difficult to move the 
devil to appear in person, when he 
makes his presence known daily and 
hourly through the deeds of men? I 
must and will see him ! He mitst and 
shall make known this mystery. He 
shall teach me how and of what to make 
gold.” 

“ He will yield at last ! ” cried Joseph, 
solemnly. 

“ What do you say ? Will we suc- 
ceed ? Is not all hope lost ? ” 

“All is not lost; the astrologer heard 
this night, during his incantations, the 
voice of the devil, and saw for one mo- 
ment the glare of his eye, though he 
could not see his person.” 

“ He saw the glare of his eye ! ” re- 
peated Fredersdorf, joyfully. “ Oh, we 
will yet compel him to show himself 
wholly. He must teach us to make 
gold. And what said the voice of the 
devil to our astrologer ? ” 

“He said these words: ‘Would you 
see my face and hear words of golden 
wisdom from my lips? so offer me, 
when next the moon is full and shim- 
mers like liquid gold in the heavens, a 
black ram ; and if you shed his blood 
for me, and if not one white hair can 
be discovered upon him, I will appear 
and be subject to you.’ ” 

“Another month of waiting, of im- 
patience, and of torture,” murmured 
Fredersdorf. “Four weeks to search 
for this black ram without a single 
white hair; it will be difficult to 
find ! ” 

“ Oh, the world is large ; we will 
send our messengers in every quarter ; 
we will find it. Those who truly seek, 
find at last what they covet. But we 
will require much gold, and we are suf- 
fering now, unhappily, for the want of 
it.” 


“ We ? whom do you mean by we ? ” 
asked Fredersdorf, with a contemptuous 
shrug of the shoulders. 

“I, in my own person, above all 
others, need gold. You can well un- 
derstand, my brother, that a student as 
I am has no superfiuous gold, even to 
pay his tailor’s bills, much less to buy 
black rams. Captain Kleist, in whose 
house the assembly meets to-night, has 
already offered up far more valuable 
things than a score of black rams ; he 
has sacrificed his health, his rest, and 
his domestic peace. His beautiful wife 
finds it strange, indeed, that he should 
seek the devil every night everywhere 
else than in her lovely presence.” 

“Yes, I understand that! The be- 
witching Madame Kleist must ever re- 
main the vain-glorious and coquettish 
Louise von Schwerin; marriage has in- 
fused no water in her veins.” 

“ No ! but it has poured a river of 
wine in the blood of her husband, and 
in this turbid stream their love and 
happiness is drowned. Kleist is but a 
corpse, whom we must soon bury from 
our sight. The king has made separa- 
tion and divorce easy ; yes, easier than 
marriage. Is it not so, my brother ? 
Ah, you blush; you find that your 
light-hearted brother has more observ- 
ant eyes than you thought, and sees 
that wffiich you intended to conceal. 
Yes, yes ! I have indeed seen that you 
have been wounded by Cupid’s arrow, 
and that your heart bleeds while our 
noble king refuses his consent to your 
marriage.” 

“Ah, let me once discover this holy 
mystery — once learn how to make gold, 
and I will have no favor to ask of any 
earthly monarch ; I shall acknowl- 
edge no other sovereign than my own 
will.” 

And to become possessor ot tms se- 
cret, and your own master, you require 
nothing but a black ram. Create fo» 
us, then, my powerful and wealthy 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


1 


brother, a black ram, and the work is 
done ! ” 

“ Alas ! to think,” cried Fredersdorf, 
•‘that I cannot absent myself; that I 
must fold my hands and wait silently 
and quietly ! What slavery is this I but 
you, you are not in bondage as I am. 
The whole world is before you ; you 
can seek throughout the universe for 
this blood - offering demanded by the 
devil.” 

“ Give us gold, brother, and we will 
seek; without gold, no black ram; 
without the black ram, no devil I ” 

Fredersdorf disappeared a mo- 
ment, and returned with a well-filled 
purse, which he handed to his brother. 
“ There, take the gold ; send your mes- 
sengers in every quarter ; go yourself 
and search. You must either find or 
create him. I swear to you, if you do 
not succeed, I will withdraw my pro- 
tection from you ; you will only be a poor 
student, and must maintain yourself by 
your studies.” 

“ That would be a sad support, in- 
deed,” said the young man, smiling. 
“I am more than willing to choose 
another path of life. I would, indeed, <• 
prefer being an artist to being a philos- 
opher.” 

“ An ai-tist ! ” cried Fredersdorf, 
contemptuously ; “ have you discovered 
in yourself an artist’s vein ? ” 

“Yes; or rather, Eckhof has awak- 
ened my sleei3ing talent.” 

“Eckhof — who is Eckhof? ” 

“How? you ask who is Eckhof? 
you know not, then, this great, this 
exalted artist, who arrived here some 
weeks since, and has entranced every 
one who has a German heart in his 
oosom, by his glorious acting ? I saw 
liim a few days since in Golsched’s 
Cato. Ah ! my brother, on that even- 
ing it was clear to me that I also was 
b(;rn for something greater than to sit 
in a lonely study, and seek in musty 
books for useless scraps of knowledge. 


No ! I will not make the world still 
darker and mistier for myself with the 
dust of ancient books ; I will illuminate 
my world by the noblest of all arts— I 
will become an actor ! ” 

“Fantastic fool I” said his brother. 
“A German actor / that is to say, a 
beggar and a vagabond I who wanders 
from city to city, and from village to 
village, with his stage finery, who is 
laughed at everywhere, even as the 
monkeys are laughed at when they 
make their somersets over the camels’ 
backs ; it might answer to be a dancer, 
or, at least, a French actor.” 

“ It is true that the German stage is 
a castaway — a Cinderella — thrust aside, 
and clothed with sackloth and ashes, 
while the spoiled and petted step-child 
is clothed in gold-embroidered robes. 
Alas ! alas ! it is a bitter thing that the 
French actors are summoned by the 
king to perform in the royal castle, 
while Schonemein, the director of the 
German theatre, must rent the Council- 
house for a large sum of money, and 
must pay a heavy tax for the permis- 
sion to give to the German public a 
German stage. Wait patiently, broth- 
er, all this shall be changed, when the 
mystery of mysteries is discovered, when 
we have found the black ram I I bless 
the accident which gave me a knowl- 
edge of your secret, which forced you 
to receive me as a member in order to 
secure my silence. I shall be rich, 
130werful, and influential ; I will build 
a superb theatre, and fill the German 
heart with wonder and rapture.” 

“ Well, "well, let us first understand 
the art of making gold, and we will 
make the whole world our theatre, and 
all mankind shall play before us I 
Hasten, therefore, brother, hasten ! By 
the next full moon we will be the al- 
mighty rulers of the earth and all that 
is therein ! ” 

“ Always provided that we have 
found the black ram.” 


8 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


“ We will find Rim ! If necessary, we 
will give his weight in gold, and gold 
can do all things. Honor, love, power, 
position, and fame, can all be bought 
with gold I Let us, then, make haste 
to be rich. To be rich is to be inde- 
pendent, free, and gloriously happy. 
Go, my brother, go I and may you soon 
return crowned with success.” 

“ I have still a few weighty questions 
to ask. In the first place, where shall 
I go?” 

“To seek the black ram — it makes 
no difference where.” 

“Ah I it makes no difference ! Tou 
do not seem to remember that the va- 
cation is over, that the professors of the 
University of Halle have threatened to 
dismiss me if my attendance is so fr- 
regular. I must, therefore, return to 
Halle to-day, or — ” 

“ Return to Halle to - day ! ” cried 
Fredersdorf, with horror. “That is 
impossible 1 You cannot return to 
Halle, unless you have already found 
what we need.” 

“And that not being the case, I 
shall not retuni to Halle; I shall be 
dismissed, and will cease to be a stu- 
dent. Do you consent, then, that I 
shall become an actor, and take the 
great Eckhof for my only professor ? ” 

“Yes, I consent, provided the com- 
mand of the alchemist is complied 
with.” 

“ And how if the alchemist, notwith- 
standing the blood of the black ram, is 
unhappily not able to bring up the 
devil ? ” 

At this question, a feverish crimson 
spot took possession of the wan cheek 
of Fredersdorf, which w^as instantly 
chased away by a more intense pallor. 
“ If that is the result, I will either go 
mad or die,” he murmured. 

“And then will you see the devil 
face to face ! ” cried his brother, with 
a gay laugh. “ But perhaps you might 
find a Eurydice to unlock the under 


world for you. Well, we shall see. 
Till then, farewell, brother, farewell.” 
Nodding merrily to Fredersdorf, Jo- 
seph hurried away. 

Fredersdorf watched his tall and 
graceful figure as it disappeared 
among the trees, with a sad smile. 

“He possesses something which is 
worth more than power or gold ; he is 
young, healthy, full of hope and confi- 
dence. The world belongs to him. 
while I—” 

The sound of footsteps called his at- 
tention again to the alUe. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE OLD COUETIER. 

The figure of a man w^as seen ap- 
proaching, but with steps less light and 
active than young Joseph’s. As the 
stranger drew nearer, Fredersdorfs 
features expressed great surprise. 
When at last he drew up at the win- 
dow, the secretary burst into a hearty 
laugh. 

“Von Pollnitz! really and truly I do 
not deceive myself,” cried Fredersdorf, 
clapping his hands together, and 
again and again uttering peals of 
laughter, in which Pollnitz heartily 
joined. 

Then suddenly assuming a grave and 
dignified manner, Fredersdorf bowed 
lowly and reverentially. “ Pardon, 
Baron Pollnitz, pardon,” said he in a 
tone of mock humility, “ that I have 
dared to welcome you in such an un- 
seemly manner. I was indeed amazed 
to see you again; you had taken an 
eternal leave of the court, we had shed 
rivers of tears over your irreparable 
loss, and your unexpected piesenco 
completely overpowered me.” 

“ Mock and jeer at me to y( ur heart’s 
content, dear Fredersdorf; I will lov-^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


9 


fully and lustily unite in your laughter 
and your sport, as soon as I have re- 
covered from the fearful jolting of the 
carriage which brought me here. Be 
pleased to open the window a little 
more, and place a chair on the outside, 
that I may climb in, like an ardent, 
eager lover. I have not patience to go 
round to the castle door.” 

Fredersdorf silently obeyed orders, 
and in a few moments. Von Pollnitz 
was lying comfortably stretched out on 
a silk divan, in the secretary’s room. 

“Ask me no questions, Fredersdorf,” 
said he, breathing loudly; “leave me 
awhile to enjoy undisturbed the com- 
fort of your sofa, and do me the favor 
first to answer me a few questions, be- 
fore I reply to yours.” 

“ Demand, baron, and I will answer,” 
said Fredersdorf, seating himself on a 
chair near the sofa. 

“ First of all, who is King of Prus- 
sia? You, or Jordan, — or General 
Kothenberg, — or Chazot, — or — speak, 
man, who is King of Prussia ? ” 

“ Frederick the Second, and he 
alone ; and he so entirely, that even his 
ministers are nothing more than his 
secretaries, to write at his dictation ; 
and his generals are only subordinate 
engineers to draw the plans of battle 
which he has already fully determined 
upon ; his composers are only the copy- 
ists of his melodies and his musical 
conceptions; the architects are carpen- 
ters to build according to the plan 
which he has either drawn or chosen 
from amongst old Grecian models : 
in short, all who serve him are literally 
servants in this great state machine; 
they understand his will and obey it, 
nothing more.” 

“Hum! that is bad, very bad,” said 
Pollnitz. “ I have found, however, that 
there are two sorts of men, and you 
have mentioned in your catalogue but 
one species, who have fallen so com- 
pletely under the hand of Frederick. 


You have said nothing of his cook, of 
his valet de chambre, and yet these arc 
most important persons. You must 
know that in the presence of these 
powers, a king ceases to be a king, and 
indeed becomes an entirely common 
place mortal, who eats and drinks and 
clothes himself, and who must either 
conceal or adorn his bodily necessities 
and weaknesses like any other man.” 

Fredersdorf shook his head sadly. . 
“It seems to me that Frederick the 
Second is beyond the pale of tempta- 
tion; for even with his cook and his 
valet he is still a king ; his cook may 
prepare him the most costly and lu .u- 
rious viands, but unhappily they do not 
lead him into temptation ; a bad dish 
makes him angry, but the richest and 
choicest food has no effect upon his hu- 
mor; he is exactly the same before 
dinner as after, fasting or feasting, and 
the favor he refuses before the cham- 
pagne, he never grants afterward.” 

“ The devil ! that is worse still 1 ” 
murmured Pollnitz. “And the valet 
— with him also does the king remain 
king ? ” 

“ Yes, so entirely, that he scarcely 
allows his valet to touch him. He 
shaves, coifs, and dresses himself.” 

“ My God ! who then has any influ- 
ence over him ? To whom can I turn 
to obtain a favor for me ? ” 

“ To his dogs, dear baron ; they are 
now the only influential dependants ! ” 

“ Do you mean truly the four-footed 
dogs? — or — ’’ 

“ The four-footed, dearest baron 1 
Frederick has more confidence in them 
than in any two-legged animal. You 
know the king always trusted much to 
the instincts of his dogs; he has now 
gone so far in this confidence, as to be- 
lieve that the hounds have an instinc- 
tive aversion to all false, wicked, and 
evil-minded men. It is therefore very 
important to every new-comer to be 
well received by the hounds, as the 


iO 


BERLIN AND S.VNS-SOUCI; OR, 


king’s reception is somewhat dependent 
upon theirs.” 

“Is Biche yet with the king ? ” 

“Yes, still his greatest favorite.” 

“ I am rejoiced to hear that ! I was 
always in favor with the Signora 
Biche ; it was her custom to smell my 
pocket, hoping to find chocolate. I 
beseech you, therefore, dearest friend, 
to give me some chocolate, with which 
I may touch and soften the heart of 
the noble signora, and thus induce the 
king to look upon me favorably.” 

“ I will stick a half pound in each of 
your pockets, and if Biche still growls 
at you, it will be a proof that she is 
far more noble than men ; in short, that 
she cannot be bribed. Have you fin- 
ished with your questions ? I think it 
is now my time to begin.” 

“ NTot so, my friend. My head is still 
entirely filled with questions, and they 
are twining and twisting about like 
the fishing-worms in a bag, by the help 
of which men hope to secure fish. Be 
pitiful and allow me to fasten a few 
more of these questions to my fishing- 
rod, and thus try to secure my future.” 

“Well, then, go on — ask further ! ” 

“ Hoes Frederick show no special in- 
terest in any prima donna of the opera, 
the ballet, or the theatre ? ” '' 

“ No, he cares for none of these 
things.” 

“ Is his heart, then, entirely turned to 
stone ? ” 

“ Wholly and entirely.” 

“ And the queen-mother, has she no 
influence ? ” 

“ My God ! Baron Pollnitz, how 
long have you been away? You ask 
me as many questions as if you had 
fallen directly from the moon, and 
knew not even the outward appearance 
3f the court.” 

“ Hear friend, I have been a whole 

ear away, that is to say, an eternity. 

he court is a very slippery place ; and 
a man does not accustom himself 


hourly to walk over this glassy parquet 
he will surely fall. 

“ Also, there is nothing so uncertain 
as a court life ; that which is true to- 
day, is to-morrow considered incredi- 
ble; that which was beautiful yester- 
day is thrust aside to-day, as hateful to 
look upon ; that which we despise to- 
day is to-morrow sought after as a rare 
and precious gem. 

“ Oh, I have had my experiences. I 
remember, that while I was residing at 
the court of Saxony, I composed a 
poem in honor of the Countess Aurora 
of Konigsmark. This W'as by special 
command of the king ; the poem was 
to be set to music by Hasse, and sung 
by the Italian singers on the birthday 
of Aurora. Well, the Countess Aurora 
was cast aside before my poem was fin- 
ished, and the Countess Kozel had 
taken her place. I finished my poem, 
but Amelia, and not Aurora, was my 
heroine. Hasse composed the music, 
and no one who attended the concert, 
given in honor of the birthday of the 
Countess Kozel, had an idea that this 
festal cantata had been originally or- 
dered for Aurora of Konigsmark ! 

“ Once, while I was in Russia, I had 
an audience from the Empress Eliza- 
beth. As I approached the castle, lean- 
ing on the arm of the Captain Ischer- 
batow, I observed the guard, who stood 
before the door, and presented arms. 
Well, eight weeks later, this common 
guard was a general and a prince, and 
Ischerbatow was compelled to bow be- 
fore him ! 

“I saw in Venice a picture of the 
day of judgment, by Tintoretto. In 
this picture both Paradise and Hell 
were portrayed. I saw in Paradise 
a lovely woman glowing with youth, 
beauty, and grace. She was reclining 
in a most enchanting attitude, upon a 
bed of roses, and surrounded by angels. 
Below, on the other half of the picture 
—that is to say, in Hell^I saw the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


11 


Bame woman ; she had no couch of roses, 
blit was stretched upon a glowing grid- 
iron; no smiling angels surrounded 
her, but a hideous, grinning devil tore 
her flesh with red-hot pincers. 

“ Pope Adrian had commanded Tin- 
toretto to paint this picture, to make 
it a monument in honor of the lovely 
Cinnia, and to glorify her by all the 
power of art. Cinnia was a very dear 
friend of Adrian. He was not only a 
jjope, but a man, and a man who took 
pleasure in all beautiful things. Cinnia 
was enchanting, and it was Tintoretto’s 
flrst duty to paint her picture, and 
make her the principal object in Para- 
dise. But look you ! the Last Judg- 
ment by Tintoretto was a large paint- 
ing, so large that to count even the 
heads upon it is laborious. The heads 
in each corner are counted separately, 
and then added together. It required 
some years, of course, to paint such a 
picture; and by the time Tintoretto 
had completed Paradise and com- 
menced the lower regions, many sad 
changes had occurred. The fond heart 
of the seducmg Cinnia had withdrawn 
itself from the pope and clung tena- 
ciously to Piince Colonna. The Holy 
Father, as we have said before, not- 
withstanding he was pope, had some 
human weaknesses ; he naturally hated 
the fair inconstant, and sought revenge. 
He recommended Tintoretto to bring 
the erring one once more before the 
public — this time, however, as a guilty 
and condemned sinner in hell. 

“Dear Fredersdorf, I think always 
of this picture when I look at the fa- 
vorites of princes and kings, and I 
amuse myself with their pride and ar- 
rogance. Wlien I see them in their 
sunny paradise of power and influence, 
1 say to myself, ‘ All’s well for the fleet- 
ing present. I’ll wait patiently ; soon I 
ehall see you roasting on the glowing 
gridiron of royal displeasure, and the 
envious devils of this world filled with 


rapture at your downfall, will tear 
your flesh in pieces.’ Friend Freders- 
dorf, that is my answer to your ques- 
tion as to whether I have in one short 
year forgotten the quality of court 
life.” 

“ And by Heaven, that is a profound 
answer, which shows at least that 
Baron Pollnitz has undergone no 
change during the last year, but is still 
the experienced man of the world and 
the wise cavalier ! ” 

“ But why do you not give me my 
title, Fredersdorf? Why do you not 
call me grand chamberlain ? ” 

“Because you are no longer in the 
service of the king, but have received 
your dismissal.” 

“ Alas ! God grant that the Signora 
Biche is favorable to me ; then will 
the king, as I hope, forget tliis dismiss 
sal. One question more. You say 
that the queen-mother has no influence; 
how is it with the wife of the king, 
Elizabeth Christine ? Is she indeed the 
reigning sovereign ? ” 

“ When did you return to Berlin ? ” 
“Now, to-night; and when I left 
the carriage, I hastened here.” 

“Well, that is some excuse for your 
question. If you have only just ar- 
rived, you- could not possibly know of 
the important event which will take 
place at the court to-night. This even- 
ing the king will present his brother, 
Augustus William, to the court as 
Prince of Prussia, and his successor. 
I think that is a sufiicient answer to 
your question. As to Queen Elizabeth 
Christine, she lives in Schonhausen, 
and might be called the widow of her 
husband. The king never addresses 
one word to her, not even on grand 
festal days, when etiquette compels 
him to take a seat by her at table.” 

“ Now one last question, dear friend? 
How is it with yourself ? Are you in- 
fluential ? Does Frederick love you as 
warmly as he did a year ago ? Do you 


12 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


hope to reach the goal of yoiur ambi- 
tion, and to become all-powerful ? ” 

“ I have ceased to be ambitious,” 
sighed Fredersdorf. “ I no longer 
thirst to be the king of a king. My 
only desire is to be independent of 
courts and kings — in short, to be my 
own master. Perhaps I may succeed 
in this; if not, be ruined, as many 
others have been. If I cannot tear my 
chains apart, I will perish under them I 
As for my influence over the king, it is 
sufficient to say, that for six months I 
have loved a woman to distraction, who 
returns my passion with ardor, and I 
cannot marry her because the kmg, 
notwithstanding my prayers and agony, 
wiU not consent.” 

“ He is right,” said Pollnitz, earnest- 
ly, as he stretched himself out com- 
fortably on the sofa ; “ he is a fool who 
thinks of yielding up his, manly free- 
dom to any woman.” 

“You say that, baron? you, who 
gave up king and court, and went to 
NTumberg in order that you might 
marT’y ! ” 

“ Aha, how adroitly you have played 
the knife out of my hands, and have 
yourself become the questioner I Well, 
it is but just that you also should have 
your curiosity satisfied. Demand of 
me now and I will answer frankly.” 

“ You are not married, baron ? ” 

“ Not in the least ; and I have sworn 
that the goddess Fortuna alone shall 
be my beloved. I will have no mortal 
wife.” 

“The report, then, is untrue that 
you have again changed your religion, 
and become Protestant ? ” 

“No, this time rumor has spoken 
the truth. The Nurnberger patrician 
would accept no hand oflered by a 
Catholic ; so I took off the glove of my 
Oathoheism and dinw on my Protes- 
tant one. My God I to be a man of 
the world, his outside faith is nothing 
more than an article of the toilet. Do 


you not know that it is hon ton for 
princes when they visit strange courts 
to wear the orders and uniforms of theii 
entertainers? So it is my rule of eti 
quette to adopt the religion which the 
circumstances in which I find myself 
seem to make suitable and profitable. 
My situation in Nurnberg demanded 
that I should become a Protestant, and 
I became one.” 

“ And for all that the marriage did 
not take place ? ” 

“ No, it was broken off through the 
obstinacy of my bride, who refused to 
live in good fellowship and equality 
with me, and gave me only the use of 
her income, and no right in her proper- 
ty. Can you conceive of such folly ? 
She imagined I would give myself in 
marriage, and make a baroness of an 
indifferently pretty burgher maiden; 
yes, a baroness of the realm, and ex- 
pect no other compensation for it than 
a wife to bore me ! She wished to 
wed my rank, and found it offensive 
that I should marry, not only her fair 
self, but her millions ! The contest 
over this point broke off the contract, 
and I am glad of it. From my whole 
soul I regret and am ashamed of hav- 
ing ever thought of marriage. The 
king, therefore, has reason to be pleased 
with me.” 

“ You are thinking, then, seriously 
of remaining at court ? ” 

“ Do you not find that natural, Fre- 
dersdorf? I have lived fifty years at 
this court, and accustomed myself to 
its stupidity, its nothingness, and its 
ceremony, as a man may accustom him- 
self to a hard tent-bed, and find it at 
last more luxurious than a couch of 
eider-down. Besides, I have just lost 
a million in Nurnberg, and I must find 
a compensation ; the means at least to 
close my life worthilyi as a cavalier. I 
must, therefore, again bow my free 
neck, and enter service. You must aid 
me, and this day obtain for me an au 


FREDP^iilCK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


13 


Aience of the king. I hope your influ- 
ence will reach that far. The rest 
must be my own affair.” 

“We will see what can be done. I 
have joyful news for the king to-day. 
Perhaps it will make him gay and com- 
plaisant, and he will grant you an au- 
dience.” 

“ And this news which you have for 
him?” 

“ The Barbarina has arrived I ” 

“ What I the celebrated dancer ? ” 
“The same. We have seized and 
forcibly carried her off from the repub- 
lic of Venice and from Lord McKenzie ; 
and Baron Swartz has brought her as 
prisoner to Berlin I ” 

Pollnitz half raised himself from the 
sofa, and, seizing the arm of the pri- 
vate secretary, he looked him joyfully 
in the face. “ I have conceived a 
plan,” said he, “ a heavenly plan I My 
friend, the sun of power and splendor 
is rising for us, and your ambition, 
which has been weary and ready to 
die, wiU now revive, and raise its head 
proudly on high I That which I have 
long sought for is at last found. The 
king is too young, too ardent, too 
much the genius and the poet, to be 
completely unimpassioned. Even Achil- 
les was not impenetrable in the heel, 
and Frederick has also his mortal part. 
Do you know, Fredersdorf, who will 
discover the weak point, and send an 
airow there ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, I will tell you : the Signora 
Barbarina. Ah, you smile I you shake 
your unbelieving head. You are no 
good psychologist. Do you not know 
that we desire most earnestly that which 
seems difficult, if not impossible to at- 
tain, and prize most highly that which 
we have won with danger and difficul- 
ty ? Judge, also, how precious a treas- 
ure the Barbarina must be to Frederick. 
For her sake, he has for months car- 
ried on a diplomatic contest with Ven- 


ice, and at last he has literally torn her 
away from my Lord Stuart McKenzie.” 

“ That is true,” said Fredersdorf^ 
thoughtfully ; “ for ten days the king 
has waited with a rare impatience for 
the arrival of this beautiful dancer, and 
he commanded that, as soon as she 
reached Berlin, it should be announced 
to him.” 

“ I teU you the king will adore the 
Signora Barbarina,” said Pollnitz, as 
he once more stretched himself upon 
the sofa pillows. “ I shall visit her to- 
day, and make the necessary arrange- 
ments. Now I am content. I see 
land, a small island of glorious prom- 
ise, which will receive me, the poor 
shipwrecked mariner, and give me shel- 
ter and protection. I will make my- 
self the indispensable counsellor of 
Barbarina; I will teach her how she 
can melt the stony heart of Frederick, 
and make him her willing slave.” 

“ Dreams, dreams I ” said Freders- 
dorf, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Dreams which I will make realities 
as soon as you obtain me an audience 
with the king.” 

“ Well, we will see what can be 
done, and whether — but listen, the 
king is awake, and has opened his 
window. He is playing upon the flute, 
which is his morning custom. His 
morning music is always the barometer 
of his mood, and I can generally judge 
what kind of royal weather we may 
have, whether bright or stormy. Come 
with me to the window and listen 
awhile.” 

“ Agreed,” said Pollnitz, and ht 
sprang with youthful elasticity from 
the divan and joined Fredersdorf at 
the window. They listened almost 
breathlessly to the sweet tones which 
seemed to whisper to them from the 
upper windows; then mingling and 
melting with the perfume of the orange- 
blossoms and the glorious and life-giv- 
ing morning air, they forced their sweet 


14 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ajid subtle essence into tbe room with 
tbe cunning and hardened old courtiers. 

Fredersdorf and PoUnitz listened as 
a sly bat listens to the merry whistling 
of an innocent bird, and watches the 
propitious moment to spring upon her 
prey. It was an adagio which the 
king played upon his flute, and he was 
indeed a master in the art. Slightly 
trembling, as if in eternal melancholy, 
sobbing and pleading, soon bursting 
out in rapturous and joyful strains of 
harmony, again sighing and weeping, 
these melting tones fell like costly 
pearls upon the summer air. The birds 
in the odorous bushes, the wind which 
rustled in the trees, the light waves of 
the river, which with soft murmurs 
prattled upon the shore, all Nature 
seemed for the moment to hold her breath 
and listen to this enchanting melody. 
Even Fredersdorf felt the power and 
influence of this music as he had done 
in earlier days. The old love for his 
king filled his heart, and his eyes were 
misty with tears. 

As the music ceased, Fredersdorf ex- 
claimed involuntarily : “ He is, after all, 
the noblest and greatest of men. It is 
useless to be angry with him. I am 
forced against my will to worship him.” 

“ Now,” said Pollnitz, whose face had 
not for one moment lost its expression 
of cold attention and sly cunning, “ how 
says the barometer ? May we promise 
ourselves a clear and sunny day ! ” 

“ Yes, Frederick is in one of his soft 
and yielding moods. It is probable he 
has been some hours awake, and has 
written to some of his Mends — perhaps 
to Voltaire, or Algarotti; this makes 
him always bright and clear.” 

“ You think I shall obtain my audi- 
ence ? ” 

“ I think you will.” 

“ Then, dear friend, I have only to 
say that I hope you will give me the 
chocolate for that noble and soul-search- 
ing hound, the Signora Biche.” 


CHAPTER in. 

THE MORNIHG HOURS OF A KING. 

King Frederick had finished the 
adagio, and stood leaning against the 
window, gazing into the garden; his 
eyes, usually so fierce and commanding, 
were softened by melancholy, and a 
sad smile played upon his lips. Tlie 
touching air which ho had played found 
its echo within, and held his soul a 
prisoner to troubled thought. Sudden- 
ly he seemed to rouse himself by a 
great effort to the realities of life, and, 
hastily ringing the bell, he commanded 
Jordan, the director of the poor and 
the almshouse, to be summoned to 
him. 

A few moments later, Jordan, who 
had been for some days a guest at the 
castle of Charlottenburg, entered the 
king’s room. Frederick advanced to 
meet him, and extended both hands 
affectionately. “ Good-morning, Jor- 
dan,” said he, gazing into the wan, thin 
face of his friend, with the most earnest 
sympathy. “I hope you have had a 
refreshing night.” 

“ I have had a charming night, for I 
was dreaming of your majesty,” he re- 
plied, with a soft smile. 

Frederick sighed, released his hands, 
and stepjied back a few paces. “ Your 
majesty ? ” rejieated he. “ Wliy do you 
lay so cold a hand upon that heart 
which beats so warmly for you? To 
what purpose is this etiquette? Are 
we not alone ? and can we not accord 
to our souls a sweet interchange of 
thought and feeling without ceremony ? 
Do we not understand and love each 
other ? Forget, then, for a while, dear 
Jordan, all these worldly distinctions. 
You see I am still in my morning-dress. 
I do not, like the poor kings upon the 
stage, wear my crown and sceptre iu 
bed, or with my night-dress.” 

Jordan gazed lovingly and admirir.s 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


15 


ly upon his great friend. “ You need 
no crown upon your brow to show to 
the world that you are a king by the 
grace of God. The majesty of great- 
ness is written upon your face, my 
king.” 

“Tliat,” said Frederick, with light 
irony, “ is because we princes and kings 
are acknowledged to be the exact im- 
age of the Creator, the everlasting 
Father. As for you, and all the rest of 
the race, you dare not presume to com- 
pare yourselves with us. Probably 
you are made in the image of the 
second and third persons of the Trinity, 
while we carry upon our withered and 
wearisome faces the quintessence of the 
Godhead.” 

“ Alas ! alas, sire, if our pious priest 
heard you, what a stumbling-block 
would he consider you I ” 

The king smiled. “Do you know, 
Jordan,” said he gravely, “I believe 
God raised me up for this special mis- 
sion to be a rock of offence to these 
proud and worldly priests, and to tram- 
ple under foot their fooleries and their 
arrogance? I look upon that as the 
most important part of my mission 
upon earth, and I am convinced that I 
am appointed to humble this proud 
church, the vain and arrogant work of 
hypocritical priests, and to establish in 
its place the pure worship of God.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Jordan, shrugging 
his shoulders ; “ if the mass of men had 
the clear intellect of a Frederick I if 
their eyes were like those of my royal 
eagle, to whom it is given to gaze 
steadfastly at the sun without being 
dazzled. Alas! sire, the most of our 
race resemble you so little 1 They are 
all like the solemn night-owls, who 
di*aw a double curtain over their eyes, 
lest the light should blind them. The 
church serves as this double eyelid for 
the night-owls among men, or, rather, 
the churches, for the cunning and cov- 
etousness of those priests has not been 


satisfied with one church, but has es- 
tablished many.” 

“ Yes,” said the king angrily ; “ they 
have sown dragons’ teeth, from which 
bloodthirsty warriors have sprung, who 
wander up and down, and in mad am- 
bition tear all mankind, and themselves 
included, to pieces. Listen, Jordan, 
we have fallen upon a subject which, 
as you know, has interested and occu- 
pied me much of late, and it is precise- 
ly upon these points that I have sought 
your counsel to-day. Be seated, then, 
and hear what I have to say to you. 
You know that the pietists and priests 
charge me with being a heretic, because 
I do not think as they think, and believe 
as they believe. Which of them, think 
you, Jordan, has the true faith ? What 
is truth, and what is wisdom ? Each 
sect believes itself — and itself alone — 
the possessor of both. That is reason 
enough, it appears to me, for doubting 
them all.” 

“ In the same land ? ” 

“ Yes, in various places in the same 
city, we are taught entirely different 
doctrines in the name of religion. On 
one hand, we are threatened with ever- 
lasting fire in the company of the devil 
and his angels, if we believe that the 
Almighty is bodily present in the ele- 
ments offered at the sacrament of the 
Lord’s supper. On the other hand, we 
are taught with equal assurance, that 
the same terrible punishment will be 
awarded us unless we believe that God 
is literally, and not symbolically, pres- 
ent in the bread and wine. The sim- 
ple statement of the doctrines of the 
different churches in the world would 
fill an endless number of folios. Each 
religion condemns all others, as leading 
to perdition ; they cannot, therefore, all 
be true, for truth does not contradict 
itself. If any one of these were the 
true faith, would not God have made 
it clear, and without question, to our 
eyes? God, who is truth, cannot be 


16 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


dark or doubtful ! If these differences 
m religion related only to outward forms 
and ceremonies, we would let them pass 
as agreeable and innocent changes, even 
as we adopt contentedly the changes 
in style and fashion of our clothing. 
The doctrines of faith, as taught in 
England, cannot be made to harmonize 
with those fulminated at Rome. He to 
whom it would be given to reconcile 
all opposing doctrines, and to unite all 
hearts in one pure and simple faith, 
would indeed give peace to the world, 
and be a Messiah and a Saviour.” 

“Yes, he would accomplish what 
God himself, as it appears, has not 
thought proper to do ; his first great 
act must be to institute and carry out 
a terrible massacre, in which every 
priest of every existing religion must 
be pursued to the death.” 

“ And that is precisely my mission,” 
said the kmg. “ I will institute a mas- 
sacre, not bodily and bloodily, but soul- 
piercing and purifying. I say to you, 
Jordan, God dwells not in the churches 
of these imperious priests, who choose 
to call themselves the servants of 
God. God was with Moses on Mount 
Sinai, and with Zoroaster in the wilder- 
ness; he was by Dante’s side as he 
wrote his ‘Divina Commedia,’ and he 
piloted the ships of Columbus as he 
went out bravely to seek a new world ! 
God is everywhere, and that mankind 
should reverence and believe in and 
worship him, is proved by their bear- 
ing his image and their high calling.” 

Jordan seized the hand of the king 
and pressed it enthusiastically to his 
lips. “And the world says that you 
do not believe in God,” he exclaimed ; 
“ they class you with the unbelievers, 
and dare to preach against you, and 
slander you from the pulpit.” 

“Yes, as I do not adopt their dog- 
mas, I am, to them, a heretic,” said the 
king, laughing; “ and when they preach 
against me, it proves that they fear me. 


and look upon me as a powerful enemy. 
The enemy of the priests I will be as 
long as I live, that is to say, of those 
arrogant and imperious men who are 
wise in their own eyes, and despise all 
who do not agree with them ! I wdll 
destroy the foundations of all these 
different churches, with their different 
dogmas. I will utterly extinguish 
them by a universal church, m which 
every man shall worship God after his 
own fashion. The worship of God 
should be the only object of every 
church 1 All these different doctrines, 
which they cast in each other’s teeth, 
and for love of which they close their 
doors against each other, shall be given 
up. I will open all their chmches, and 
the fresh, pure air of God shall purify 
the musty buildings. I will build a 
temple, a great illimitable temple, a 
second Pantheon, a church w^hich shall 
unite all churches witliin itself, in 
which it shall be granted to every man 
to have his own altar, and adopt his 
own religious exercises. All desire to 
worship God ; every man shall do so 
according to his conscience! Look 
you, Jordan, how pathetically they 
discourse of brotherly love, and they 
tear each other to pieces ! Let me only 
build my Pantheon, and then will all 
men, in truth, become brothers. The 
Jew and the so-called heathen, the Mo- 
hammedan and the Persian, the Calvin- 
ist and the Catholic, the Lutheran and 
the Reformer — they will all gather into 
my Pantheon, to worship God ; all their 
forms and dogmas will simultaneously 
fall to the ground. They will believe 
simply in one God, and the churches 
of all these different sects will soon 
stand empty and in ruins.” * 

While the king spoke, his counte- 
nance was illumined ; a noble enthusi- 
asm fired his large clear eyes, and hia 


* Thl6baalt, in his “Souvenirs de Yingt Ajia, 
tells of Frederick’s plan for a Pantheon. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


1 


cheeks glowed as if from the awakening 
breath of some new internal light. 

Jordan’s glance expressed unspeaka- 
ble love, but at the same time he looked 
so sad, so pained, that Frederick felt 
chilled and restrained. 

“How, Jordan! you are not of my 
opinion?” said he, with surprise. 
“Our souls, which have been always 
heretofore in union, are now apart. 
You do not approve of my Panthe- 
on?” 

“ It is too exalted, sire, to be realized. 
Mankind require a form of religion, in 
order not to lose all personal control.” 

“ No, you mistake. They require 
only God, only love for this exalted and 
lofty Being, whom we call God. The 
only proof by which we can know that 
we can sincerely love God, lies in a 
steadfast and strong purpose to obey 
Him. According to this, we need no 
other religion than our reason, the 
good gift of God. So soon as we know 
that He has spoken, we should be silent 
and submissive. Our inward worship 
of God should consist in this that we 
acknowledge Him and confess our sins ; 
our outward worship in the perform- 
ance of all our duties, according to 
our reason, the exalted nature of God, 
and our entire dependence upon Him.” 

“ It is to be regretted, sire, that this 
world is not sufficiently enlightened to 
comprehend you. I am afraid that 
your majesty will bring about exactly 
the opposite of that which you design. 
All these religious sects which, as you 
say, are so entirely antagonistic, would 
by this forced union feel themselves 
humiliated and trampled upon; their 
hatred toward each other would be 
constantly augmented ; their antipathies 
would find new food; and their reli- 
gious zeal, which is always exclusive, 
would burn with fiercer fury. Not 
only the priests, but kings and princes, 
would look upon the carrying out of 
your plan with horror. And shall not 

3 


this daring step bring terror into the 
cabinets of kings? A monarch, who 
has just drawn the eyes of all politi- 
cians upon himself, now proposes to 
take charge of the consciences of his 
subjects, and bow them to his will ! 
Alas, how would envy, with all her 
poisonous serpents, fasten upon the 
triumphal car of a king who, by the 
great things he had already achieved, 
had given assurance of yet greater re- 
sults, and now stoops to tyrannize over 
and oppress the weak and good, and 
cast them among the ruins of their 
temples of worship to weep and lament 
in despair ! No, my king, this idea of 
a Pantheon, a universal house of wor- 
ship, can never be realized. It was a 
great and sublime thought, but not a 
wise one; too great, too enlarged and 
liberal to be appreciated by this pitiful 
world. Your majesty will forgive me 
for having spoken the honest truth. I 
was forced to speak. Like my king, I 
love the one only and true God, and 
God is truth.” 

“You have done well, Jordan,” said 
the king, after a long pause, during 
which he raised his eyes thoughtfully 
toward heaven. “ Yes, you have done 
well, and I believe you are right in 
your objections to my Pantheon. 1 
offer up to you, therefore, my favorite 
idea. For your dear sake, my Panthe- 
on shall become a ruin. Let this be a 
proof of the strong love I bear you, 
Jordan. I will not contend with the 
priests in my church, but I will pursue 
them without faltering into their own ; 
and I say to you, this will be a long 
and stiff-necked war, which will last 
while my’ life endures. I will not have; 
my people blinded and stupefied by 
priests. I will suffer no other king im 
Prussia. I alone will be king. These 
proud priests may decide, in silen-ae: 
and humility, to teach their churchesi 
and intercede for them ; but let them: 
once attempt to play the role of smaU 


18 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


popes, and to exalt themselves as the 
only possessors of the key to heaven, 
then shall they find in me an adversary 
who will prove to them that the key 
is false with which they shut up the 
Holiest of Holies, and is but used by 
them as a means to rob the people of 
their worldly goods. Light and truth 
shall be the device of my whole land. 
This will f seek after, and by this will 
I govern Prussia. I will have no 
blinded subjects, no superstitious, con- 
science-stricken, trembling, priest-rid- 
den slaves. My people shall learn to 
tliink; in ought shall be free as the 
wanton air in Prussia; no censor or 
police shall limit her boundary. The 
thoughts ol men should be like the 
life-giving and beautifying sun, all- 
nourishing and all-enlightening; call- 
ing into existence and fructifying, not 
only the rich, and rare, and lovely, but 
also the noxious and poisonous plant 
and the creeping worm. These have 
also the right of life : if left to them- 
selves, they soon die of their own 
insignificance or nothingness — die un- 
der the contempt of all the good and 
great.” 

“ I fear,” said Jordan, “ that Freder- 
ick the Great is the only man whose 
mind is so liberal and so unprejudiced. 
Believe me, my king, there is no living 
v.overeign in Eun)pe who dares guaran- 
tee to his subjects free thought and 
free speech.” 

“I will try so to act as to leave noth- 
ing to fear from the largest liberty 
of thought or speech,” said the king, 
quietly. “ Men may think and say of 
me what they will — that troubles me 
not; I will amuse myself with their 
slanders and accusations of heresy; as 
for their applause — well, that is a cheap 
merchandise, which I must share with 
every expert magician and every popu- 
lar comedian. The applause of my 
own conscience, and of my friends — thy 
applause, my Jordan — is alone of 


value for me. Then,” said he, earnest ly, 
almost solemnly, “above all things, I 
covet fame. My name shall not pass 
away like a soft tone or a sweet melody. 
I will write it in golden letters on the 
tablet of history ; it shall glitter like a 
star in the firmament ; when centuries 
have passed away, my people shall re- 
member me, and shall say, ‘ Frederick 
the Second made Prussia great, and 
enlarged her borders ; he was a father 
who loved his people more than he did 
himself, and cheerfully sacrificed his 
own rest and comfort in their service ! 
he was a teacher who spoke to them 
by word of mouth, and gave liberty to 
their souls.’ Oh, Jordan, you must 
stand by me and help me to reach this 
great goal for which I thirst. Remain 
with me, dear friend, remain ever by 
my side, and with thy love, thy con- 
stancy, thy truth, and thy sincerity, 
help me to establish what is good, and 
to punish the evil ; to acknowledge and 
promote what is noble, and expose the 
unworthy to shame and confusion. Oh, 
Jordan 1 God has perhaps called me to 
be a great king; remain by me, and 
help me to be a good and simple-mind- 
ed man.” 

He threw himself with impetuosity 
on Jordan’s breast, and clasped him 
passionately in his arms. Jordan re- 
turned the king’s embrace, and silently 
raised his moist eyes to heaven. A 
prayer to “ Our Father ” spoke in that 
eloquent eye, a heart- felt, glowing 
prayer for this man now resting upon 
his bosom, and who for him was not 
the all - powerful and commanding 
sovereign, but the noble, loving, and 
beloved friend, this poet and philoso- 
pher, before whose mighty genius his 
whole soul bowed in wonder and admi- 
ration; but suddenly, in this moment 
ofdeep and pious emotion, a cold, an icy 
chill, seemed to shiver and play like 
the breath of death over his features, 
and the hot blood, like liquid metal 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


rushed madly through his veins; he 
gave a light, short cough; with a 
quick, abrupt movement, he released 
himself from the arms of the king. 
Withdrawing a few steps, he turned 
away, and pressed his handkerchief to 
his lips. 

“Jordan, you suffer, you are sick,” 
said the king, anxiously. 

Jordan turned again to him ; his face 
was calm, and even gay; his eyes 
beamed with that strange, mysterious, 
and touching fire of consumption which 
hides the shadow of death under the 
rosy lip and glowing cheek ; and, less 
cruel than all other maladies, leaves to 
the soul its freshness, and to the heart 
its power to love and hope. 

“Not so, sire,” said Jordan, “I do 
not suffer. How can I be otherwise 
than well and happy in your pres- 
ence?” As he said this, he tried to 
thrust his handkerchief in his pocket. 

The king looked earnestly at this 
handkerchief. “ Jordan, why did you 
press that handkerchief so hastily to 
your lips ? ” 

Jordan forced a smile. “ Well,” said 
he, “ I was obliged, as your majesty no 
doubt saw, to cough, and I wished to 
make this disagreeable music as soft as 
possible.” 

“That was not the reason,” said 
Frederick; and, stepping hastily for- 
ward, he seized the handkerchief. 
“ Blood ! it is drenched in blood,” said 
he, in a tone so full of anguish, that it 
was evident he recognized and feared 
^his fatal signal. 

“ Well, yes, it is blood ; your majesty 
sees I am bloodthirsty I Unhappily, I 
do not shed the blood of your enemies, 
but my own, which I would gladly 
give, drop by drop, if I could thereby 
save my king one hour’s suffering or 
care.” 

“And yet you, Jordan, are now the 
cause of my bitterest grief. You are ill, 
and you conceal it from me. Y ou suffer, 


and force yourself to seem gay, and 
hide your danger from me, in place of 
turning to my physicians and demand- 
ing their counsel and aid.” 

“Frederick the Wise once said to 
me, ‘Physicians are but quacks and 
charlatans, and a man gives himself up 
to a tedious suicide who swallows their 
prescriptions.’ ” 

“No, it was not ‘Frederick the 
Wise,’ but ‘Frederick the Fool,’ who 
uttered that folly. When the sun is 
shining, Frederick has no fear of 
ghosts; but at the turn of midnight, 
he will breathe a silent ‘Father in 
heaven,’ to be protected from them. 
We have no use for confidence in phy- 
sicians when we are healthy ; when we 
are ill we need them, and then we be- 
gin to hold them in consideration. 
You are ill, your breast suffers. I en- 
treat you, Jordan, to call upon my phy- 
sician, and to follow his advice prompt- 
ly and systematically. I demand this 
as a proof of your friendship.” 

“ I will obey your majesty, immedi- 
ately,” said Jordan, who now found 
himself completely overcome by the 
weakness which follows loss of blood ; 
trembling, and almost sinking, he 
leaned upon the table. Frederick per- 
ceived this, and rolling forward his 
own arm-chair, with loving and tender 
care, he placed Jordan within it. He 
called his servant, and ordered him to 
roll the chair to Jordan’s room, and go 
instantly for the physician EUertt 

“ It will be all in vain, and I shall 
lose him,” murmured the king. “Yes, 
I will lose him, as I have lost Suhm, 
and as I shall soon lose my Caesarius, 
the good Kaiserling. Alas I why did 
God give me so warm a heart for friend- 
ship, and then deprive me of my 
friends ? ” 

Folding his arms, he stepped to the 
window and gazed thoughtfully and 
sadly into the garden below, but he saw 
not its bloom and beauty; his eyes 


20 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


were turned inward, and lie saw only 
the grave of his friend. Suddenly 
rousing and conquering himself, he 
shook off the weary spirit of melan- 
choly, and sought comfort in his flute, 
the faithful companion of all his suffer- 
ings and struggles. 


CHAPTER ly. 

THE PAHDONED COURTIER. 

Frederick commenced again to play, 
but this time it was not an adagio, but 
a joyous and triumphant allegro, with 
which he sought to dispel the melan- 
choly and quench the tears flowing in 
his troubled heart. He walked back- 
ward and forward in his room, and 
from time to time stood before the sofa 
upon which his graceful greyhound, 
Biche, was quietly resting. Every time 
the king passed her sofa, Biche raised 
her beautiful head and greeted her roy- 
al friend with an intelligent and friend- 
ly glance and a gentle wagging of her 
tail, and this salutation was retm-ned 
each time by Frederick before he 
passed on. Finally, and still playing 
the flute, the king pressed his foot upon 
a silver button in the floor of his room, 
and rang a bell which hung in Freders- 
dorf’s room, immediately under his 
own. 

A few moments later the secretary 
entered, but stood quietly at the door 
till the king had finished his allegro 
and laid aside his flute. 

“ Good-morning,” said the king, and 
he looked up at his favorite with so 
sharp and piercing a glance that Fre- 
dersdorf involuntarily trembled, and 
cast his eyes to the ground. “ You 
must have been long wide awake, you 
answer the bell so quickly.” 

“ Yes, your majesty, I have been long 
awake. I am happy, for I have good 
news to bring you.” 


“ Well, what is it ? ” said the king, 
smiling. “Has my god-mother, the 
Empress Maria Theresa, voluntarily sur- 
rendered to the Emperor Charles VH. ? 
Have France and England become rec- 
onciled? or — and that seems to me the 
most probable — has my private secre- 
tary mastered the mystery of gold-mak- 
ing, after which he has so long striven, 
and for which he so willingly offers up 
the most costly and solemn sacrifices ? ” 
The king laid so peculiar an expression 
upon the word %a<ynjice that Freders- 
dorf wondered if he had not listened 
to his conversation with Joseph, and 
learned the strange sacrifice which they 
now proposed to offer up to the devil’s 
shrine. 

“ Well, tell your news quickly,” said 
the king. “ You see that I am tortur- 
ing myself with the most wild and in- 
credible suppositions.” 

“ Sire, the Barbarina reached Berlin 
last night.” 

“ Truly,” said the king, indifferently, 
“ so we have at last ravished her from 
Venice, and Lord Stuart McKenzie.” 

“ Not exactly so, your highness. 
Lord Stuart McKenzie arrived in Ber- 
lin this morning.” 

Frederick frowned. “This is also, 
as it appears, a case of true love, and 
may end in a silly marriage. I am not 
pleased when men or women in my 
service entertain serious thoughts of 
love or marriage; it occupies their 
thoughts and interferes with the per- 
formance of their duty.” 

“Your majesty judges severely,” 
murmured Fredersdorf, who knew full 
well that this remark was intended for 
his special benefit. 

“ Well, this is only my opinion, but 
I act in consonance with it. I allow 
myself no such relaxation. Have I 
even had a love - affair ? Perhaps, 
Fredersdorf, you believe my blood to 
be frozen like ice in my veins; that I 
have a heart of stone ; in short, that I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


21 


ceased to be a man when I became a 
king.” 

“ Not so ; but I believe your majesty 
is too great and too exalted to find any 
one worthy of your love.” 

“Folly, folly, sheer folly, Freders- 
dorf ! Wlien a man loves, he does not 
weigh himself in the scales and* find 
out how many pounds of worth he has; 
he only loves, and forgets all other 
earthly things. Now, for myself, I 
dare not forget that I am king, and 
that my time and strength belong to 
my people. My heart is too tender, 
and for this reason I fly from love. So 
should you also flee, you also dare not 
forget that your life is consecrated to 
your king. The Signora Barbarina 
shall not forget that she is in my ser- 
vice ; dancing, and not loving, must 
now occupy her thoughts and actions. 
I will allow her flirtations and amours, 
but a true love I absolutely forbid. 
How can she go through with her bal- 
lets, her pirouettes, and entre - chats 
gayly and gracefully if a passionate 
love sits enthroned within her heart ? 
I have promised the English ambassa- 
dor, who is the cousin of this Lord 
Stuart McKenzie, that I will separate 
these lovers. At this moment the 
friendship of England is of much im- 
portance to me, and I shall certainly 
keep my promise. Write immediately 
to the director of police that I com- 
mand him not only to banish Lord 
• McKenzie from Berlin, but to send him 
under guard to Hamburg, and there 
place him upon an English ship bound 
for England. In twelve hours he must 
leave Berlin.* Is that your only news, 
Fredersdorf ? ” 


* This order was obeyed. Lord McKenzie, the 
tender lover of the beautiful Barbarina, who had 
followed her from Venice to Berlin, was immedi- 
ately, on his arrival, banished from Prussia by the 
special command of the king, and taken to Ham- 
burg ; from thence he addressed some passionate 
.etters to his beautiful beloved, which she, of 
vourse, never received, and which are preserved in 


“ No, sire,” said he, stealing a glance 
toward the door, which at this moment 
was lightly opened. “ I have another 
novelty to announce, but I do not know 
whether it will be acceptable to your 
majesty. Baron von Pollnitz — 

“Has sent us the announcement of 
his marriage ? ” 

“ No, sire, he is not married.” 

At this moment, the Signora Biche 
began to bay light notes of welcome, 
ttud raised herself up from her comfort- 
able position on the sofa. The king 
did not remark her, however ; he was 
wholly occupied with Fredersdorf. 

“ How I do you say he is not mar- 
ried?” 

“No, he is not married,” said a 
plaintive voice from behind the door, 
“and he prays your majesty, of your 
great grace, to allow him to dedicate 
his whole life to his royal master, for 
getting all other men and women.” 
Tlie king turned and saw his former 
master of ceremonies kneeling before 
the door, and his clasped hands 
stretched out imploringly before him. 

Frederick gave a hearty peal of 
laughter, while Biche, raising herself 
with a joyful bark, sprang toward the 
kneeling penitent, and capered playfully 
about him ; she appeared indeed to be 
licking the hand in which the saga- 
cious baron held loosely a large piece 
of her favorite chocolate. At first, the 
king laughed heartily; then, as he re- 
marked how tenderly Biche licked the 
hand of the baron, he shook his head 
thoughtfully. “ I have had a false con- 
fidence in the true instinct of my little 
Biche ; she seems, indeed, to welcome 
Pollnitz joyfully ; while a sharp bite in 
his calf is the only reception which his 
wicked and faithless heart deserves.” 

“Happily, sire, my heart is not 
lodged in my calves,” said Pollnitz. 
“ The wise Biche knows that the heart 

the royal archives at Berlin. — (See Schneider’s 
“ History of Operas.”) 


22 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI ; OR, 


of Pollnitz is always in the same place, 
and that love to my king and master 
has alone brought me back to Berlin.” 

“ Nonsense ! A Pollnitz can feel no 
other love than that which he cherishes 
for his own worthy person, and the 
purses of all others. Let him explain 
now, quickly and without circumlocu- 
tion, if he really wishes my pardon, 
why, after going to Nurnberg to marry 
a bag of gold, containing a few mill- 
ions, he has now returned to Berlin.” 

“Sire, without circumlocution, the 
bag of gold would not open for me, 
and would not scatter its treasures ac- 
cording to my necessities and desires.” 

“ Ah 1 1 comprehend. The beautiful 
Nurnberger had heard of your rare 
talent for scattering gold, and thought 
it wiser to lose a baron of the realm 
than to lose her millions.” 

“ Yes, that’s about it, sire.” 

“ I begin to have a great respect for 
the wisdom of this woman,” said 
Frederick, laughing. “ I think she has 
a more reliable instinct than my poor 
Biche, who, I see, still licks your 
hands.” 

“Oh, Biche knows me better than 
any man,” said Pollnitz, tenderly pat- 
ting the greyhound. “ Biche knows 
that my heart is filled with but one 
love — love to my king and master. 
She knows that I have returned to lay 
myself, as she does, in all humility and 
self-abandonment, at the feet of my 
royal Frederick, to receive either kicks 
or favors, as he may see fit to bestow 
them; to be equally grateful for the 
bones he may throw to me in his pity, 
as for the costly viands he may grant 
in the magnanimity of his great soul.” 

“You are an absolute and unqualified 
fool,” said the king, laughing, “ and if 
it was not against my conscience, and 
unworthy of human nature, to engage 
a man as a perpetual buffoon, I would 
promote you to the office of court fool. 
You might, at least, serve as an exam- 


ple to my cavaliers, by teaching them 
what they ought to avoid.” 

“ I have merited this cruel contempt, 
this painful punishment from my royal 
master,” said Pollnitz. “I submit si- 
lently. I will not, for a moment, seek 
to justify myself.” 

“You do well in that. You can 
make no defence. You left my service 
faithlessly and heartlessly, with the 
hope of marrying a fortune. The mar- 
riage failed, and you come back with 
falsehood in your heart and on your 
lips, chattering about your love for my 
royal house. You are not ashamed to 
liken yourself to a hound, and to howl 
even as they do, in order that I may 
take you back into favor. Do not sup- 
pose, for one moment, that I am 
deceived by these professions — if you 
could have done better for yourself 
elsewhere, you would not have returned 
to Berlin ; that not being the case, you 
creep back, and vow that love only has 
constrained you. Look you, Pollnitz, 
I know you, I know you fully. You 
can never deceive me; and, most 
assuredly, I would not receive you 
again into my service, if I did not look 
upon you as an old inventory of my 
house, an inheritance of my grandfa- 
ther Frederick. I receive you, there- 
fore, out of consideration for the dead 
kings in whose service you were, and 
who amused themselves with your 
follies ; for their sakes I cannot allow 
you to hunger. Think not that I will 
prepare you a bed of down, and give 
you gold to waste in idleness. You 
must work for your living even as we 
all do. I grant you a pension, but you 
will perform your old duty, as grand 
master of ceremonies. You understand 
such nonsense better than I do. Y’ou 
were educated in a good school, and 
studied etiquette from the foundation 
stone, under Prussia’s first king; and 
that you may not say we have over- 
looked your great worth, I will lay yet 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


23 


anotlier burden upon your shoulders, 
and make you ‘ master of the wardrobe.’ 
It shall not be said of us, that nonsense 
and folly are neglected at our court ; 
even these shall have their tribute. 
You shall therefore be called ‘ Master 
of the Robes,’ but I counsel you, yes, I 
warn you, never to interfere with my 
coats and shirts. Y'ou shall have no 
opportunity to make a gold - embroid- 
ered monkey of me. Etiquette requires 
that I must have a master of the robes, 
but I warn you to interest yourself in 
all other things rather than in my toi- 
let.” 

“ All that your majesty condescends 
to say, is written in letters of flame 
upon my heart.” 

“ I would rather suppose upon your 
knees; they must indeed burn from 
this long penance. I have read you a 
lecture, d la fagon of a village school- 
master. You can rise — the lecture is 
over.” 

Pollnitz rose from his knees, and, 
straightening himself, advanced before 
the king, and made one of those low, 
artistic bows, which he understood to 
perfection. “ When does your majesty 
wish that I should enter upon my du- 
ties ? ” 

“To-day — at this moment. Count 
Tessin, a special ambassador from 
Sweden, has just arrived. I wish to 
give him a comdly reception. You 
will make the necessary arrange- 
ments. Enter at once upon the dis- 
charge of your functions.” 

“ I suppose, sire, that my salary also 
commences so soon as I begin the dis- 
charge of my duties ? ” 

“I said nothing about a salary. I 
promised you a pension; and, not 
wishing to maintain you in absolute 
idleness, I laid upon you these absurd 
and trifling duties.” 

“ Shall I not, then, receive two pen- 
sions, if I discharge the two functions ? ” 
said Pollnitz, in a low voice. I 


“ You are an out-and-out scoundrel,’ 
said Frederick, “ but I know all youi 
tricks. I shall not follow my father’s 
example, who once asked you how much 
it required to maintain worthily a cava- 
lier of rank, and you assured him that 
a hundred thousand thalers was not 
sufficient. I grant you a pension of 
two thousand thalers, and I tell you it 
must suffice to support you creditably. 
Woe to you, when you commence 
again your former most contemptible 
and miserable life ! woe to you, when you 
again forget to distinguish between your 
own money and the money of others ! 
I assure you that I will never again 
pay one of your debts. And in order 
that credulous men may not be so silly 
as to lend you money, I will make my 
wishes known by a printed order, and 
impose a tax of fifty thalers upon every 
man silly and bold enough to lend you 
money. Are you content with this, 
and will you enter my service upon these 
terms ? ” 

“ Yes, on any conditions which youi 
majesty shall please to lay upon me. 
But when, in spite of this open declara- 
tion of your majesty, crazy people will 
still insist upon lending me money, you 
will admit, sire, in short, that it is not my 
debt, and I cannot be called upon for 
payment.” 

“I win take such precautions that 
no one will be foolish enough to lend 
you money. I will have it publicly 
announced, that he who lends you mon • 
ey shall have no claim upon you, so that 
to lend you gold is to give you gold, 
and truly in such a way as to spare you 
even the trouble of thanks. I will 
have this trumpeted through every 
street. Are you still content ? ” 

“ Oh, sire, you show me in this the 
greatest earthly kindness; you make 
me completely irresponsible. Woe to 
the fools and lunatics who are mad 
enough to lend me money ! From this 
time onward I shall never know a 


24 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


weary or listless moment. I shall 
have always the cheering and inspiring 
occupation of winning the hearts of 
trusting and weak-minded dunces, and, 
by adroit sleight-of-hand, transferring 
the gold from their pockets to my 
own.” 

“You are incorrigible,” said the king. 

“ I doubt if all mankind are made after 
the image of God. I think many of the 
race resemble the devil, and I look 
upon you, Pollnitz, as a tolerably suc- 
cessful portrait of his satanic majesty. 

I don’t suppose you will be much dis- 
composed by this opinion. I imagine 
you look upon God and the devil in 
very much the same light.” 

“Oh, not so, your majesty; I am far 
too religious to fall into such errors.” 

“Yes, you are too religious; or, 
rather, you have too many religions. To 
which, for example, do you now pro- 
fess to belong ? ” 

“ Sire, I have become a Protestant.” 

From conviction ? ” 

“ So long as I believed in the possi- 
bility of marrying several millions — yes, 
from conviction. These millions would 
have made me happy, and surely I 
might allow myself to become a Protes- 
tant in order to be happy.” 

“ Once for all, how many times have 
you changed yonr religion ? ” said the 
king, thoughtfully. 

“ Oh, not very often, sire ! I am for- 
ever zealously seeking after the true 
faith, and so long as I do not find that 
religion which makes me content with 
such things as I have, I am forced 
to change in justice to myself. In my 
childhood I was baptized and brought 
up a Lutheran, and I had nothing 
xgainst it, and remained in that com- 
munion till I went to Rome; there I 
saw the Holy Father, the Pope, perform 
mass, and the solemn ceremony roused 
my devotional feelings to such a height 
that I became a Catholic immediately. 
This was, however, no change of reli- 


gion. Up to this time I had not acted 
for myself ; so the Catholic may be 
justly called my first faith.” 

“ Yes,, yes ! that w'as about the time 
you stole your dying bride’s diamonds 
and fled from France.” 

“ Oh, your majesty, that is a wicked 
invention of my enemies, and utterly 
unfounded. If I had really stolen and 
sold those magnificent brilliants — ^worth 
half a million — from my dying love, it 
would have been sutficient to assure me 
a luxurious life, and I should not have 
found it imperative to become a Cath- 
olic.” 

“ Ah, you confess, then, that you did 
not become a Catholic from conviction, 
but in order to obtain the favor of the 
cardinals and the Pope ? ” 

“ Nothing escapes the quick eye of 
your majesty, so I will not dare to de- 
fend myself. I came back to Berlin, 
then, a Catholic, and the ever-blessed 
king received me graciously. He was a 
noble and a pious man, and my soul 
was seized with a glowing desire to 
imitate him. I saw, indeed, how little 
I had advanced on the path to glory by 
becoming a Catholic ! I made a bold 
resolve, and entered the Reformed 
Church.” 

“And by this adroit move you ob- 
tained your object : you became the fa- 
vorite of my father the king. As he, 
unhappily, can show you no further fa- 
vor, it is no longer prudent to be a re- 
former, so you are again a Lutheran — 
from conviction I ” 

“ Oh, all the world knows the great, 
exalted, and unprejudiced mind of our 
young king,” said Pollnitz. “It is to 
him a matter of supreme indifference 
what religious sect a man belongs to, so 
he adopts that faith which makes him 
a brave, reliable and serviceable subject 
of his king and his fatherland.” 

Frederick cast a dark and contempt- 
uous glance at him. “ You are a mis 
erable mocker and despiser of all hol^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


25 


things ; you belong to that large class 
who, not from convictions of reason, 
but from worldly-mindedness and licen- 
tiousness, do not believe in the Chris- 
tian religion. Such men can never be 
honest ; they have perhaps from their 
childhood been preached to, not to do 
evil from fear of hell-fire; and so soon 
as they cease to believe in hell-fire, they 
give themselves up to vice without re-' 
morse. You are one of these most mis- 
erable wretches ; and I say to you, that 
you will at last suffer the torments of 
the damned. I know there is a hell- 
fire, but it can only be found in a man’s 
conscience 1 Now go and enter at once 
upon your duties ; in two hours I will 
receive Count Tessin in the palace at 
Berlin.” 

PoUnitz made the three customary 
bows and left the room. The king 
gazed after him contemptuously. “ He 
is a finished scoundrel I ” Then turn- 
ing to Fredersdorf, who at that moment 
entered the room, he said : “ I believe 
Pollnitz would sell his mother if he 
was in want of money. You have 
brought me back a charming fellow ; I 
rejoice that there are no more of the 
race ; Pollnitz has at least the fiime of 
being alone in his style. Is there any 
one else who asks an audience ? ” 

“Yes, sire, the antechamber is full, 
and every man declares that his com- 
plaint can only be made personally 
to your majesty. It will require much 
time to listen to all these men, and 
would be, besides, a bad example. 
If your majesty receives fifty men to- 
day, a hundred will demand audience 
to-morrow ; they must therefore be put 
aside : I have advised them all to make 
their wishes known in writing.” 

“ Well, I think every man knows that 
.6 the common mode of proceeding ; as 
these people have not adopted it, it is 
evident they prefer speaking to me. 
There are many things which can be 
better said than written. A king has 


no right to close his ear to his subjects. 
A ruler should not resemble a framed 
and curtained picture of a god, only on 
rare and solemn occasions to be stared 
and wondered at; he must be to his 
people what the domestic altat and the 
household god was to the Romans, to 
which they drew near at all hours with 
consecrated hearts and pious memories. 
Here they made known all their earns, 
their sorrows, and their joys ; here they 
found comfort and peace. I will never 
withdraw myself from my subjects; no, 
I will be the household god of my peo- 
ple, and will lend a willing ear to all 
their prayers and complaints. Turn no 
man away, Fredersdorf ; I will announce 
it publicly, that every man has the right 
to appeal to me personally.” 

“My king is great and good,” said 
Fredersdorf, sadly; “every man but 
myself can offer his petition to your 
majesty and hope for grace ; the king’s 
ear is closed only to me; to my en- 
treaties he will not listen.” 

“Fredersdorf, you complain that I 
will not give my consent to your mar- 
riage. What would you ? I love you 
too well to give you up ; but when you 
take a wife, you will be forever lost to 
me. A man cannot serve two masters, 
and I will not divide your heart with 
this Mademoiselle Daum; you must 
give it to me entire I Do not call me 
cruel, Fredersdorf ; believe that I love 
you and cannot give you up.” 

“ Oh, sire, I shall only truly belong to 
you in love and gratitude, when you 
permit me to be happy and wed the 
maiden I so fondly love.” 

“I will have no married private sec- 
retary, nor will I have a married secre- 
tary of state,” said the king, with a 
dark frown. “ Say not another word, 
Fredersdorf; put these thoughts away 
from you ! My God, there are so many 
other things on which you could have 
set your heart I why must it be ever on 
a woman ?” 


26 


BERLESr AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“Because I love her passionately, 
your majesty.” 

“Ah, bah I do you not love other 
things with which you can console 
yourself? You are a scholar and an al- 
chemist. * Well, then, read Horace; ex- 
ercise yourself in the art of making 
gold, and forget this Mademoiselle 
Daum, who, be it said, in confidence 
between us, has no other fascination 
than that she is rich. As to her wealth, 
that can have but little charm for you, 
who, wdth out doubt, will soon have con- 
trol of all the treasures of the world. 
By God’s help, or the devil’s, you will 
very soon, I suppose, discover the secret 
of making gold.” 

“ He has, indeed, heard my conversa- 
tion with Joseph,” said Fredersdorf to 
himself, and, ashamed and confused, he 
cast his eyes down before the laughing 
glance of the king. 

“ Read your Horace diligently,” said 
Frederick — “you know he is also my 
favorite author ; you shall learn one of 
his beautiful songs by heart, and repeat 
it to me.” 

The king walked up and down the 
room, and cast, from time to time, a 
piercing glance at Fredersdorf. He 
then repeated from Horace these two 
lines: 

‘ Torment not your heart 
With the rich offering of a bleeding iamb.’ ” 

“ I see well,” said Fredersdorf, com- 
pletely contused, “ I see well that your 
majesty knows — ” 

“ That it is high time,” said the king, 
interrupting him, “ to go to Berlin; you 
do well to remind me of it. Order 
my carriage — I will be off at once.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

HOW THE PRINCESS ULRICA HECAME 
QUEEN OP SWEDEN. 

Princess Ulrica, the eldest of the 
two unmarried sisters of the king, 
paced her room with passionate steps. 
The king had just made the queen- 
mother a visit, and had commanded 
that his two sisters should be present at 
the interview. 

Frederick was gay and talkative. 
He told them that the Signora Barba- 
rina had arrived, and would appear that 
evening at the castle theatre. He in- 
vited his mother and the two princesses 
to be present. He requested them to 
make tasteful and becoming toilets, and 
to be bright and amiable at the ball 
and supper after the theatre. The king 
implored them both to be gay : the one, 
in order to show that she ivas neither 
angry nor jealous ; the other, that she 
was proud and happy. 

The curiosity of the two young girls 
was much excited, and they urged the 
king to explain his mysterious words. 
He informed them that Count Tessin, 
the Swedish ambassador, would be 
present at the ball; that he was sent 
to Berlin to select a wife for the prince 
royal of Sweden, or, rather, to receive 
one ; the choice, it apjDeared, had been 
already made, as the count had asked 
the king if he might make proposals 
for the hand of the Princess Amelia, or 
if she were already promised in mar- 
riage. The king replied that Amelia 
was bound by no contract and that 
proposals from Sweden would be gra- 
ciously received. 

“ Be, therefore lovely and attractive,” 
said the king, placing his hand caress- 
ingly upon the rosy cheek of his little 
sister ; “ prove to the count that the in- 
tellectual brow of my sweet sister is 
fitted to wear a crown worthily.” 

The queen-mother glanced toward 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FRIENDS. 


27 


^he window into which the Princess 
Ulrica had hastily withdrawn. 

“ And will your majesty really con- 
sent that the youngest of my daughters 
shall be first married ? ” 

The king followed the glance of his 
mother, and saw the frowning brow and 
trembling lip of his sister. Frederick 
feared to increase the mortification of 
Ulrica, and seemed, therefore, not to 
observe her withdrawal. 

“ I think,” said he, “ your majesty 
WrtS not older than Amelia when you 
married my father; and if the crown 
prince of Sweden wishes to marry Ame- 
lia, I see no reason why we should re- 
fuse him. Happily, we are not Jews, 
^d our laws do not forbid the younger 
sister to marry first. To refuse the 
prince the hand of Amelia, or to ofier 
him the hand of Ulrica, would indicate 
that we feared the latter might remain 
unsought. I think my lovely and tal- 
ented sister does not deserve to be 
placed in such a mortifying position, 
and that her hand will be eagerly 
sought by other royal wooers.” 

“And, for myself, I am not at all 
anxious to marry,” said Ulrica, throw- 
ing her head back proudly, and casting 
a half-contemptuous, half-pitiful look 
at Amelia. “ I have no wish to marry. 
Truly, I have not seen many happy ex- 
amples of wedded life in our family. 
All my sisters are unhappy, and I see 
no reason why I should tread the same 
thorny path.” 

The king smiled. “I see the little 
Ulrica shares my aversion to wedded 
Ufe, but we cannot expect, dearest, that 
all the world should be equally wise. 
We will, therefore, allow our foolish 
sister Amelia to wed, and run away 
from us. This marriage will cost her 
anxiety and sorrow ; she must not only 
place her little feet in the land of rein- 
deers, bears, and eternal snows, but she 
must also- be baptized and adopt a new 
religion. Let us thank God, then, that 


the prince has had the caprice to pass 
you by and choose Amelia, who, I can 
see, is resolved to be married. We 
will, therefore, leave the foolish child 
to her fate.” 

It was Frederick’s intention, by 
these light jests, to comfort his sister 
Ulrica, and give her time to collect 
herself. He did not remark that his 
words had a most painful effect upon 
his younger sister, and that she became 
deadly pale as he said she must change 
her faith in order to become princess 
royal of Sweden. 

The proud queen-mother had also re- 
ceived this announcement angrily. “ I 
think, sire,” said she, “ that the daugh- 
ter of William the Second, and the 
sister of the King of Prussia might be 
allowed to remain true to the faith of 
her fathers.” 

“Madame,” said the king, bowing 
reverentially, “ the question is not, I am 
sorry to say, as to Amelia’s father or 
brother ; she will be the mother of sons, 
who, according to the law of the land, 
must be brought up in the religion of 
their father. You see, then, that if 
this marriage takes place, one of the 
two contracting parties must yield; 
and, it appears to me, that is the call- 
ing and the duty of the woman.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the queen, bitterly, 
“ you have been educated in too good 
a school, and are too thoroughly a 
Hohenzollem, not to believe in the 
complete self-renunciation of women. 
At this court, women have only to 
obey.” 

“Nevertheless, the women do rule 
over us ; and even when we appear to 
command, we are submissive and obe- 
dient,” said the king, as he kissed his 
mother’s hand and withdrew. 

The three ladies also retired to their 
own rooms immediately. Each one 
was too much occupied with her own 
thoughts to bear the presence of an- 
other. 


28 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


And now, being alone, the Princess 
Ulrica found it no longer necessary to 
retain the smiles which she had so long 
and with such mighty effort forced to 
play upon her lips; every pulse was 
beating with glowing rage, and she 
gave free course to her scorn. 

Her younger sister, this little maiden 
of eighteen years, was to be married, to 
wed a future king; while she, the el- 
dest, now two-and-twenty, remained 
unchosen! And it was not her own 
disinclination, or the will of the king, 
which led to this shameful result ; no 1 
the Swedish ambassador came not to 
seek her hand, but that of her sister I 
She, the elder, was scorned — set aside. 
The king might truthfully say there 
was no law of the land which forbade 
the marriage of the younger sister be- 
fore the elder ; but there was a law of 
custom and of propriety, and this law 
was trampled upon. 

As Ulrica thought over these things, 
she rose from her seat with one wild 
spring. On entering the room she had 
been completely overcome, and, with 
trembling knees, she had fallen upon the 
divan. She stood now, however, like a 
tigress prepared for attack, and look- 
ing for the enemy she was resolved to 
slay. The raging, stormy blood of the 
Hohenzollerns was aroused. The ener- 
gy and pride of her mother glowed 
with feverish pulses in her bosom. She 
would have been happy to find an en- 
emy opposed to her, the waves of 
passion rushing through her veins 
might then have been assuaged; but 
she was alone, entirely alone, and had 
no other enemy to overcome than her- 
self. She must, then, declare war 
against her own evil heart. With wild 
steps she rushed to the glass, and scru- 
tinizingly and fiercely examined her 
own image. Her eye was cold, search- 
ing, and stem. Yes, she would prove 
herself; she would know if it were any 
thing in her outward appearance which 


led the Swedish ambassador to choose 
her sister rather than herself. 

“ It is true, Amelia is more beautiful, 
in the common acceptation of the word ; 
her eyes are larger, her cheek rosier, 
her smile more fresh and youthful, and 
her small but graceful figure is at the 
same time childlike and voluptuous. 
She would make an enchanting shep- 
herdess, but is not fitted to be a queen. 
She has no majesty, no presence. She 
has not by nature that imposing gravi- 
ty, which is the gift of Providence, 
and cannot be acquired, and without 
which the queen is sometimes forgotten 
in the woman. Amelia can never at- 
tain that eternal calm, that exalted 
composure, which checks all approadh 
to familiarity, and which, by an almost 
imperceptible pressure of the hand and 
a light smile, bestows more happiness 
and a more liberal reward than the 
most impassioned tenderness and the 
warmest caresses of a commonplace wo- 
man. No, Amelia could never make a 
complete queen, she can only be a beau- 
tiful woman ; while I — I know that I 
am less lovely, but I feel that I am born 
to rule. I have the grace and figure of 
a queen — ^yes, I have the soul of a 
queen ! I would understand how to be 
imposmg, and, at the same time, to ob- 
tain the love of my people, not from 
any weak thirst for love, but from a 
queenly ambition. But I am set aside, 
and Amelia will be a queen ; my fate 
will be that of my elder sisters, I shall 
wed a poor margrave, or paltry duke, 
and may indeed thank God if I am not 
an old maiden princess, with a small 
pension.” 

She stamped wildly upon the floor, 
and paced the room with hasty steps 
Suddenly she grew calmer ; her brow 
which had been overshadowed by darh 
clouds, cleared, and a faint smile played 
upon those lips which a moment before 
had been compressed by passion. 

“After all,” she said, “the foiToal 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


29 


demand for the hand of Amelia has 
not yet been made; perhaps the am- 
bassador has mistaken my name for 
that of Amelia, and as he has made no 
direct proposition, I am convinced he 
wishes to make some observations be- 
fore deciding. Now, if the result of 
this examination should prove to him 
that Amelia is not fitted to be the wife 
of his prince, and if Amelia herself — I 
thought I saw that she turned pale as the 
king spoke of abandoning her faith ; 
and when she left the room, despair 
and misery were written upon that face 
which should have glowed with pride 
and triumph. Ah, I see land I ” said 
Ulrica, breathing freely and sinking 
comfortably upon the divan, “ I am no 
longer hopelessly shipwrecked ; I have 
found a plank, which may perhaps save 
me. Let me consider calmly,” — and, 
as if Fate itself were playing into her 
hand, the door opened and Amelia en- 
tered. 

One glance was sufficient to show to 
Ulrica that she was not deceived, and 
that this important event had brought 
no joy to poor Amelia, The lovely eyes 
of the princess were red with weeping ; 
and the soft lips, so generally and gladly 
given to gay chat and merry laughter, 
were now expressive of silent anguish. 
Ulrica saw all this, and laid her plans 
accordingly. In place of receiving 
Amelia coldly and repulsively, which 
but a few moments before she would 
have done, she sprang to meet her with 
every sign of heart-felt love ; the little 
maiden threw herself weeping convul- 
sively into her sister’s arms, and was 
pressed closely and tenderly to her bo- 
som. 

“ Tears ! ” said Ulrica, lovingly, as she 
drew her sister to the sofa and pressed 
her down upon the soft pillows ; “ you 
weep, and yet a splendid future is this 
Jay secured to you ! ” 

Amelia sobbed yet more loudly, and 
pressed her tear-stained face more close- 


ly to the bosom of her sister. Ulrica 
looked down with a mixture of curios- 
ity and triumph ; she could not under- 
stand these tears ; but she had a secret 
satisfaction in seeing the person she 
most envied weeping so bitterly. 

“ How is this ? are you not happy to 
be a queen ? ” 

Amelia raised her face hastily and 
sobbed out : “ No ! I am not pleased to 
be an apostate, to peijure myself I I 
am not content to deny my faith, in 
order to buy a miserable earthly crown ! 
I have sworn to be true to my God and 
my faith, and now I am commanded to 
lay it aside like a perishable robe, and 
take another in exchange.” 

“ Ah, is it that ? ” said Ulrica, with a 
tone of contempt she could scarcely con- 
trol ; “ you fear this bold step by which 
your poor innocent soul may be com- 
promised.” 

“ I will remain true to the belief in 
which I have been educated, and to 
which I have dedicated myself at the 
altar!” cried Amelia, bursting again 
into tears. 

“ It is easy to see that but a short 
time only has elapsed since you took 
these vows upon you. You have all 
the fanaticism of a new convert. How 
would our blessed father rejoice if he 
could see you now ! ” 

“ He would not force me to deny my 
religion ; he would not, for the sake of 
outward splendor, endanger my soul’s 
salvation. Oh! it is harsh and cruel 
of my brother to treat me as a piece of 
merchandise ; he asks not whether my 
heart or principles can conscientiously 
take part in his ambitious plans.” 

Ulrica cast a long and piercing 
glance upon her sister. She would 
gladly have searched to the bottom of 
her soul; she wished to know if this 
fierce opposition to the marriage was 
the result of love to the faith of her fa- 
ther. 

“And you are not ambitious? you 


30 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


are not excited by the thought of be- 
ing a queen, of marrying a man who 
will fill a place in the world’s his- 
tory ? ” 

The young girl raised her eyes in 
amazement, and her tears ceased to 
flow. 

“ What has a woman to do with the 
world’s history ? ” she said ; “ think you 
I care to be named as the wife of a 
King of Sweden ? it is a sad, unhappy 
fate to be a princess. We are sold to 
him who makes the largest offer and 
the most favorable conditions. Well, 
let it be so ; it is the fate of all princess- 
es ; it is for this we are educated, and 
must bow humbly to the yoke; but 
liberty of conscience should be at least 
allowed us, freedom of thought, the 
poor consolation of worshipping God 
in the manner we prefer, and of seek- 
ing help and protection in the arms of 
that religion which we believe in and 
love.” 

“One can be faithful to God even 
when unfaithful to their first faith,” 
said Ulrica, who began already to make 
excuses to herself for the change of re- 
ligion she contemplated. 

“ Tliat is not in my power 1 ” cried 
Amelia, passionately. “I cling to the 
religion of my house, and I should 
tremble before the wrath of God if I 
gave it up ! ” 

“ After all, it is but a small and un- 
important difference between the Re- 
formed and Lutheran Churches,” said 
Ulrica, much excited, and entirely for- 
getting that the question had as yet no 
relation to herself. “One can be as 
pious a Christian in the Reformed 
Church as in the Lutheran.” 

“ Not I ; it is not in my power,” said 
Amelia, with the wilfulness of a spoiled 
child not accustomed to opposition. “ I 
will not become a Lutheran. A P611- 
nitz may change his faith, but not the 
daughter of Frederick William. Did 
not the king with indignation and con- 


tempt relate to us how Pollnitz had 
again changed his religion and be(.ome 
a Protestant ? Did we not laugh heart- 
ily, and in our hearts despise the dis- 
honorable man ? I will not place my- 
self in such a position.” 

“ Then, my sister, there will be stormy 
times and stem strife in our household : 
the bitter scenes of earlier days will be 
renewed. Our royal brother is not less 
resolute than our stern father. I fear 
that his brothers and sisters are nothing 
more to him than useful instruments in 
this great state machine, and they must 
bow themselves unquestioningly to his 
commands.” 

“ Yes, I feel this ; I see it clearly,” said 
Amelia, trembling ; “ and for this reason, 
dear sister, you must stand by me and 
help me. I swear to you that I will not 
become a Lutheran.” 

“Is that your unchangeable resolu- 
tion ? ” 

“Yes, unchangeable.” 

“ Well, if that is so, I will give you 
my counsel.” 

“ Speak, speak quickly,” said Amelia, 
breathlessly, and, throwing her arms 
around the slender waist of her sister, 
she laid her head trustingly upon her 
shoulder. 

“ Firstly, the Swedish ambassador has 
not made a formal demand for your 
hand; that probably proves that he 
will first examine and observe you 
closely, to see if you are suited to be 
the wife of the prince royal. We have 
still, therefore, a short delay, which, if 
wisely used, may conduct you to the 
desired goal. But, Amelia, prove your 
self once more; ask counsel again of 
your heart and conscience, before you 
make a final resolve. I will not have 
you complain of me in future, and say 
that my foolish and guilty counsel lost 
you the throne of Sweden.” 

“ Oh fear not, my beloved sister. 1 
will not be Queen of Sweden at the cost 
of my immortal soul.” 


FREDERICK THE GREII AND HIS FRIENDS. 


31 


“You will not, then, reproach me 
Amelia ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“Listen, then. From this moment 
lay a mask upon your face ; that is to 
say, assume a proud, rude, overbearing 
tone to all around you — toward your 
friends, your servants, the court circle, 
yes, even toward the members of your 
family. Particularly in the presence of 
this Swedish ambassador, show your- 
self to be a capricious, nervous, and 
haughty princess, who scarcely thinks 
it worth the trouble to speak a word, 
or give a friendly glance, to a man in 
his position. When you speak to him 
and he attempts to answer, cut short 
■ his replies, and command him to be 
silent ; if he strives to win your favor 
by the most respectful civility, let an 
unmistakable expression of contempt 
be written upon your face, and let that 
be your only answer. Regulate your 
conduct for a few days by these rules, 
and I am convinced you will be satis- 
fied with your deportment, and attain 
your object.” 

“Yes, yesl I understand, I under- 
stand I ” said the young girl, clapping 
her little white hands, and looking up 
joyously. “I shall, by my pride and 
passion, freeze the words in the mouth 
of my lord ambassador, so that the de- 
cisive word cannot find utterance. Oh ! 
this will be a precious comedy, my 
sweet sister, and I promise you to carry 
out my r6le of heroine to perfection. 
Oh, I thank you I I thank you I I am 
indeed hapi>y to have found so wise a 
sister, so brave a comrade-in-arms, while 
surrounded with such perils I ” 

“ She would not have it otherwise,” 
said Ulrica, laconically, as she found 
herself again alone. “ If she is without 
ambition, so much the worse for her — 
so much the better for me ! And now, 
it is high time to think of my toilet — 
that is a most important consideration. 
To-day I must be not only amiable, but 


lovely. To-day I will make my appear- 
ance as an innocent and unpretending 
maiden.” 

With a mocking smile she entered 
her boudoir, and called her attendants. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE TEMPTER. 

Prencess Ulrica was earnestly occu- 
pied with considerations of her toilet. 
Amelia had returned to her room, mus- 
ing and thoughtful. 

There were dMculties in the way of 
the new role she had resolved to play, 
and by which she expected to deceive 
the world. She stood for a moment be- 
fore the door of her dressing-room, and 
listened to the voices of her attendants, 
who were gayly laughing and talking. 
It was her custom to join them, and 
take a ready part in their merry sports 
and jests. She must now, however, 
deny herself, and put a guard over her 
heart and lips. Accordingly, with a 
dark frown on her brow and tightly- 
compressed lips, she entered the room 
in which her maids were at that moment 
arranging her ball toilet for the even- 
ing. 

“ It seems to me that your loud talk- 
ing is most unseemly,” said Amelia, in 
a tone so haughty, so passionate, that 
the smiles of the two young girls van- 
ished in clouds. “ I will be obliged to 
you if you will complete your work 
noiselessly, and reserve your folly till 
you have left my room 1 And what is 
that. Mademoiselle F^licien ? for what 
purpose have you prepared these flow- 
ers, which I see lying upon your ta- 
ble?” 

“ Your royal highness, these flowers 
are for your coifture, and these bou- 
quets are intended to festoon youi 
dress.” 


32 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


“ How dare you allow yourself to de- 
cide upon my toilet, mademoiselle ? ” 

“ I have not dared,” said F61icien, 
tremblingly ; “ your royal highness or- 
dered moss roses for your hair, and 
bouquets of the same for your bosom 
and your robe.” 

‘‘ It appears to me,” said Amelia, im- 
periously, “ that to contradict me, and at 
the same time assert that which is false, 
is, to say the least, imbecoming your 
position. I am not inclined to appear 
in the toilet of a gardener’s daughter. 
To prove this, I will throw these flow- 
ers, which you dare to assert I ordered, 
from the window ; with their strong 
odor they poison the air.” 

With a cruel hand, she gathered up 
the lovely roses, and hastened to the 
window. “Look, mademoiselle, these 
are the flowers which you undertook to 
prepare for my hair,” said Amelia, with 
well- assumed scorn, as she threw the 
bouquet into the garden which sur- 
rounded the castle of Monbijou ; “ look, 
mademoiselle.” 

Suddenly the princess uttered a low 
cry, and looked, blushing painfully, in- 
to the garden. In her haste, she had 
not remarked that two gentlemen, at 
that moment, crossed the great court 
which led to the principal door of the 
castle ; and the flowers which she had 
so scornfully rejected, had struck the 
younger and taller of the gentlemen ex- 
actly in the face. He stood completely 
amazed, and looked questioningly at 
the window from which this curious 
bomb had fallen. His companion, 
nowever, laughed aloud, and made a 
profound bow to the princess, who still 
stood, blushing and embarrassed, at the 
window. 

“ From this hour I believe in the le- 
gend of the Fairy of the Roses,” said 
the elder of the two gentlemen, who 
was indeed no other than Baron P611- 
nitz. “Yes, princess, I believe fully, 
and I would not be at all astonished if 


your highness should at this moment 
flutter from the window in a chariot 
drawn by doves, and cast another 
shower of blossoms in the face of my 
friend.” 

The princess had found time to re- 
cover herself, and to remember the 
haughty part she was determined to 
play. 

“ I hope, baron,” she said sternly, “you 
will not allow yourself to suppose it 
was my purpose to throw those roses 
either to your companion or yourself? 
I wished only to get rid of them.” 

She shut the window rudely and 
noisily, and commanded her attendants 
to complete her toilet at once. She 
seated herself sternly before the glass, 
and ordered her French maid to cover 
her head with jewels and ribbons. 

The two gentlemen still stood in the 
garden, in earnest conversation. 

“ This is assuredly an auspicious 
omen, my friend,” said Pollnitz to the 
young ofiicer, who was gazing musing- 
ly at the roses he held in his hand. He 
had raised his eyes from the flowers to 
the window at which the lovely form 
of the princess had, for a few moments, 
appeared. 

“ Alas ! ” said he, sighing, and gazing 
afar off ; “ she is so wonderfully beauti- 
ful — so lovely ; and she is a princess 1 ” 

Pollnitz laughed heartily. “ One 
might think that you regretted that 
fact ! Listen to me, my young friend ; 
stand no longer here, in a dream. 
Come, in place of entering the castle 
immediately, to pay our respects to the 
queen -mother, we will take a walk 
through the garden, that you may allay 
your raptures and recover your rea- 
son.” 

He took the arm of the young man, 
and drew him into a shady, private 
pathway. 

“ Now, my dear friend, listen to me, 
and lay to heart all that I say to you. 
Accident, or, if you prefer it, Fate 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


brought U3 together. After all, it 
seems indeed more than an accident. 
I had just returned to Berlin, and was 
about to pay my respects to the queen- 
mother, when I met you, who at the 
same time seek an audience, in order to 
commend yourself to her royal protec- 
tion. You bear a letter of commenda- 
tion from my old friend. Count Lottum. 
All this, of course, excites my curiosity. 
I ask you your name, and learn, to my 
astonishment, that you are young Yon 
Trenck, the son of the woman who was 
my first love, and who made me most 
unhappy by not returning my passion. 
I assure you, it produces a peculiar 
sensation to meet so unexpectedly the 
son of a first love, whose father, alas ! 
you have not the happiness to be. I 
feel already that I am prepared to love 
you as foolishly as I once loved your 
fair mother.” 

“I will not, like my mother, reject 
your vows,” said the young officer, 
smiling, and extending his hand to 
Pollnitz. 

“I hoped as much,” said Pollnitz; 
“you shall find a fond father in me, 
and even to-day I will commence my 
parental duties. In the first place, 
what brings you here ? ” 

“ To make my fortune — to become 'a 
general, or field-marshal, if possible,” 
said the young man, laughing. 

“ How old are you ? ” 

“ I am nineteen .” 

“ You wear the uniform of an officer 
of the life-guard ; the king has, there- 
fore, already promoted you ? ” 

“I was a cadet but eight days,” said 
Trenck, proudly. “ My step - father. 
Count Lottum, came with me from 
Dantzic, and presented me to the king. 
His majesty received me graciously, and 
remembered well that I had received, 
at the examination 'at Konigsberg, the 
first prize from his hand,” 

“Go on, go on,” said Pollnitz; “you 
see I am all ear, and I must know your 
3 


33 

present position, in order to be useful 
to you.” 

“ The king, as I have said, received 
me graciously, even kindly; he made 
me a cadet in his cavalry corps, and 
three weeks after, I was summoned 
before him ; he had heard something 
of my wonderful memory, and he 
wished to prove me.” 

“Well, how did you stand the 
proof?” 

“ I stood with the king at the win- 
dow, and he called over to me quickly the 
names of fifty soldiers who were stand- 
ing in the court below, pointing to each 
man as he called his name. I then re- 
peated to him every name in the same 
succession, but backward.” 

“ A wonderful memory, indeed,” said 
Pollnitz, taking a pinch of Spanish 
snuff; “a terrible memory, which 
would make me shudder if I were your 
sweetheart ! ” 

“ And why ? ” said the young officer. 

“ Because you would hold ever in re- 
membrance all her caprices and all her 
oaths, and one day, when she no longer 
loved you, she would be held to a strict 
account. Well, did the king subject 
you to further proof? ” 

“ Yes ; he gave me the materhd for 
two letters, which I dictated at the 
same time to his secretaries, one in 
French and one in Latin. He then 
commanded me to draw the plan of 
the Hare Meadow, and I did so.” 

“ Was he pleased?” 

“ He made me comet of the guard,” 
said Trenck, modestly avoiding a more- 
direct answer. 

“I see you are in high favor: lU' 
three weeks you are promoted from) 
cadet to lieutenant! — quick advance^ 
ment, which the king, no doubt, signal- 
ized by some other act of grace ? ” 

“ He sent me two horses from his 
stable, and when I came to thank him, 
he gave me a purse containing two 
hundi-ed ‘ Fredericks.’ ” 


34 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Pollnitz gave a spring backward. 
“ Thunder ! you are indeed in favor I 
the king gives you presents I Ah, my 
young friend, I would protect you, but 
it seems you can patronize me. The 
king has never made me a present. 
And w^hat do you desire to-day of the 
queen-mother ? ” 

“ As I am now a lieutenant, I belong 
to the court circle, and must take part 
in the court festivals. So the king 
commanded me to pay my respects to 
the queen-mother.” 

‘‘ Ah, the king ordered that ? ” said 
Pollnitz ; “ truly, young man, the king 
must destine you for great things — ^lie 
overloads you with favors. You will 
make a glittering career, provided you 
are wise enough to escape the shoals 
and quicksands in your way. I can 
tell you, there will be adroit and will- 
ing hands ready to cast you down; 
those who are in favor at court have 
always bitter enemies.” 

“Yes, I am aware that I have ene- 
mies,” said Trenck ; more than once I 
have already been charged with being 
a drunkard and a rioter ; but the king, 
happily, only laughed at the accusa- 
tions.” 

“He is really in high favor, and I 
would do well to secure his friend- 
ship,” thought Pollnitz; “the king 
will also be pleased with me if I am 
kind to him.” He held out his hand 
to the young officer, and said with 
fatherly tenderness: “From this time 
onward when your enemies shall please 
to attack you, they shall not find you 
alone : they will find me a friend ever at 
your side. You are the son of the only 
woman I ever loved — I will cherish you 
in my heart as my fii’st-born I ” 

“And I receive you as my father 
with my whole heart,” said Trenck; 
“be my father, my friend, and my 
counsellor.” 

“ The court is a dangerous and slip- 
pery stage, upon which a young and 


inexperienced man may lightly slip, 
unless held up by a strong arm. Manj 
will hate you because you are in favor, 
and the hate of many is like the sting 
of hornets : one sting is not fatal, but a 
general attack sometimes brings death 
Make use, therefore, of your sunshine, 
and fix yourself strongly in an immov- 
able position.” 

“ The great question is, what shall be 
my first step to secure it ? ” 

“ How I you ask that question, and 
you are nineteen years old, six feet high, 
have a handsome face, a splendid fig- 
ure, an old, renowned name, and are 
graciously received at court ? Ah ! 
youngster, I have seen many arrive at 
the highest honors and distinctions, 
wliQ did not possess half your glittering 
qualities. If you use the right means 
at the right time, you cannot fail of 
success.” 

“What do you consider the best 
means ? ” 

“The admiration and favor of wo- 
men ! You must gain the love of pow- 
erful and influential women ! Oh, you 
are terrified, and your brow is clouded I 
Perhaps, unhappily, you are already in 
love?” 

“ Ho ! ” said Frederick von Trenck, 
violently. “ I have never been in love. 
I dare say more than that : I have never 
kissed the lips of a woman.” 

Pollnitz gazed at him with an ex- 
pression of indescribable amazement. 
“Howl” said he; “you are nineteen, 
and assert that you have never em- 
braced a woman ? ” He gave a mock- 
ing and cynical laugh. 

“Ordinary women have always ex- 
cited my disgust,” said the young 
officer, simply ; “ and until this day I 
have never seen a woman who resem- 
bled my ideal,” 

“So, then, the -woman with whom 
you will now become enamoured will re- 
ceive your first tender vows ? ” 

“ Yes, even so,” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


35 


And you wear the uniform of the 
life-guard — you are a lieutenant ! ” cried 
Pollnitz with tragical pathos, and ex- 
tending his arms toward heaven. “ But 
how ? — ^what did you say? — that until 
to-day you had seen no woman who 
approached your ideal ? ” 

“ I said that.” 

“ And to-day — ? ” 

“ Well, it seems to me, we have both 
seen an angel to-day ! — an angel, whom 
you have wronged in giving her the 
common name of fairy.” 

“Aha! the* Princess Amelia,” said 
Pollnitz. “You will love this young 
maiden, my friend.” 

“Then, indeed, shall I be most un- 
happy I She is a royal princess, and 
and my love must ever be unrequited.” 

“ Who told you that? who told you 
that this little Amelia was only a prin- 
cess? I tell you she is a young girl 
with a heart of fire. Try to awake her 
— she only sleeps ! A happy event has 
already greeted you. The princess has 
fixed your enraptured gaze upon her 
lovely form, by throwing or rather 
shooting roses at you. Perhaps the 
god of Love has hidden his arrow in a 
rose. You thought Amelia had only 
pelted your cheek with roses, but the 
arrow has entered your soul. Try your 
*uck, young man ; gain the love of the 
King’s favorite sister, and you will be 
all-powerful.” 

The young officer looked at him with 
confused and misty eyes. 

“ You do not dare to suggest,” mur- 
mured he, “ that — ” 

“ I dare to say,” cried Pollnitz, inter- 
rupting him, “that you are in favor 
with the brother; why may you not 
also gain the sister’s good graces? I 
say further, that I will assist you, and 
I will ever be at your side, as a loving 
friend and sagacious counsellor.” 

“Do you know, baron, that your 
wild words open a future to my view 
before which my brain and heart are 


reeling? How shall I dare to love a 
princess, and seek her love in return ? ” 

“ As to the first point, I think you 
have already dared. As to the second, 
I think your rare beauty and wondrous 
accomplishments might justify such 
pretensions.” 

“ You know I never can become the 
husband of a princess.” 

“You are right,” said Pollnitz, 
laughing aloud; “ you are as innocent as 
a girl of sixteen ! you have this moment 
fallen headlong in love, and begin at 
once to think of the possibility of mar- 
riage, as if love had no other refuge 
than marriage, and yet I think I have 
read that the god of Love and the god 
of Hymen are rarely seen together, 
though brothers ; in point of fact, they 
despise and fiee from each other. But 
after all, young man, if your love is 
virtuous and requires the priest’s bless- 
ing, I think that is possible. Only a 
few years since the widowed margra- 
vine, the aunt of the king, married the 
Count Hoditz. What the king’s aunt 
accomplished, might be possible to the 
king’s sister.” 

“ Silence, silence 1 ” murmured Fred- 
erick von Trenck; “your wild words 
cloud my understanding like the breath 
of opium ; they make me mad, drunk. 
You stand near me like the tempter, 
showing to my bewildered eyes more 
than all the treasures of this world, and 
saying, ‘All these things will I give 
thee ; ’ but alas 1 I am not the Messiah. 
I have not the courage to cast down 
and trample under foot your devilish 
temptations. My whole soul springs 
out to meet them, and shouts for joy. 
Oh, sir, what have you done? You 
have aroused my youth, my ambition, 
my passion ; you have filled my veins 
with fire, and I am drunk with the 
sweet but deadly poison you have 
poiwed into my ears.” 

“ I have assured you that I will be 
your father. I will lead you, and at 


56 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


the right moment I will point out the 
obstacles against which your inexperi- 
enced feet might stumble,” said P611- 
nitz. 

The stony-hearted and egotistical 
old courtier felt not the least pity for 
this poor young man^into whose ear, as 
Trenck had well said, he was pour- 
ing this fatal poison. Frederick von 
Trenck, the favorite of the king, was 
nothing more to him than a ladder by 
which he hoped to mount. He took 
the arm of the young officer and en- 
deavored to soothe him with cool and 
moderate words, exhorting hun to be 
quiet and reasonable. They turned 
their steps toward the castle, in order 
to pay ^ their respects to the queen- 
mother. The hour of audience was 
over, and the two gentlemen lounged 
arm in arm down the street. 

“ Let us go toward the palace,” said 
Pollnitz. I think we will behold a 
rare spectacle, a crowd of old wigs who 
have disguised themselves as savans. 
To-day, the first sitting of the Academy 
of Arts and Sciences takes place, and 
the celebrated President Maupertius 
will open the meeting in the name of 
the king. This is exactly the time for 
the renowned worthies to leave the cas- 
tle. Let us go and witness this comical 
show.” 

The two gentlemen found it impossi- 
ble to carry out their plans. A mighty 
crowd of men advanced upon them at 
this moment, and compelled them to 
stand still. Every face in the vast as- 
semblage was expectant. Certainly 
some rare exhibition was to be seen in 
the circle which the crowd had left 
open in their midst. There was merry 
laughing and jesting and questioning 
amongst each other, as to what all this 
could mean, and what proclamation 
that could be which the drummer had 
just read in the palace garden. 

^ It will be repeated here in a mo- 
ment,” said a voice from the crowd, 


which increased every moment, and in 
whose fierce waves Pollnitz and Trenck 
were forcibly swallowed up. Pressed, 
pushed onward by powerful arms, re- 
sistance utterly in vain, the two com- 
panions found themselves at the same 
moment in the open space just as the 
drummer broke into the circle, and, 
playing his drumsticks with powerful 
and zealous hands, he called the crowd 
to order. 

The drum overpowered the wild out- 
cries and rude laughter of the vast as- 
sembly, and soon silenced them com- 
pletely. Every man held his breath to 
hear what the public crier, who had 
spoken so much to the purpose by his 
drum, had now to declare by word oi 
mouth. He drew from his pocket a 
large document sealed with the state 
seal, and took advantage of the general 
quiet to read the formal introductory 
to all such proclamations: “We, Fred- 
erick, king of Prussia,” etc., etc. 

On coming to the throne, Frederick 
had abolished all that long and absurd 
list of titles and dignities which had 
heretofore adorned the royal declara- 
tions. Even that highest of all titles, 
“ King by the grace of God,” had Fred 
erick the Second set aside. He de- 
clared that, in saying King of Prussia, 
all was said. His father had called 
himself King of Prussia, by the grace of 
God ; he, therefore, would call himself 
simply the King of Prussia, and if ho 
did not boast of God’s grace, it was be- 
cause he would i^rove by deeds, not 
words, that he possessed it. 

After this little digression w^e will 
return to our drummer, who now 
began to read, or rather to cry out the 
command of the king. 

“We, Frederick, king of Prussia, 
order and command that no one of our 
subjects shall, under any circumstances, 
lend gold to our master of ceiemonies, 
whom we have again taken into om 
service, or assist him in any way te 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


37 


!>>rrow money. Wlioever, therefore, 
shall, ill despite of this proclamation, 
lend money to said Baron Pollnitz, must 
bear the consequences ; they shall make 
no demand for repayment, and the case 
shall not be considered in court. Who- 
soever shall disobey this command, 
shall pay a fine of fifty thalers, or suf- 
fer fifteen days’ imprisonment.” 

A wild shout of laughter from the 
entire assembly was the reply to this 
proclamation, in which the worldly- 
wise Pollnitz joined heartily, while his 
young companion had not the courage 
to raise his eyes from the ground. 

“The old courtier will burst with 
rage,” said a gay voice from the 
crowd. 

“ He is a desperate borrower,” cried 
another. 

“ He has richly deserved this public 
shame and humiliation from the king,” 
said another. 

“And you call this a humiliation, 
a merited punishment I” cried Pdll- 
nitz. “ Wky, my good friends, can you 
not see that this is an honor which the 
king shows to his old and faithful 
servant? Do you not know that by 
this proclamation he places Baron Poll- 
nitz exactly on the same footing with 
the princes of the blood, with the 
prince royal ? ” 

“ How is that ? explain that to us,” 
cried a hundred voices in a breath. 

“Well, it is very simple. Has not 
the king recently renewed the law 
which forbids, under pain of heavy 
punishment, the princes of the blood to 
borrow money ? Is not this law print- 
ed in our journals, and made public in 
our collections of laws ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! so it is,” said many voices 
simultaneously. 

“Well, certainly, our exalted sover- 
eign, who loves his royal brothers so 
warmly, would not have cast shame 
upon their honor. Certainly he would 
not have wished to humiliate them. 


and has not done so. The king, as you 
must now plainly perceive, has acted 
toward Baron Pollnitz precisely as he 
has done to his brothers.” 

“ And that is, without doubt, a great 
honor for him,” cried many voices. No 
one guessed the name of the speaker 
who was so fortunately at hand to de- 
fend the honor of the master of ceremo- 
nies. A general murmur of applause 
was heard, and even the public crier 
stood still to listen to the eloquent 
unknown speaker, and forgot for a 
while to hurry off to the next street- 
corner and proclaim the royal man- 
date. 

“Besides, this law is '■sans conse- 
quence^ as we are accustomed to say,” 
said Pollnitz. “Who would not, in 
spite of the law, lend our princes gold 
if they had need of it ? And who has 
right to take offence if the state refuses 
to pay the debts which the princes 
make as private persons? The baron 
occupies precisely the same position. 
The king, who has honored the newly- 
returned baron with two highly impor- 
tant trusts, master of ceremonies and 
master of the robes, will frighten his rath- 
er lavish old friend from making debts. 
He chooses, therefore, the same means 
by which he seeks to restrain his royal 
brothers, and forbids all persons to lend 
gold to Pollnitz: as he cannot well 
place this edict in the laws of the land, 
he is obliged to make it known by the 
drummer. And now,” said the speaker, 
who saw plainly the favorable impres- 
sion which his little oration had made 
— and now, best of friends, I pray you 
to make way and allow me to pass 
through the crowd ; I must go at once 
to the palace to thank his majesty for 
the special grace and distinction which 
he has showered upon me to-day. I, 
myself, am Baron Pollnitz ! ” 

An outcry of amazement burst frqpi 
the lips of hundreds, and all who stood 
near Pollnitz stepped aside reveren* 


38 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


tially, in order to give place to the 
distinguished gentleman who was 
treated by the king exactly as if he 
were a prince of the blood. Pollnitz 
stepped with a friendly smile through 
the narrow way thus opened for him, 
and greeted, with his cool, impertinent 
manner those who respectfully stood 
back. 

“I think I have given the king a 
Koland for his Oliver,” he said to him- 
selL “I have broken the point from 
the arrow which was aimed at me, and 
it glanced from my bosom without 
wounding me. Public opinion will be 
on my side from this time, and that 
which was intended for my shame has 
crowned me with honor. It was, 
nevertheless, a harsh and cruel act, 
for which I will one day hold a reck- 
oning with Frederick. Ah, King 
Frederick ! King Frederick ! I shall not 
forget, and I will have my revenge ; my 
cards are also well arranged, and I 
hold important trumps. I will wait 
yet a little while upon our love-lorn 
shepherd, this innocent and tender 
Trenck, who is in a dangerous way 
about the little princess.” 

Pollnitz waited for Trenck, who had 
with difficulty forced his way through 
the crowd and hastened after him. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE riRST INTERVIEW. 

The ball at the palace was opened. 
The two queens and the princesses had 
just entered the great saloon, in order 
to receive the respectful greetings of 
the ladies of the court ; while the king, 
in an adjoining room, was surrounded 
by the gentlemen. A glittering circle 
of lovely women, adorned with dia- 
monds and other rich gems, stood on 
each side of the room, each one pa- 
tiently awaiting the moment when the 


queens should pass before her, and 
she might have the honor of bowing 
almost to the earth under the glance of 
the royal eye. 

According to etiquette, Queen Eliz- 
abeth Christine, who, notwithstand- 
ing her modest and retired existence, 
was the reigning sovereign, should have, 
made the grand tour alone, and re- 
ceived the first congratulations of the 
court ; but this unhappy, shrinking wo- 
man, had never found the courage to 
assume the rights or privileges which 
belonged to her as wife of the king. 
She who was denied the highest and 
holiest of all distinctions, the first place 
in the heari of her husband, cared 
nothing for these pitiful and outward 
advantages. Elizabeth had to-day, as 
usual, with a soft smile, given prece- 
dence to the queen-mother, Sophia 
Dorothea, who was ever thii’sting to 
show that she held the first place at her 
son’s court, and who, delighted to sur- 
round herself with all the accessories 
of pomp and power, was ever ready to 
use her prerogative. With a proud 
and erect head, and an almost con- 
temptuous smile, she walked slowly 
around the circle of high-born dames, 
who bowed humbly before this repre- 
sentative of royalty. Behind her came 
the reigning queen, between the two 
princesses, who now and then gave 
special and cordial greetings to their 
personal friends as they passed. Eliza- 
beth Christine saw this, and sighed 
bitterly. She had no personal friend 
to grace with a loving greeting. No 
man saw any thing else in her than a 
sovereign by sufierance, a woman sans 
consequence^ a powerless queen and un- 
beloved wife. She had never had a 
friend into whose sympathetic and 
silent bosom she could pour out her 
griefs. She was alone, so entirely alone 
and lonely, that the heavy sighs and 
complaints dwelling in her heart were 
ever reverberating in her ears because 


39 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


of the surrounding silence. And now, 
as she made the grand tour with the 
two princesses, no one seemed to see 
ner; she was regarded as the statue 
of a queen, richly dressed and decked 
with costly lace and jewels, but only a 
pictui-e : yet this picture had a soul and 
a heart of fire — it was a woman, a wife, 
who loved and who endured. 

Suddenly she trembled ; a light, like 
the glory of sunshine, flashed in her eyes, 
and a soft rosy blush spread over her 
fair cheek. The king had entered the 
room ; yes, he was there in all his beau- 
ty, his majesty, his power; Elizabeth 
felt that the world was bright, her 
blood was rushing madly through her 
veins, her heart was beating as stormily 
as that of an impassioned young girl. 
Oh, it might be that the eye of the king 
— ^that glowing, wondrous eye — might 
even by accident rest upon her; it 
might be that Frederick would be 
touched by her patient endurance, her 
silent resignation, and give her one 
friendly word. She had been four 
years a queen, for four years this title 
had been a crown of thorns ; during all 
this weary time her husband had not 
vouchsafed to her poor heart, sick unto 
death, one single sympathetic word, 
one affectionate glance ; he sat by her 
side at table during the court festivals ; 
he had from time to time, at the balls 
and masquerades, opened the dance 
with her; never, however, since that 
day on which he had printed the fii’st 
kiss upon her lips, never had he spoken 
to her ; since that moment she was to 
him the picture of a queen, the empty 
form of a woman.* But Queen Eliza- 

* The king never spoke to his wife, but his 
manner toward her was considerate and respectful; 
no one dared to fail in the slightest mark of courtly 
observance toward Elizabeth — this the king sternly 
exacted. Only once did the king address her. 
During the seventh year of their marriage, the 
queen, by an unhappy accident, had seriously in- 
jured her foot; this was a short time before her 
birthday, which event was always celelmited with 
great pomp and ceremony, the king honoring the 


beth would not despair. Hope was 
her motto. A day might come when 
he would speak to her, when he would 
forget that she had been forced upon 
him as his wife, a day when his heart 
might be touched by her grief, her 
silence and tearless love. Every meet- 
ing with Frederick was to this poor 
queen a time of hope, of joyful expecta- 
tion ; this alone sustained her, this gave 
her strength silently, even smilingly, to 
draw her royal robe over her bleeding 
heart. 

And now the king drew near, sur- 
rounded by the princesses and the 
queen-mother, to whom he gave his 
hand with an expression of reverence 
and filial love. He then bowed silent- 
ly and indifferently to his wife, and 
gave a merry greeting to his two sisters. 

“Ladies,” said he, in a full, rich 
voice, “ allow me to present to you and 
my court my brother, the Prince Au- 
gustus 'William ; he is now placed before 
you in a new and more distinguished 
light.” He took the hand of his broth- 
er and led him to the queen-mother. 

“I introduce your son to you; he 
will be from this day onward, if it so 
please you, also your grandson.” 

“ How is that your majesty ? I con- 
fess you have brought about many seem- 
ingly impossible things ; but I think it 
is beyond your power to make Augus- 
tus at the same time both my son and 
my grandson.” 

“ Ah, mother, if I make him my son, 
will he not be, of necessity, your grand- 


fHe with bis presence. On this occasion he came 
as usual, but in place of the distant and silent bow 
with which he usually greeted her, he drew near, 
gave her his hand, and said with kindly sympathy, 
“ I sincerely hope that your majesty has recovered 
from your accident.” A general surprise was pic- 
tured in the faces of all present— but the poor queen 
was so overcome by this unexpected happiness, 
that she had no power to reply, she bowed silently. 
The king frowned and turned from her. Since 
that day, the happiness of which she had bought 
with an injured foot, the king had not spoken t« 
her. 


% 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


10 

son ? I appoint him my successor ; in 
so doing, I declare him my son. Em- 
brace him, therefore, your majesty, and 
be the first to greet him by his new ti- 
tle. Embrace the Prince of Prussia, 
my successor.” 

“ I obey,” said the queen, “ I obey,” 
and she cast her arms affectionately 
around her son. “I pray God that 
this title of ‘Prince of Prussia,’ which 
it has pleased your majesty to lend him, 
may be long and honorably worn.” 

The prince bowed low before his 
mother, who tenderly kissed his brow, 
then whispered, “ Oh, mother, pray ra- 
ther that God may soon release me from 
this burden.” 

“ How I ” cried the queen, threaten- 
ingly, “ you have then a strong desire to 
be king ? Has yoiu vaulting ambition 
made you forget that to wish to be king 
is, at the same time, to wish the death 
of your brother ? ” 

The prince smiled sadly. 

“ Mother, I would lay aside this rank 
of Prince of Prussia, not because I 
wish to mount the throne, but I would 
fain lie down in the cold and quiet 
grave.” 

“Are you always so sad, so hopeless, 
ray son — even now, upon this day of 
proud distinction for you ? To-day you 
take your place as Prince of Prussia.” 

“Yes, your majesty, to-day I am 
crowned with honor,” said he, bitter- 
ly. “ This is also the anniversary of my 
betrothal.” 

Augustus turned and drew near to 
the king, who seized his hand and led 
him to his wife and the young prin- 
cesses, saying with a loud voice, “ Con- 
gratulate the Prince of Prussia, ladies.” 
He then beckoned to some of his gen- 
erals, and drew back with them to 
the window. As he passed the queen, 
his eye rested upon her for a moment 
with an expression of sympathy and 
curiosity; he observed her with the 
searching glance of a physician, who 


sinks the probe into the bleeding 
wound, in order to know its depth and 
danger. 

The queen understood his purpose. 
That piercing glance was a warning ; 
it gave her courage, self-possession, and 
proud resignation. Her husband has 
spoken to her with his eyes; that must 
ever be a consolation, a painful but 
sweet joy. She controlled herself so ’ 
far as to give her hand to the prince 
with a cordial smile. 

“ You are most welcome in your dou- 
ble character,” she said, in a voice loud 
enough to be heard by the king and all 
around her. “Until to-day you have 
been my beloved brother; and from 
this time will tyou be to me, as also to 
my husband, a dear son. By the de- 
crees of Providence a son has been de- 
nied me ; I accept you, therefore, joy- 
fully, and receive you as my son and 
brother.” 

A profound silence followed these 
words; here and there in the crowd, 
slight and derisive smiles were seen, 
and a few whispered and significant 
words were uttered. The queen had 
now received the last and severest blow; 
in the fulness and maturity of her beau- 
ty she had been placed before the court 
as unworthy or incaiDable of giving a 
successor to the throne ; but she still 
wished to save appearances ; she would, 
if possible,, make the world believe 
that the decree of Providence alone 
denied to her a mother’s honors. She 
had the cruel courage to conceal the 
truth by prevarication. 

The watchful eyes oi the court had 
long since discovered the mystery of 
this royal marriage ; they had long 
known that the queen was not the wife 
of Frederick ; her words, therefore, pro- 
duced contemptuous surprise. 

Elizabeth cared for none of these 
things. She looked toward her hus- 
band, whose eyes were fixed ujDon her 
she would read in his countenance if 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


41 


iie were pleased with her words. A 
smile played upon the lips of the king, 
and he bowed his head almost imper- 
ceptibly as a greeting to his wife. 

A golden ray of sunlight seemed to 
play upon her face, content was writ- 
ten in her eyes ; twice to-day her glance 
had met her husband’s, and both times 
his eyes had spoken. Elizabeth was 
happier than she had been for many 
days ; she laughed and jested with the 
ladies, and conversed gayly over the 
great event of the evening — the first 
appearance of the Signora Barbarina. 
The princesses, also, conversed uncer- 
imoniously with the ladies near them. 
A cloud darkened the usually clear 
brow of the Princess Amelia, and she 
seemed to be in a nervous and highly 
excited state. 

At this moment the master of cere- 
monies, Pollnitz, drew near, with Count 
Tessin, the Swedish ambassador. The 
princess immediately assumed so scorn- 
ful an expression, that even Pollnitz 
scarcely found courage to present Count 
Tessin. 

“ Ah ! you come from Sweden,” said 
Amelia, immediately after the presen- 
tation. “ Sweden is a dark and gloomy 
country, and you have indeed done well 
to save yourself, by taking refuge in 
our gay and sunny clime.” 

The count was evidently wounded. 

“ Your royal highness calls this a ref- 
uge,” said he ; “ you must, then, think 
those to be pitied who dwell in my 
fatherland ? ” 

“ I do not feel it necessary to confide 
my views on that subject to Count Tes- 
sin,” said Amelia, with a short, rude 
laugh. 

“Yes, sister, it is necessary,” said 
Ulrica with a magical smile, “ you must 
justify yourself to the count, for you 
lave cast contempt upon his country.” 

“Ah! your highness is pleased to 
think better of my fatherland,” said 
Tessin, bowing low to Ulrica. “ It is 


true, Sweden is rich in beauty, and no- 
where is nature more romantic or more 
lovely. The Swedes love their country 
passionately, and, like the Swiss, they 
die of homesickness when banished 
from her borders. They languish and 
pine away if one is cruel enough to 
think lightly of their birthplace.” 

“ Well, sir, I commit this cruelty,” 
cried Amelia, “ and yet I scarcely think 
you will languish and pine away on 
that account.” 

“ Dear sister, I think you are out of 
temper to-day,” said Ulrica, softly. 

“ And you are wise to remind me of 
it in this courtly style,” said Amelia ; 
“ have you taken the role of governess 
for my benefit to-day ? ” 

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders and 
turned again to the count, who was 
watching the young Amelia with a mix- 
ture of astonishment and anger. She 
had been represented at the Swedish 
court as a model of gentleness, amia 
bility, and grace: he found her rude 
and contradictory, fitful and childish. 
I’he Princess Ulrica soon led the 
thoughts of the count in another direc- 
tion, and managed to retain him at her 
side by her piquant and intellectual 
conversation ; she brought every power 
of her mind into action ; she was gra- 
cious in the extreme ; she overcame her 
proud nature, and assumed a winning 
gentleness ; in short, she flattered the 
ambassador with such delicate refine- 
ment, that he swallowed the magical 
food offered to his vanity, without sus- 
pecting he was victimized. 

Neither the princessn or the count 
seemed any longer to remember Amelia, 
who still stood near them with a low- 
ering visage. Pollnitz made use of 
this opportunity to draw near with his 
young protege^ Frederick von Trenck, 
and iDresent him to the princess, wlio 
immediately assumed a gay and laugh- 
ing expression ; she wished to give the 
ambassador a new proof of her stormv 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


i2 

and fitful nature; she would humble 
him by proving that she was not harsh 
and rude to all the world. She received 
the two gentlemen, therefore, with 
great cordiality, and laughed heartily 
over the adventure of the morning ; she 
recounted to them, merrily and wittily, 
how and why she had thrown the sweet 
roses away. Amelia was now so lovely 
and so spirited to look upon, so radiant 
with youth, animation, and innocence, 
that the eyes of the poor young officer 
were dazzled and sought the floor ; com- 
pletely intoxicated and bewildered, he 
could not join in the conversation, ut- 
tering here and there only a trembling 
monosyllable. 

This did not escape the cunning eye 
of the master of ceremonies. “I must 
withdraw,” thought he ; “I will grant 
them a first tete-d-Ute. I will observe 
them from a distance, and be able to 
decide if my plan succeed.” Excusing 
himself upon the plea of duty, Pollnitz 
withdrew; he glided into a window 
and concealed himself behind the cur- 
tains, in order to watch the counte- 
nances of his two victims. Pollnitz had 
rightly judged. The necessity of taking 
part in the conversation with the prin- 
cess restored to the young oflicer his 
intellect and his courage, and, in the 
effort to overcome his timidity, he be- 
came too earnest, too impassioned. 

But the princess did not remark this ; 
she rejoiced in an opportunity to show 
the Swedish ambassador how amiable 
and gracious she could be to others, and 
thus make him more sensible of her 
rudeness to himself; he should see and 
confess that she could be winning and 
attractive when it suited her purpose. 
The count observed her narrowly, even 
while conversing with Ulrica ; he saw 
lier ready smile, her beaming eye, her 
perhaps rather demonstrative cordiali- 
ty to the young officer. “ She is change- 
able and coquettish,” he said to himself, 
wdiile still carrying on his conversation 


with the talented, refined, and thorough' 
ly maidenly Princess Ulrica. 

The great, and as we have said, some* 
what too strongly-marked kindliuesii 
of Amelia, added fuel to the passion 
of Trenck ; he became more daring. 

“ I have to implore your highness for 
a special grace,” said he in a suppressed 
voice. 

“ Speak on,” said she, feeling at that 
moment an inexplicable emotion, which 
made her heart beat high, and ban- 
ished the blood from her cheeks. 

“ I have dared to preserve one of the 
roses which you threw into the garden, 
it was a mad theft, I know it, but I 
was under the power of enchantment ; 
I could not resist, and wmuld at that 
moment have paid for the little blos- 
som with my heart’s blood. Oh, if 
your royal highness could have seen, 
when I entered my room and closed 
the door, with what rapture I regarded 
my treasure, how I knelt before it and 
worshipped it, scarcely daring to touch 
it with my lips ! it recalled to me a 
lovely fairy tale of my childhood.” 

“How could a simple rose recall a 
fairy tale ? ” said Amelia. 

“ It is a legend of a poor shepherd- 
boy, who, lonely and neglected, had 
fallen asleep under a tree near the 
highway. Before sleeping, he had 
prayed to God to have pity upon him ; 
to fill this great and painful void in his 
heart, or to send His minister. Death, to 
his release. While sleeping, he had a 
beautiful dream. He thought he saw 
the heavens open, and an angel of en- 
chanting grace and beauty floated 
toward him. Her eyes glowed like two 
of the brightest stars. ‘You shall be 
no longer lonely,’ she whispered ; ‘ my 
image shall abide ever in your heart, 
and strengthen and stimulate you to all 
things good and beautiful.’ While say- 
ing this, she laid a wondrous rose upon 
his eyes, and, floating off, soon disap 
peared in the clouds. The poor shen 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


43 


aerd-boy awoke, and was enraptured 
with what he supposed had been a wild 
dream. But lo I there was the rose, 
and with unspeakable joy he pressed 
it to his heart. He thanked God for this 
sweet flower, which proved to him that 
the angel was no dream, but a reality. 
The rose, the visible emblem of his 
good angel, was the joy and comfort 
of his life, and he wore it ever in his 
heart. — I thought of this fairy tale, 
princess, as I looked upon my rose, 
but I felt immediately that I dared not 
call it mine without the consent of your 
highness. Decide, therefore; dare I 
keep this rose ? ” 

Amelia did not reply. She had lis- 
tened with a strange embarrassment to 
this impassioned tale. The world — 
all, was forgotten ; she was no longer 
a princess, she was but a simple young 
girl, who listened for the first time to 
words of burning passion, and whose 
heart trembled with sweet alarm. 

“ Princess, dare I guard this rose ? ” 
repeated Frederick, with a trembling 
voice. 

She looked at him ; their eyes met ; the 
young maiden trembled, but the man 
stood erect. He felt strong, proud, and 
a conqueror; his glance was like the 
eagle’s, when about to seize a lamb and 
bear it to his eyrie. 

“ He goes too far ; truly, he goes too 
far,” whispered Pollnitz, who had seen 
all, and from their glances and move- 
ments had almost read their thoughts 
and words. “ I must bring this Ute-dr 
tete to an end, and I shall do so in a 
profitable manner.” 

“ Dare I keep this rose ? ” said Freder- 
ick von Trenck a third time. 

Amelia turned her head aside and 
whispered, “ Keep it.” 

Trenck would have answered, but in 
that moment a hand was laid upon his 
arm, and Pollnitz stood near him. 

“ Prudence,” whispered he anxiously. 
“ Do you not see that you are observed ? 


You will make of your insane and trea- 
sonable passion a fairy tale for the 
whole court.” 

Amelia uttered a slight cry, and looked 
anxiously at Pollnitz. She had heard 
his whispered words, and the sly baron 
intended that she should. 

“Will your royal highness dismiss 
this madman,” whispered he, “ and al- 
low me to awake his sleeping reason ? ” 

“ Go, Herr von Trenck,” said she, 
lightly. 

Pollnitz took the arm of the young 
officer and led him off, saying to him- 
self, with a chuckle : “ That was a good 
stroke, and I feel that I shall succeed ; 
I have betrayed his passion to her, and 
forced myself into their confidence. I 
shall soon be employed as Love’s mes- 
senger, and that is ever with princesses 
a profitable service. Ah, King Freder- 
ick, Kin g Frederick, you have made it 
impossible for me to borrow money ! 
Well, I shall not find that necessary ; my 
hands shall be filled from the royal 
treasures. When the casket of the 
princess is empty, the king must of 
course replenish it.” And the baron 
laughed too loudly for a master of cer- 
emonies. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SIGNOKA BARBARINA. 

The princess regarded their retreat- 
ing figures with di’eamy eyes. Then, 
yielding to an unconquerable desire to 
be alone, to give herself up to undis- 
turbed thought, she was about to with- 
draw; but the Princess Ulrica, who 
thought it necessary that the Swedish 
ambassador should have another oppor- 
tunity of observing the jDroud and sul- 
len temper of her sister, called her 
back, 

“Remain a moment longer, Amelia,” 
said the princess. “You shall decide 


44 


BERLIN AND SaNS-SOUCI; OK, 


between Court Tessin and myself. 
Will you accept my sister as umpire, 
count ? ” 

“Without doubt,” said the count. 
“I should be greatly honored if the 
princess will be so gracious. Perhaps I 
may be more fortunate on this occasion.” 

“ It appears to me,” said Amelia, 
rudely interrupting him, “ that ‘ fortu- 
nate ’ and ‘ unfortunate ’ are not terms 
which can be properly used in any 
connection between a princess of Prussia 
and yourself.” Amelia then turned 
toward her sister and gave her a glance 
which plainly said: Well do I not 
play my rdle in masterly style ? Have 
I not hastened to follow your counsels ? 
“ Speak, sister ; name the point which 
Count Tessin dares to contest with you.” 

“ Oh, the count is a man and a scholar, 
and has full right to differ,” said Ulrica, 
graciously. “ The question was a com- 
parison of Queen Elizabeth of England 
and Queen Christina of Sweden. I 
maintain that Christina had a stronger 
and more powerful intellect ; that she 
knew better how to conquer her spirit, 
to master her womanly weaknesses ; 
that she was more thoroughly cultivat- 
ed, and studied philosophy and science, 
not as Elizabeth, for glitter and show, 
but because she had an inward thirst 
for knowledge. The count asserts that 
Elizabeth was better versed in state- 
craft, and a more amiable woman. 
Now, Amelia, to which of these two 
queens do you give the jrreference ? ” 

“ Oh, without doubt, to Queen Chris- 
tina of Sweden. This great woman 
was wise enough not to regard the 
crown of Sweden as a rare and precious 
gem ; she chose a simple life of obscu- 
rity and poverty in beautiful Italy, 
rather than a throne in cold and unfruit- 
ful Sweden. This act alone establishes 
her superiority. Yes, sister, you are 
right. Christina was much the greater 
woman, even because she scorned to 
be Queen of Sweden.” 


So saying, Amelia bowed slightingly, 
and, turning aside, she summoned Ma- 
dame von Kleist, and commenced a 
merry chat with her. Count Tessin re- 
garded her with a dark and scornful 
glance, and pressed his lips tightly to- 
gether, as if to restrain his anger. 

“ I beseech you, count,” said Ulrica, 
in a low, soft voice , “ not to be offend- 
ed at the thoughtless words of my dear 
little sister. It is true, she is a little 
rude and resentful to-day; but you 
will see — to-morrow, perhaps, will be 
one of her glorious sunny days, and 
you will perhaps find her irresistibly 
charming. Her moods are changea- 
ble, and for that reason we call her our 
little ‘April fee."' ” 

“ Ah, the princess is, then, as uncer- 
tain as April ? ” said the count, with a 
frosty smile. 

“More uncertain than April,” said 
Ulrica, sweetly. “ But what would 
you, sir ? we all, brothers and sisters, 
are responsible for that. You must 
know that she is our favorite, and is al- 
ways indulged. I counsel you not to 
find fault with our little sister. Count 
Tessin ; that would be to bring an ac- 
cusation against us all. You have suf- 
fered to-day from a shower of her 
April moods; to-morrow you may re- 
joice in the sunshine of her favor.” 

“I shall, however, be doubtful and 
anxious,” said the ambassador, coolly ; 
“ the April sun is sometimes accompa- 
nied by rain and storm, and these sud- 
den changes bring sickness and death.” 

“Allow me to make one request,” 
said Ulrica. “ Let not the king guess 
that you have suffered from these April 
changes.” 

“ Certainly not ; and if your royal 
highness will graciously allow me to 
bask in the sunshine of your presence, 
I shall soon recover from the chilling 
effect of these April showers.” 

“ Well, I think we have played oui 
parts admirably.” said Ulrica to her- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


45 


Bclf, as she found time, duiing the 
course of the evening, to meditate upon 
the events of the day. “Amelia will 
accomplish her purpose, and will not 
be Queen of Sweden. She would have 
it so, and I shall not reproach myself.” 

Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably 
back in her arm-chair, and gave her at- 
tention to a play of Voltaire, which 
was now being performed. This rep- 
resentation took place in the small the- 
atre in the royal palace. There was no 
public theatre in Berlin, and the king 
justly pronounced the large opera- 
house unsuited to declamation. Fred- 
erick generally gave his undivided at- 
tention to the play, but this evening he 
was restless and impatient, and he ac- 
corded less applause to this piquant 
and witty drama of his favorite author 
than he was wont to do. The king 
was impatient, because the king was 
waiting. He had so far restrained all 
outward expression of his impatient 
curiosity ; the French play had not 
commenced one moment earlier than 
usual. Frederick had, according to 
custom, gone behind the scenes, to say 
a few friendly and encouraging words 
to the performers, to call their attention 
to his favorite passages, and exhort 
them to be truly eloquent in their reci- 
tations. And now the king waited; 
ne felt feverishly impatient to see and 
judge for himself this capricious beau- 
ty, this world-renowned artiste^ this 
Signora Barbarina, whose rare loveliness 
and grace enchanted and bewildered 
all who looked upon her. 

At length the curtain fell. In a few 
moments he would see the Barbarina 
dance her celebrated solo. A breath- 
less stillness reigned throughout the as- 
sembly ; every eye was fixed upon the 
curtaia The bell sounded, the curtain 
flew up, and a lovely landscape met the 
eye : in the background a village church, 
rose-bushes in rich bloom, and shady 
trees on every side ; the declining sun 


gilded the summit of the mountain, 
against the base of which the little vil- 
lage nestled. The distant sound of the 
evening bell was calling the simple cot- 
tagers to “ Ave Maria.” It was an en- 
chanting pictm’e of innocence and 
peace ; in striking contrast to this court- 
ly assembly, glittering with gems and 
starry orders — a startling opposite to 
that sweet pure idyl. And now this 
select circle seemed agitated as by an 
electric shock. There, upon the stage, 
floated the Signora Barbarina. 

The king raised himself involuntari- 
ly a little higher in his arm-chah, in or- 
der to examine the signora more close- 
ly ; he leaned back, however, ashamed 
of his impatience, and a light cloud 
was on his brow; he felt himself op- 
pressed and overcome by this magical 
beauty. He who had looked death in 
the face without emotion, who had seen 
the deadly cannon-balls falling thickly 
around him without a trembling of the 
eyelids, now felt a presentiment of dan- 
ger, and shrank from it. 

Barbarina was indeed lovely, hresist- 
ably lovely, in her ravishing costume 
of shepherdess ; her dress was of crim- 
son satin, her black velvet bodice was 
fastened over her voluptuous bosom by 
rich golden cords, finished off by 
tassels glittering with diamonds. A 
wreath of crimson roses adorned her 
hair, which fell in graceful ringlets 
about her wondrous brow, and formed 
a rich fi’ame around her pure, oval flice. 
The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip 
contrasted richly with the light, rosy 
blush of her fair, smooth cheek. Bar- 
barma’s smile was a promise of love 
and bliss ; and, when those gTeat fier^ 
eyes looked at you earnestly, there was 
such an intense glow, such a depth of 
power and passion in their rays, you 
could not but feel that there was dan- 
ger in her love as in her scorn. 

To-day, she would neither threaten 
nor inspire; she was only a smiling_ 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


i6 

joyous, simple peasant - girl, who had 
returned with joy to her native village, 
and whose rapture found expression in 
the gay and graceful mazes of the 
dance. She floated here and there, 
like a wood-nymph, smiling, happy, 
careless, wonderful to look upon in her 
loveliness and beauty, but more won- 
derful still in her art. Simplicity and 
grace marked every movement; there 
seemed no difficulties in her path — to 
dance was her happiness. 

The dance was at an end. Barbarina, 
breathless, glowing, smiling, bowed 
low. Then all was still ; no hand was 
moved, no applause greeted her. Her 
great burning eyes wandered threaten- 
ingly and questioningly over the sa- 
loon; then, raising her lovely head 
proudly, she stepped back. 

The curtain fell, and now all eyes 
were fixed upon the king, in whose 
face the courtiers expected to read the 
impression which the signora had made 
upon him ; but the countenance of the 
king told nothing; he was quiet and 
thoughtful, his brow was stem, and his 
lips compressed. The courtiers con- 
cluded that he was disappointed, and 
began at once to find fault, and make 
disparaging remarks. Frederick did 
not regard them. At this moment he 
was not a king, he was only a man — a 
man who, in silent rapture, had gazed 
upon this wondrous combination of 
grace and beauty. The king was a 
hero, but he trembled before this wo- 
man, and a sort of terror laid hold upon 
him. 

The curtain rose, and the second act 
of the drama began ; no one looked at 
the stage; after this living, breathing, 
impersonation of a simple story, a spo- 
ken drama seemed oppressive. Every 
one rejoiced when. the second act was 
at an end. The curtain w'ould soon 
rise for Barbarina. 

But this did not occur ; there was a 
(ong delay; there T\as eager expecta- 


tion ; the curtain did not rise ; the bell 
did not ring. At last, Baron Swartz 
crossed the stage and drew near to the 
king. 

“Sire,” said he, “the Signora Bar- 
barina declares she will not dance 
again; she is exhausted by grief and 
anxiety, and fatigued by her journey.” 

“ Go and say to her that I command 
her to dance,” said Frederick, who felt 
himself once more a king, and rejoiced 
in his power over this enchantress, who 
almost held him in her toils. 

Baron Swartz hastened behind the 
scenes, but soon returned, somewhat 
cast down. 

“Sire, the signora affirms that she 
will not dance, and that the king has 
no power to compel her. She dances 
to please herself.” 

“ Ah ! that is a menace,” said the 
king, threateningly; and without fur- 
ther speech he stepped upon the stage, 
followed by Baron Swartz. “ Where is 
this person ? ” said the king. 

“ She is in her own room, your ma- 
jesty ; shall I call her ? ” 

“ No, I will go to her. Show me the 
way.” 

The baron stepped forward, and 
Frederick endeavored to collect him- 
self and assume a cool and grave bear- 
ing. 

“ Sire, this is the chamber of the 
Signora Barbarina.” 

“Open the door.” But before the 
baron had time to obey the command, 
the impatient hand of the king had 
opened the door, and he had entered 
tl e room. 


CHAPTER IX. 

rnE KING AND B ARB AKIN a! 

Barbarina was resting, half reclin- 
ing, and wholly abstracted, upon a 
small crimson divan ; her rounded arms 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


were crossed over her breast. She' fixed 
her blazing, glowing eyes upon the in- 
truders, and seemed petrified, in her 
stubborn immobility, her determined 
silence. She had the glance of a pan- 
ther who has prepared herself for 
death, or to slay her enemy. 

The king stood a moment quiet and 
waiting, but Barbarina did not move. 
Baron Swartz, alarmed by her contempt- 
uous and disrespectful bearing, drew 
near, in order to say that the king had 
vouchsafed to visit her, but Frederick 
motioned him to withdraw ; and, in or- 
der that Barbarina might not under- 
stand him, he told hun in German to 
leave the room and await him in the 
corridor. 

“ I do not wish the signora to know 
that I am the king,” said he. As the 
baron withdrew, Frederick said to him, 
“ Leave the door open.” 

Barbarina was motionless, only her 
large black eyes wandered questioning- 
ly from one to the other ; she sought to 
read the meauing of their words, not 
one of which she understood ; but her 
features expressed no anxiety, no dis- 
quiet ; she did not look like a culprit 
or a rebel ; she had rather the air of a 
stern queen, withholding her royal fa- 
vor. The king drew near her. Her 
eyes were fixed upon him with inex- 
pressible, earnest calm; and this cool 
indifference, so rarely seen by a king, 
embarrassed Frederick, and at the 
same time intoxicated him. 

“You are, then, really determined 
not to dance again ? ” inquired the 
king. 

“ Fully determined,” said she, in a 
rich and sonorous voice. 

“ Beware ! beware ! ” said he ; but he 
could not assume that threatening tone 
wliich he wished. “The king may 
perhaps comj)el you.” 

“Compel me! me, the Barbarina!” 
said she, with a mocking laugh, and 
disclosing two rows of pearly teeth. 


47 

“ And how can the king compel me to 
dance ? ” 

“ You must be convinced that he has 
some power over you, since he brought 
you here against your will.” 

“ Yes, that is true,” said she, raising 
herself up proudly; “he brought me 
here by force ; he has acted like a bar- 
barian, a cold-blooded tyrant ! ” 

“ Signora,” said Frederick menacing- 
ly, “ one does not speak in this manner 
of kings.” 

“ And why not ? ” she said, passion- 
ately. “What is your king to me? 
What claim has he upon my love, upon 
, my consideration, or even my obedi- 
ence ? What has he done for me, that 
I should regard him otherwise than as 
a tyrant ? What is he to me ? I am my- 
self a queen; yes, and believe me, a 
proud and an obstinate one ! Who 
and what is this king, whom I do not 
know, whom I have never seen, who 
has forgotten that I am a woman, yes, 
forgotten that he is a man, though he 
bears the empty title of a king ? A true 
king is always and only a gallant cava- 
lier in his conduct to women. If he 
fails in this, he is contemptible and 
despised.” 

“ How ! you despise the king ? ” said 
Frederick, who really enjoyed this un- 
accustomed scene. 

“ Yes, I despise him ! yes, I hate him ! ” 
cried the Barbarina, with a wild and 
stormy outbreak of her southern nature. 
“ I no longer pray to God for my own 
happiness ; that this cruel king has de- 
stroyed. I pray to God for revenge ; yes, 
for vengeance upon this man, who has 
no heart, and who tramples the hearts 
of others under his feet. And God will 
help me. I shall revenge myself on 
this man. I have sworn it — I will kee}-* 
my word ! Go, sir, and tell this to 
your king ; tell him to beware of Bar- 
barina. Greater, bolder, and more mag- 
nanimous than he, I warn him!-- 
Cunningly, slyly, unwarned, by night I 


48 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


was fallen upon by spies, and dragged 
like a culprit to Berlin.” 

The king had no wish to put an end 
to this piquant scene ; he was only ac- 
customed to the voice of praise and of 
applause ; it was a novelty, and there- 
fore agreeable to be so energetically 
railed at and abused. 

“ Do you not fear that the king will 
be angry when I repeat your words ? ” 

“Fear! What more can your king 
do, that I should fear him ? Yes, he is 
a king ; but am not I a queen ? This 
paltry kingdom is but a small portion 
of the world, which is mine, wholly 
mine ; it belongs to me, as it belongs to 
the eagle who spreads her proud wings 
and looks down upon her vast do- 
mains ; he has millions in his treasury, 
but they are pressed from the pockets 
of his poor subjects ; he requires many 
agents to collect this gold, and his peo- 
ple give it grudgingly, but my subjects 
bring their tribute joyfully and lay it 
at my feet with loving words. Look 
you ! look at these two little feet : they 
are my assessors ; they collect the taxes 
from my people, and all the dwellers 
in Europe are mine. These are my 
agents, they bring me in millions of 
gold; they are also my avengers, by 
their aid I shall revenge myself on 
your barbaric king.” 

She leaned back upon the pillows and 
breathed audibly, exhausted by her wild 
passion. The king looked at her with 
wonder. She was to him a rare and 
precious work of art, something to be 
studied and worshipped. Her alluring 
beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled 
passions, her bold sincerity, were all 
attractions, and he felt himself under 
the spell of her e^hantments. Let her 
rail and swear to be revenged on the 
barbarian. The king heard her not; 
a simple gentleman stood before her; 
a man who felt that Barbarina was right, 
and who confessed to himself that the 
king had forgotten, in her rude seizure. 


that the Barbarina was a woman — for- 
gotten that he, in all his relations with 
women, should be only a cavalier. 

“Yes, yes,” said Barbarina, and an 
expression of triumph w^as painted on 
her lips — “ yes, my little feet will be my 
avengers. The king will never more 
see them dance — never more ; they 
have cost him thousands of gold; be- 
cause of them he is at variance with the 
noble Republic of Venice. Well, he has 
seen them for the last time Ah I it is a 
light thing to subdue a province, but 
impossible to conquer a woman and an 
artiste who is resolved not to surren- 
der.” 

Frederick smiled at these proud 
words. 

“ So you will not dance before the 
king, and yet you have danced for him 
this evening ? ” 

“Yes,” said she, raising her head 
proudly, “ I have proved to him that I 
am an artiste; only when he feels that, 
will it pain him never again to see me 
exercise my art.” 

“ That is, indeed, refined reasoning,” 
said the king. “ You danced, then, in 
order to make the king thirst anew for 
this intoxicating draught, and then 
deny him? Truly, one must be an 
Italian to conceive this plan.” 

“ I am an Italian, and woe to mo 
that I am ! ” A storm of tears gushed 
from here yes, but in a moment, as if 
scorning her own weakness, she drove 
them back into her heart. “ Poor Ital- 
ian,” she said, in a soft, low tone — 
“ poor child of the South, what are you 
doing in this cold North, among these 
frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify 
art and beauty? Ah! to think that 
even the Barbarina could not melt the 
ice-rind from their pitiful souls; to 
think that she displayed before them 
all the power and grace of her art, and 
they looked on with motionless hands 
and silent lips ! Ah ! this humiliation 
would have killed me in Italy, because 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


49 


I love my people, and they understand 
\nd appreciate all that is rare and beau- 
dful. My heart burns with scorn and 
contempt for these torpid Berliners.” 

“I understand you now,” said the 
king ; “ you heard no bravos, you were 
not applauded; therefore you are an- 
gry ? ” 

“ I laugh at it ! ” said she, looking 
fiercely at the king. “ Do you not know 
sir, that this applause, these bravos, are 
to the artiste as the sound of the trumpet 
to the gallant war-horse, they invigo- 
rate and inspire, and swell the heart with 
strength and courage ? When the artiste 
stands upon the stage, the saloon before 
him is his heaven, and there his judges 
sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eter- 
nal condemnation ; to crown him with 
immortal fame, or cover him with shame 
and confusion. Now, sir, that I have 
explained to you that the stage saloon 
is our heaven, and the spectators are 
our judges, you will understand that 
these bravos are to us as the music of 
the spheres.” 

“ Yes, I comprehend,” said the king, 
smiling ; “ but you must be indulgent ; 
in this theatre etiquette forbids ap- 
pl ause. Y ou have danced to-day before 
an invited audience, who pay nothing, 
and therefore have not the right to 
blame or praise ; no one dare applaud 
— ^no one but the king.” 

“ Ha 1 and this rude man did not ap- 
plaud I ” cried she, showing her small 
teeth, and raising her hand threaten- 
jigly toward heaven. 

“ E^erhaps he was motionless and 
drunk from rapture,” said the king, 
bowing gracefully ; “ when he sees you 
dance again, he will have more -control 
over himself, and will, perhaps, applaud 
you heartily.” 

“ Perhaps ? ” cried she. “ I shall not 
expose myself to this ‘ perhaps.’ I will 
dance no more. My foot is sore, and 
your king cannot force me to dance.” 

“ No, he cannot force you, but you 

4 


will do it willingly; you will dance 
for him again this evening, of your own 
free will.” 

Barbarina answered by one burst of 
wild, demoniac laughter, expressive of 
her scorn and her resentment. 

“ You will dance again this evening,” 
repeated Frederick, and his keen eye 
gazed steadily into that of Barbarina, 
who, though weeping bitterly, shook 
her lovely head, and gave him back 
bravely glance for glance. “ You will 
dance, Barbarina, because, if you do 
not, you are lost. I do not mean by 
this that you are lost because the king 
will punish you for your obstinacy. 
The king is no Bluebeard ; he neither 
murders women nor confines them in un- 
derground prisons ; he has no torture- 
chambers ready for you ; for the King 
of Prussia, whom you hate so fiercely, 
has abolished the torture throughout 
his kingdom — the torture which still 
flouiishes luxuriantly by the side of 
oranges and myrtles in your beautiful 
Italy. No, signora, the king will not 
punish you if you persist in your obsti- 
nacy; he will only send you away, 
that is all.” 

“ And that is my only wish, all that I 
ask of Fate.” 

“You do not know yom-self. You, 
who are an artiste^ who are a lovely 
woman, who are ambitious, and look 
upon fame as worth striving for, you 
would not lose your power, trample 
under foot your ambition, see your rare 
beauty slighted, and your enchanting 
grace despised ? ” 

“ I cannot see why all these terrible 
things will come to pass if I refuse to 
dance again before your king.” 

“ I will explain to y<|^i, signora — listen. 
The king (however contemptuously you 
may think and speak of him) is still a 
man upon whom the eyes of all Europe 
are turned — ^that is to say,” he added, 
with a gay smile and a graceful bow, 
“ when his bold eye is not exactly fixed 


'^0 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


upon them, signora. The voice of this 
king has some weight in your world, 
though, as yet, he has only stolen prov- 
inces and women. It is well known 
that the king had so irresistible a de- 
sire to see you and to admire you, that 
he forgot his knightly gallantry, or set 
it aside, and, relying only upon his 
right, he exacted the fulfilling of the 
contract signed by your own lovely 
hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy 
of a cavalier, but it was not unjust. 
You were forced to obey. You came 
to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; 
but you have this evening danced be- 
fore the king of your own free will. 
This, from your stand-point, was a great 
mistake. You can no longer say, ‘I 
will not dance before the king, because 
I wish to revenge myself.’ You have 
already danced, and no matter with 
what refinement of reason you may 
explain this false step, no one will be- 
lieve you if the king raises his voice 
against you ; and he vill do this, believe 
me. He will say : ‘ I brought this Bar- 
barina to Berlin. I wished to see if the 
world had gone mad or become child- 
ish, or if Barbarina really deserved the 
enthusiasm and adoration which fol- 
lowed her steps. Well, I have seen her 
dance, and I find the world is mad in 
folly. I give them back their goddess 
— she does not suit me. She is a 
wooden image in my eyes. I wished to 
capture Terpsichore herself, and lo, I 
found I had stolen her chambermaid I 
I have seen your goddess dance once, 
and I am weary of her pirouettes and 
minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that 
is thine.’ 

“ Sir, ar !” cried Barbarina menacing- 
ly, and springing up with flaming eyes 
and panting breath. 

“That is what the king will say,” 
said Frederick, quietly. “You know 
that the voice of the king is full and 
strong ; it will resound throughout 
Europe. No one will believe that you 


refused to dance. It will be said that 
you did not please the king ; this will 
be proved by the fact that he did not 
applaud, did not utter a single bravo. 
In a word, it will be said you have 
made a^asco.” 

Barbarina sprang from her seat and 
laid her hand upon the arm of the king 
with indescribable, inimitable grace and 
passion. 

“Lead me upon the stage — I will 
dance now. Ah, this king shall not 
conquer me, shall not cast me down. 
No, no ! I will compel him to applaud ; 
he shall confess that I am indeed an 
artiste. Tell the director to prepare — 
I will come immediately upon the 
stage.” 

Barbarina w^as right when she com- 
pared the artiste to a war-horse. At 
this moment she did indeed resemble 
one ; she seemed to hear the sound of 
the trumpet calling to battle and to 
fame. Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils 
dilated, a quick and violent breathing 
agitated her breast, and a nervous and 
convulsive trembling for action was seen 
in every movement. The king observed 
and comprehended her. He under- 
stood her tremor and her haste ; he ap- 
preciated this soul-thirsting for fame, 
this fervor of ambition, excited by the 
possibility of failure ; her boldness 
enraptured him. The sincerity and 
power with which she expressed her 
emotions, commanded his respect ; and 
while the king payed this tribute to her 
intellectual qualities, the man at the 
same time confessed to himself that her 
personal attractions merited the worship 
she received. She was beautiful, en- 
dowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, 
luxurious, and at the same time modest 
beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the 
goddess rising from the sea. 

“Come,” said Frederick, “give me 
your hand. I will conduct you, and I 
promise you that this time the king 
will applaud.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


61 


Barbarina did not rei)ly. In the fire 
of her impatience, she pressed the king 
onward toward the door. Suddenly she 
paused, and giving him an enchanting 
smile, she said, “I am, without doubt, 
much indebted to you; you have 
warned me of a danger, and in fact 
guarded me from an abyss. Truly I 
think this was not done for my sake, 
but because your king had commanded 
that I should dance. Your reasons 
were well grounded, and I thank you 
sincerely. I pray you, sir, give me your 
name, that I may guard it in my mem- 
ory as the only pleasant association 
with Berlin.” 

“From this day, signora, you will 
confess that you owe me a small service. 
You have told me it was a light task to 
win provinces, but to capture and sub- 
due a woman was impossible. I hope 
now I shall be a hero in your eyes : I 
have not only conquered provinces, I 
have captured a woman and subdued 
her.” 

Barbarina was neither astonished nor 
alarmed at these words. She had seen 
too many kings and princes at her feet 
to be blinded by the glitter of roy- 
alty. 

She let go the arm of the king, and 
said calmly and coolly : “ Sire, I do not 
ask for pardon or grace. The possessor 
of a crown must wear it, if he demands 
that it should be acknowledged and re- 
spected, and the pomp and glare of roy- 
ality is, it seems, easily veiled. Besides, 

I would not have acted otherwise, had 
I known who it was that dared intrude 
upon me.” 

“ I am convinced of that,” said Fred- 
erick, smiling. “ You are a queen who 
has but small consideration for the little 
King of Prussia, because he requires so 
many agents to impress the gold from 
the pockets of his unwilling subjects. 
You are right — my agents cost me 
much money, and bring small tribute, 
while yours cost nothing and yield a 


rich harvest. Come, signora, your as- 
sessors must enter upon their duties.” 

He nodded to Baron Swartz, who 
stood in the corridor, and said in Ger- 
man, “The signora will dance; she 
must be received with respect and 
treated with consideration.” He gave 
a light greetiug to Barbarina and re- 
turned to the saloon, where he found 
the last act of the drama just con- 
cluded. 

Every eye was fixed upon the king as 
he entered. He had left the room in 
anger, and the courtiers almost trem- 
bled at the thought of his fierce dis- 
pleasure; but Frederick’s brow was 
clear, and an expression of peace and 
quiet was written on his features. He 
took his place between the two queens, 
muttered a few words of explanation 
to his mother, and bowed smilingly to 
his wife. Poor queen ! poor Elizabeth 
Christine ! she had the sharp eye of a 
loving and jealous woman, and she saw 
in the king’s face what no one, not even 
Frederick himself, knew. While every 
eye was turned upon the stage ; while 
all with breathless rapture gazed upon 
the marvellous beauty and grace of 
Barbarina, the queen alone fixed a 
stolen and trembling glance upon the 
countenance of her husband. She saw 
not that Barbarina, inspired by ambi- 
tion and passion, was more lovely, more 
enchanting than before. Her eyes were 
fixed upon the face of her husband, now 
luminous with admiration and delight ; 
she saw his soft smile, and the iron en- 
tered her soul. 

The dance was at an end. Barbarina 
came forward and bowed low ; and now 
something happened so unheard of, so 
confrary to coint etiquette, that the 
master of ceremonies was filled with 
surpiise and disapprobation. The king 
applauded, not as gracious kings ap- 
plaud generally, by laying his hands 
lightly together, but like a wild enthu- 
siast who wishes to confess to the world 


62 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


tliat lie is bewildered, enraptured. He 
then rose from his chair, and turning to 
the princesses and generals behind him, 
he said, “ Gentlemen, why do you not 
applaud?” and as if these magical 
words had released the hands from bon- 
dage and given life to the wild rapture 
of applause which had before but trem- 
bled on the lip, the wide hall rang with 
the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of 
the spectators. Barbarina bowed low 
and still lower, an expression of happy 
triumph playing upon her glowing face, 

“ I have never seen a more beautiful 
woman,” said the king, as he sank back, 
seemingly exhausted, in his chair. 

Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips to- 
gether, to suppress a cry of pain. She 
had heard the king’s words; for her 
they had a deeper meaning. “ He will 
love her, I know it, I feel it I ” she said 
to herself as she returned after this 
eventful evening to Schonhausen. “ Oh, 
why has God laid upon me this new 
trial, this new humiliation ? Until now, 
no one thought the less of me because 
I was not loved by the king. The 
world said, ‘ The king loves no woman, 
he has no heart for love.’ From this 
day I shall be despised and pitied. 
The king has found a heart. He 
knows now that he has not outlived his 
youth ; he feels that he is young — ^that 
he is young in heart, young in love ! 
Oh, my God! and I too am young, 
and love ; and I must shroud my heart 
in resignation and gloom.” 

While the queen was pouring out her 
complaints and prayers to God, the 
Swedish ambassador was confiding his 
wrath to his king. He wrote to his 
sovereign, and repeated to him the 
angry and abusive words of the little 
Princess Amelia, who was known at‘the 
court as the little April Fee. She was 
more changeable than April, and more 
stormy and imperious than Frederick 
himself. He painted skilfully the gen- 
tle and attractive bearing of the Prin- 


cess Ulrica, and asked fur permission 
to demand the hand of this gracious 
and noble princess for Adolph Freder- 
ick. After the ambassador had writ- 
ten his dispatches, and sent them by 
courier to the Swedish ship lying in 
the sound, he said to himself, with a 
triumphant smile : “ Ah, my little 
Princess Amelia, this is a royal punish- 
ment for royal impertinence. You 
were pleased to treat me with contempt, 
but you did not know that I could 
avenge myself by depriving you of a 
kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my 
mission, how smilingly you would have 
greeted the Count Tessin ! ” 

The gentlemen diplomatists are 
sometimes outwitted. 


CHAPTER X. 

ECKHOF. 

The reader has learned, from the 
foregoing chapters, what a splendid 
role the French theatre and ballet were 
now playing at the court of Berlin. A 
superb house had been built for the 
Italian opera and the ballet, a stage 
had been prepared in the king’s palace 
for the French comedies, and every 
representation was honored by the 
presence of the king, the royal family, 
and the court circle. The most cele- 
brated singers of Italy, the most grace- 
ful Parisian dancers were now to be 
heard and seen in Berlin. These things 
assumed such vast importance, that the 
king himself appeared as a critic in the 
daily journals, and his articles w’ere re- 
published in the foreign papers. While 
the king favored the strange actors 
with his presence and his grace, the 
German theatre, like a despised step- 
child, was given over to misery and 
contempt. Compelled to seek an asy- 
lum in low dark saloons, its actors had 
to be thankful for even the permission 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


53 


to exist, and to plead with Apollo and 
the Muses for aid and applause. The 
King and the so-called good society 
despised them altogether. But this 
step-child carried under her ashes and 
ragged garments the golden robes of 
her future greatness ; her cunning step- 
sisters had cast her down into obscuri- 
ty and want, but she was not extin- 
guished; she could not be robbed^ of 
her future 1 Only a few propitious cir- 
cumstances were necessary to enable 
her to shake the dust from her head, 
and bring her kingly crown to light. 

The king had given Schonemein 
permission to bring his company to 
Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schone- 
mein had engaged the young and 
talented actor Eckhof for the season. 
Eckhof w^as destined to give renown to 
the German theatre; he was justly 
called the first and greatest actor in 
Germany. Alas, how much of misery, 
how much of humiliation, how many 
choking tears, how much suflfering and 
care, how much hunger and thirst were 
then comprised in that one word, a 
“ German actor ! ” None but a lost or 
despairing man, or an enthusiast, would 
enroll himself as a German actor ; only 
when he had nothing more to lose, and 
was willing to burn his ships behind 
him, could he enter upon that thorny 
path. Religion and art have always 
had their martyrs, and truly the Ger- 
man actors were martyrs in the time of 
Frederick the Great. Blessings upon 
those who did not despair, and took up 
their cross patiently ! 

The French comedy and the Italian 
opera flourished like the green bay-tree. 
The German actors took refuge in the 
saloon of th e Council-house. The light- 
ing up of the Royal Opera-house cost 
two hundred and seventy-seven florins 
every night. The misty light of swel- 
tering oil-lamps illuminated the poor 
saloon of the Council-house. 

The audience of the German theatre 


was composed of burghers, philoso- 
phers, poets, bankers, and clerks — ^the 
people of the middle classes, who wore 
no white plumes in their hats; they 
were indeed allowed to enter the 
opera-house, but through a side passage, 
and their boxes were entirely separate 
from those of the court circle. These 
people of the middle classes seemed 
obscure and unimportant, but they 
were educated and intelligent; even 
then they were a power; proud and 
independent, they could not be bribed 
by flattery, nor blinded by glitter and 
pomp. They judged the king as they 
judged the beggar, the philosopher 
as they did the artist, and they judged 
boldly and well. 

This public voice had declared that 
Eckhof was a great tragedian, who ri- 
valled successfully the great French 
actor. Monsieur Dennis. This public 
voice, though but the voice of the peo- 
ple, found entrance everywhere, even in 
the saloons of the nobles and cabinets 
of princes. Berlin resounded with the 
name of Eckhof, who dared to rival the 
French actor, and with the name of 
Schonemein, who dared, every time a 
drama of Corneille or Racine, of Mo- 
li^re or Voltaire, was given in the pal- 
ace theatre, to represent the same in the 
Council-house on the following evening. 
This was a good idea. Those who had 
been so fortunate as to witness the per- 
formance at the palace, wished to com- 
pare the glittering spectacle with the 
poor caricature, as they were pleased to 
call it, in the Council-house. Those 
whose obscure position prevented them 
from entering the French theatre, 
wished at least to see the play which 
had enraptured the king and court; 
they must be content with the copy, 
somewhat like the hungry beggar who 
stands before the kitchen door, and re- 
freshes himself by femelling the roast 
beef he cannot hope to taste. But there 
was still a third class who visited the 


54 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI , OR, 


German theatre, not in derision, not 
from curiosity, not from a desire to im- 
itate the nobles in their amusements, 
but with the seemingly Utopian hope 
of building up the German drama. 
Amongst these were the scholars, who 
pronounced the dramas of Gottsched 
far superior to those of Corneille and 
Racine ; there were the German patriots, 
who would not grant a smile to the best 
representation of Malade Imagi- 
naire^'* but declared “ The Hypochon- 
driac,” by Guistorp, the wittiest drama 
in the world. In short, this large class 
of men ranged themselves in bold op- 
position to the favoritism shown to 
Frenchmen by Frederick the Great. 
These were the elements which com- 
posed the audience in the Council- 
house. 

One afternoon, just before the open- 
ing of the theatre, two young men were 
walking arm-in-arm in the castle court ; 
with one of them we are already ac- 
quainted, Joseph Fredersdorf, the merry 
student of Halle, the brother of the 
private secretary — he who had been 
commissioned to seek the black ram, 
for the propitiation of the devil. In 
obedience to the command of the sec- 
retary, he, with ten other members of 
this unholy alliance, had been searching 
in every quarter for this sacrifice. Jo- 
seph Fredersdorf, indebted to fortune 
or his own adroitness, was the first to 
return from his wanderings, and he 
brought with him a black ram, on whose 
glossy coat the sharpest eye could not 
detect one white hair. 

Fredersdorf, and Baron Kleist, the 
husband of the lovely Louise von 
Schwerin, were truly happy, and paid 
willingly some hundred thalers for tliis 
coveted object. Indeed, they consid- 
ered this a very small interest to pay 
for the large capital which they would 
soon realize. They were the principal 
leaders in the secret conspiracy for gold- 
making, and many other most distin- 


guished nobles, generals, and officers 
belonged to the society. Fredersdorf 
was resolved to fathom this mystery ; 
he wished to buy himself free from his 
service to the king, and wed the woman 
he had long so passionately loved. 
Kleist was riotous and a spendthrift; 
he felt that gold alone would enable 
him to buy smiles and rapture from 
this worn-out and wearisome world. 
Kleist and his beautiful wife required 
money in large measure ; she had been 
a faithful companion and aid — ^had 
stood by honestly and assisted in the 
waste of her own property; and now 
they were compelled to confine them- 
selves to the small income of cajfiain of 
the king’s guard. 

Joseph laughed, chatted, and jested 
with his young companion, who walked 
by his side with modest and downcast 
eyes. Joseph sometimes put his hand 
merrily under the dimpled chins of the 
rosy servant-girls who passed them fi:om 
time to time, or peeped rather imperti- 
nently under the silk hoods of the 
burgher maidens; his companion 
blushed and took no part in these bold 
pastimes. 

“Truly,” said Joseph, “if I did not 
have in my pocket a letter from my 
former room-mate at Halle, introducing 
you as a manly, brave boy, and a future 
light in the world of science, I should 
suspect you were a disguised maiden ; 
you blush like a girl, and are as timid 
as a lamb which has never left its 
mother’s side.” 

“ I am a villager, a poor provincial,” 
said the youth, in a somewhat maidenly 
voice. “The manners of your great 
city embaiTass me. I admire but can- 
not imitate them. I have been always 
a recluse, a dusty bookworm.” 

“ A learned monster ! ” cried Joseph, 
mockingly, “who knows and under- 
stands every thing except the art of 
enjoying life. I acknowledge that you 
are greatly my superior, but I can in- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


55 


struct you in that science. You have 
been so strongly commended to me, 
that I will at once commence to unfold 
to you the real, satisfying duties and 
pleasures of life.” 

“I fear,” said the youth, “your sci- 
ence is beyond my ability. I have no 
organ for it. My father is a celebrated 
physician in Quedlinburg ; he would be 
greatly distressed if I should occupy 
myself with any thing else than philos- 
ophy and the arts. I myself have so 
little inclination and so little ability for 
the enjoyment of mirth and pleasure, 
that I dare not exchange the world of 
books for the world of men. I do not 
not understand their speech, and their 
manners are strange to me.” 

“ But, without doubt, you have come 
to Berlin to learn something of these 
things?” 

“ No ; I have come to visit the medi- 
cal college, and to speak with the 
learned and renowned Eiiler.” 

“ Folly and nonsense I ” said Freders- 
dorf, laughing; “keep your dry pur- 
suits for Halle, and give your time and 
attention to that which you cannot find 
there, gayety and amusement. I prom- 
ise to be your counsellor and comrade. 
Let us begin our studies at once. Do 
you see that little theatre-bill fastened 
to the wall ? Eckhof appears as Cato 
to-night.” 

“ Go to the theatre I ” said Lupinus, 
shrinkingly. “ How I I go to the the- 
atre ?” 

“ And why not, friend ? ” said Joseph. 
“Perhaps you belong to the pietists, 
who look upon the stage as the mother 
of blasphemy and sin, and who rail at 
our noble king because he will not close 
these houses ? ” 

“ No, I do not belong to the pietists,” 
said the youth, with a sad smile, “ and 
I try to serve God by understanding 
and admiring His works; that is my 
religion.” 

“ Well, it seems to me that this faith 


does hot forbid you to enter the thea- 
tre. If it pleases you to study God's 
master-work, I promise to show you this 
night on the stage the noblest exemplar. 
Eckhof plays this evening.” 

“ Who, then, is Eckhof? ” 

Joseph looked at the young man 
with surprise, and shrugged his shoul- 
ders contemptuously. 

“ You have, indeed, been greatly neg- 
lected, and it was high time you should 
come to me. You do not know, then, 
that Eckhof is the first tragedian who 
has dared to set aside the old and ab- 
surd dress and manners of the stage, 
and introduce real, living, feeling men, 
of like passions with ourselves, and who 
move and speak even as we do. Now 
we must certainly enter the theatre; 
look there, at that great crowd entering 
the dark and lowly entrance ! Let us 
remove our hats reverentially; we stand 
before the temjDle of art.” So saying, 
he drew the young man, who had no 
longer courage to resist, into the house. 
“ This is Eckhof ’s benefit. You see the 
great tragedian has many admirers ; it 
seems to me that half Berlin has come 
to bring him tribute this evening.” 

Lupinus sat silent and confused in the 
'parterre^ near Joseph. There was a 
row of seats slightly elevated and made 
of common plank, called loges; one of 
these nearest the stage was adorned by 
a golden eagle, from which some pitiful 
drapery was suspended ; this was called 
the king’s loge^ but I am constrained to 
say, it had never been visited by the 
king or any member of the royal family. 
The royal hge was indeed empty, but 
the great body of the house was fear- 
fully crowded, and many an expression 
of pain was heard from those who were 
closely pressed and almost trampled 
upon. 

“ It is fortunate for you that Eckhof 
appears as Cato to-night ; it is his best 
role. Perhaps your learned soul may 
be somewhat reconciled to such vani- 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


ties when you see a drama of Gottsched, 
and a hero of the old and classic time.” 

“ Yes, but will not your Eckhof make 
a vile caricature of the noble Koman ? ” 
sighed Lupinus. 

“You are a pedant, and I trast the 
Muses will revenge themselves upon 
you this night,” said Joseph, angrily. 
“ I prophesy that you will become this 
evening a wild enthusiast for Eckhof; 
that is always the punishment for those 
who come as despisers and doubters. 
If you were a girl, I should know that 
you would be passionately in love with 
Eckhof before you slept; you have 
taken the first step, by hating him.” 

Joseph said this thoughtlessly, and 
did not remark the deep impression his 
words made upon the stranger. His 
face flushed, and his head sank upon 
his breast. Joseph saw nothing of this. 
At this moment the curtain rose and 
the piece began. 

A breathless silence reigned through- 
out the vast crowd ; every eye was fixed 
upon the stage; and now, with a stately 
step and a Roman toga falling in artis- 
tic folds from his shoulders, Eckhof as 
Cato stood before them. Every thing 
about him was antique ; his noble and 
proud bearing, his Arm and measured 
step, his slow but easy movements, even 
the form of his head and the expression 
of his finely-cut features, were eminently 
classic. He was the complete and per- 
fect picture of an old Roman; nothing 
was forgotten. The sandals, laced with 
red over the powerful and well-formed 
leg; the white under-garment and 
leathern girdle, the blue toga, the cut 
of his hair, every thing brought before 
you the noble Roman, the son of Lib- 
erty, imposing in his majesty and 
power. 

Eckhof was the first who had the 
courage to clothe his characters in the 
costume of the time they represented, 
to make them move and speak simply 
as men. Eckhof did that for the Ger- 


man stage which some years later Tal- 
ma introduced on the French boards. 
Talma was only a copyist of Eckhof, 
but this fact was not acknowledged, 
because at that time the German stage 
had not won for itself the sympathy and 
consideration of other nations. 

As I have said, silence reigned, and 
from time to time the rapture of ap- 
plause, which could not be altogether 
suppressed, was evidenced by thunder- 
ing bravos. Then again all was still ; 
every eye and every ear were open to 
the great actor, true to himself and true 
to nature; who, glowing with enthusi- 
asm, had cast his whole soul into his 
part; who had forgotten the line sepa- 
rating imagination from reality; who 
had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and 
felt and thought and spoke as Cato. 
At the close of an act Eckhof was 
forced to come forward and show him- 
self by the wild and stormy applause 
and loud cries of the audience. 

“Do you not find him beyond all 
praise ? ” said Fredersdorf. 

Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage ; 
he had only soul, breath, hearing for 
Eckhof. His old w^orld had passed 
away like a misty dream — a new world 
surrounded him. The olden time, the 
olden time to which he had consecrated 
years of study and of thought, to which 
he had offered up his sleep and all the 
pleasures of youth, had now become a 
reality for him. He who stood upon 
the stage was Cato ; that was the Ro- 
man forum ; there were the proud tem- 
ples, and the dwelling-houses conse- 
crated by their household gods. There 
was, then, outside of the world of books 
and letters, another world of light and 
gladness ! What was it which made 
his heart beat and tremble so power- 
fully ? why did his blood rush so madly 
through his veins? A dark veil had 
fallen from his face; all around him 
was light, life, gladness, and rapture. 
With trembling lips and silent tea^s he 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


said to himself: “ I will live; I will be 
young ; I will tarn to Eckhof ; he shall 
counsel me, and I will follow his advice 
as I would a holy gospel. — Did you not 
sa,y that you knew Cato ? ” said he, sud- 
denly aw'aking from his dream and 
turning to his companion. 

“ Cato ? ” said Fredersdorf. “ Do 
you mean the drama, or that weari- 
some old fellow himself? or Eckhof, 
who plays the part of Cato ? ” 

“ So it is Eckhof,” said Lupinus, to 
himself; “ he is called Eckhof? ” 

The play was at an end ; the curtain 
fell for the last time, and now the long- 
suppressed enthusiasm burst forth in 
wild and deafening applause. The 
young stranger was silent, his eyes 
were full of tears ; and yet he was per- 
haps the happiest of them all, and these 
rapturous tears were a loftier tribute to 
the great actor than the loudest bravos. 
The people had passed a happy even- 
ing, and common cares and sorrows had 
been forgotten ; but Lupinus felt as if 
his heart had risen from the dead : 
he was changed from old age to sun- 
ny youth ; he had suddenly discovered 
in himself something new, something 
never suspected — a glowing, loving 
heart. 

“Well, now I am resolved, wholly' 
resolved,” said Joseph, as they forced 
their way through the crowd. “ I no 
longer hesitate ; I give up to you your 
dry learning and philosophy; you are 
welcome to your dusty books and 
your imposing cues. I will be an ac- 
tor.” 

“Hal an actor?” said Lupinus, 
awaking from his dream and trembling 
violently. 

“ Why are you shocked at my 
words ? I suppose you despise me be- 
cause of this decision ; but what do I 
care? I will be an artiste; I shall not 
be disturbed by the tumed-up noses 
and derisive shrugs of you wise ones. 
I will be a scholar of Eckhof ; so de- 


57 

spise me, my learned Lupinus — I give 
you permission.’.’ 

“ I am not laughing,” said Lupinus. 
“ Each one must walk in that path at 
the end of which he hopes to find his 
ideal.” 

“ Yes, truly, and so I will go to Eck- 
hof,” said Fredersdorf, waving his hat 
triumphantly in the air. 

“ Do you know where he dwells ? ” 
said the youth. 

“Certainly. We are standing now 
just before his door. See there in the 
third story, those two lighted windows ? 
That is Eckhof’s home.” 

“ What is the name of this street ? ” 

“What is that to you? Has my 
prophecy really come true, and are you 
in love with the great actor ? Do not 
let go my arm ; do not turn away from 
me angrily. The Post Strasse is a long 
way off from where you dwell; you 
will lose yourself. Let us go together. 
I will risk no more unseemly jests with 
you. Come I ” 

“ He lives in the Post Strasse ; he is 
called Eckhof,” said Lupinus to himself, 
as he took Joseph’s arm and walked 
through the dark streets. “ I must see 
Eckhof ; he shall decide my fate.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

A LIFE QUESTION. 

I'l was the morning after Eckhof’s 
benefit. The usually quiet dwelling of 
the actor resounded with the ringing 
of glasses and merry songs after the 
toils and fatigues of the evening. He 
wished to afford to himself and his 
comrades a little distraction ; to give to 
the hungry sons of the Muses and Graces 
a few hours of simple enjoyment. — 
Eckhof’s purse was full, and he wished 
to divide its contents with his friends. 

“ Drink and be merry,” said he to his 


58 - 


BERLIN iND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


gay companions. “ Let us forget for a 
few hours that we are poor, despised 
German actors. We will drink, and 
picture to ourselves that we belong to 
the cherished and celebrated artistes of 
the French stage, on whom the Ger- 
mans so willingly shower gold, honor, 
and even love. Raise your glasses, and 
drink with me to the success of German 
art!” 

“We will drink also to Eckhof,” 
cried one of the youthful company, 
raising his glass. “Yes, to the father 
of the new school of German acting.” 

“ You are that, Eckhof, and you are 
also our benefactor,” said another. 
“We thank you, that for some months 
we have not suffered from hunger and 
thirst ; that the good people of Berlin 
take an interest in the German stage, 
and treat us with some consideration. 
Let us, then, drink to our preserver, to 
the great Eckhof 1 ” 

Every glass was raised, and their 
shouts rang out merrily. Eckhof alone 
was sad and troubled, and his great 
dreamy eyes gazed thoughtfully in the 
distance. His friends observed this, 
and questioned him as to the cause of 
his melancholy. 

“ I am not melancholy, though a Ger- 
man actor has always good reason to be 
so ; but I have some new plans which I 
wish to disclose to you. You greet me 
as your benefactor. Alas 1 how suffer- 
ing, how pitiful must your condition be, 
if such a man as I am can have been 
useful to you ! You are all artistes^ 
and I say this to you from honest con- 
viction, and not from contemptible 
flattery. You are greater in your art 
than I am, only you had not the cour- 
age to break through the old and 
absurd customs of your predecessors. 
That. I have done this, that I have 
dared to leave the beaten paths, is the 
only service I have rendered. I have 
tried to banish from the stage the crazy 
fools who strutted from side to side. 


and waved their arms from right to left ; 
who tried to play the orator by utter- 
ing their pathetic phrases m weird, 
solemn sounds from the throat, or 
trumpeted them through the nose. I , 
have placed living men upon the 
boards, who by natural speech and 
action lend truth and reality to the 
scenes they wish to portray. You, 
comrades, have assisted me faithfully 
in this effort. We are in the right 
path, but we are far from the goal. 
Let us go forward, then, bravely and 
hopefully. You think yourselves hap- 
py now at Berlin ; but I say to you that 
we dare not remain in Berlin. This 
vegetation, this bare permission to live, 
does not suffice, will not satisfy our 
honor. I think with Csesar, it is better 
to be the first in a village than the sec- 
ond or third in a great city. We will 
leave Berlin ; this cold, proud, imperi- 
ous Berlin, which cherishes the stran- 
ger, but has no kind, cheering word 
for her own countrymen. Let us turn 
our backs upon these French worship- 
pers, and go as missionaries for the 
German drama throughout our father- 
land.” 

A long pause followed this speech 
of Eckhof ; every eye was thoughtful, 
fevery face was troubled. 

“ You do not answer ? I have not, 
then, convinced you ? ” 

“ Shall we leave Berlin now,” said 
the hero and lover of the little compa- 
ny, “even now, when they begin to 
show a little interest, a little enthusi- 
asm for us ? ” 

“ Alas, friend ! the enthusiasm of the 
Berliners for us is like a fire of straw — 
it fiashes and is extinguished; to-day, 
perhaps, they may applaud us, to-mor- 
row we will be forgotten, because a 
learned sparrow or hound, a French 
dancer, or an Italian singer, occupies 
their attention. There is neither en- 
durance nor constancy in the Berlinergu 
Let us go hence.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIE2sDS. 


69 


“ It seems to me we should make use 
of the good time while it lasts,” said 
another. “ At present, our daily bread is 
8i'.cured for ourselves and our families.” 

“If you are not willing to endure 
suffering and want,” said Eckhof,^sad- 
ly, “you will never be a true artiste. 
Poverty and necessity will be for a 
long time to come the only faithful 
companions of the German actor ; and 
he who has not courage to take them 
to his arms, would do better to become 
an honest tailor or a shoemaker. If 
the prosperity of your family is your 
first consideration, why have you not 
contented yourselves with honest daily 
labor, with being virtuous fathers of 
families ? The pursuit of art does not 
accord with these things ; if you choose 
the one, you must, for a while at 
least, be separate from the other.” 

“That will we do,” cried Freders- 
dorf, who had just entered the room ; 
“ I, for my part, have akeady set you all 
a good examj^le. I have separated 
from my family, in order to become the 
husband of Art, whose sighing and ar- 
dent lover I have long been ; and now, 
if the noble Eckhof does not reject me 
as a scholar, I am wholly yours.” 

Eckhof seized his hand, and said, 
with a soft smile, “ I receive you joy- 
fully ; you have the true fire of inspira- 
tion. From my heart I say you are 
welcome.” 

“ I thank you for the word — and 
now let us be off. The German actor 
is in Germany no better than the Jew 
was to the Homans. Let us do as the 
Jews: we have also found our Moses, 
who will lead us to the promised land, 
where we shall find liberty, honor, and 
gold.” 

“Yes,” they cried, with one voice, 

we will follow Eckhof, we will obey 
uur master, we will leave Berlin and 
geek a city where we shall be truly 
aonored.” 

“ I have found the city,” said Eck- 


hof; “we will go to Halle. The wise 
men who have consecrated their lives 
to knowledge are best fitted to appre- 
ciate and treasure the true artiste ; we 
will unite with them, and our efforts 
will transform Halle into an Athens, 
where knowledge and art shall walk 
hand-in-hand in noble emulation.” 

“ Off, then, for Halle 1 ” said Freders- 
dorf, waving his hat in the air, but his 
voice was less firm, and his eye was 
troubled. “ Will the director, Schone- 
mein, consent ? ” 

“ Schonemein has resolved to go with 
us, provided we make no claim for sal- 
aries, but will share with him both 
gains and losses.” 

“If the undertaking fails in Halle, 
we must starve, then,” said a trembling 
voice. 

Eckhof said nothing ; he crossed the 
room to his writing-table, and took out 
a well-filled purse. “ I do not say that 
we shall succeed in Halle, that is, suc- 
ceed as the merchants and Jews do ; we 
go as missionaries, resolved to bear hun- 
ger and thirst, if need be, for the cause 
we love and believe in. Look, this 
purse contains what remains of my 
profits from the last two months and 
from my benefit last night. It is all 
that I have; take it and divide it 
amongst you. It will, at least, suffice 
to support you all one month.” 

“Will you accept this?” said Jo- 
seph, with glowing cheeks. 

“ No, we will not accept it ; what we 
do we will do freely, and no man shall 
fetter us by his generosity or magna- 
nimity, not even Eckhof.” 

Eckhof was radiant with joy. “ Hear, 
now — I have another proposition to 
make. You have refused my offer for 
yourselves, but you dare not refuse it 
for your children ; take this money and 
divide it equally amongst your wives 
and children. With this gold you 
shall buy yourselves free for a while 
from your families.” 


BO 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


After a long and eloquent persuasion, 
Eckhof’s offer was accepted, and di- 
vided fairly. He looked on with a 
kindly smile. 

“ I now stand exactly as I did when 
I resolved two years ago to be an actor. 
Before that I was an honest clerk ; from 
day to day I vegetated, and thanked 
God, when, after eight hours’ hard 
work, I could enjoy -a little fresh air 
and the evening sunshine, and declaim 
to the fields and groves my favorite 
lines from the great authors. It is 
probable I should still have been a poor 
clerk and a dreamer, if my good genius 
had not stood by me and given me a 
powerful blow, which awakened me 
from dreaming to active life. The jus- 
tice of the peace, whose clerk I was, 
commanded me to serve behind his car- 
riage as a footman; this aroused my 
anger and my self-respect, and I left 
him, determined rather to die of hun- 
ger than to submit to such humiliation. 
My good genius was again at hand, and 
gave me courage to follow the prompt- 
ings of my heart, and become an actor. 
He who will be great has the strength 
to achieve greatness. Let us go on- 
ward, then, with bold hearts.” He gave 
his hand to his friends and dismissed 
them, warning them to prepare for 
their journey. 

“ You are determined to go to Halle ? ” 
said Fredersdorf, who had remained 
behind for the last greeting. 

“ We will go to Halle ; it is the seat of 
the Muses, and belongs, therefore, to us.” 

Joseph shook his head sadly. “I 
know Halle,” said he. You call it the 
seat of the Muses. I know it only as 
the seat of pedantry. You will soon 
know and confess this. There is noth- 
ing more narrow-minded, jealous, arro- 
gant, and conceited than a Halle pro- 
fessor. He sees no merit in any thing 
but himself and a few old dusty Greeks 
and Romans, and even these are only 
great because the professor of Halle has 


shown them the honor to explain and 
descant upon them. But, you are re- 
solved-T-I would go with you to prison 
and to death ; in short, I will follow 
you to Halle.” 

“ And now I am at last alone,” said 
Eckhof; “now I must study my new 
role; now stand by me, ye gods, and 
inspire me with your strength ; give me 
the right tone, the right emphasis to 
personate this rare and wonderful Hip- 
polytus, with which I hope to win the 
stem professors of Halle ! ” 

Walking backward and forward, he 
began to declaim the proud and elo- 
quent verses of Corneille; he was so 
thoroughly absorbed that he did not 
hear the oft-repeated knock upon the 
door ; he did not even see that the door 
was softly opened, and the young Lu- 
pinus stood blushing upon the thresh- 
old. He stood still and listened with 
rapture to the pathetic words of the 
great actor ; and as Eckhof recited the 
glowing and innocent confession of love 
made by Hippolytus, a burning blush 
suffused the cheek of the young student, 
and his eyes were filled with tears. He 
overcame his emotion, and advanced to 
Eckhof, who was now standing before 
the glass, studying the attitude which 
would best accord with this passionate 
declaration. 

“ Sir,” said he, with a low and trem- 
bling voice, “ pardon me for disturbing 
you. I was told that I should find 
Eckhof in this room, and it is most im- 
portant to me to see and consult with 
this great man. I know* this is his 
dwelling ; be kind enough to tell me if 
he is within.” 

“ This is his home, truly, but ho is 
neither a great nor a wise man ; only 
and simply Eckhof the actor.” 

“I did not ask your opinion of the 
distinguished man whom I honor, but 
only where I can find him.” 

“Tell me first what you want of 
Eckhof.’- 


61 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ What I want of him, sir ? ” said the 
fouth, thoughtfully ; “ I scarcely know 
myself. There is a mystery m my soul 
which I cannot fathom. Eckhof has 
age, wisdom, and experience — perhaps 
he can enlighten me. I have faith in 
his eyes and in his silver beard, and I 
can say freely to him what I dare not 
say to any other.” 

Eckhof laughed merrily. “ As to his 
white beard, you will find that in his 
wardrobe ; his wisdom you will find in 
the books of the authors, to whose great 
thoughts he bas only given voice; he 
is neither old, wise, nor experienced. 
In short — I, myself, am Eckhof.” 

“You are Eckhof!” said Lupinus, 
turning deadly pale, and, stepping back 
a few paces, he stared with distended 
eyes at the actor, whose noble and in- 
tellectual face, glowing with youthful 
. fire, was turned toward him. 

“ I am Eckhof, and I hope you will 
forgive me for being a little younger, a 
little browner, and somewhat less wise 
than the great Cato, in which character 
you no doubt saw me last night. I dare 
hope that my confession will not shake 
your confidence in me; with my whole 
heart I beg that you will tell me how I 
can be useful to you, and what mystery 
you wish to have explained.” 

“No, no! I cannot explain,” cried 
the youth ; “ forgive me for having dis- 
turbed you. I have nothing more to 
say.” Confused and ashamed, Lupinus 
left the room. The actor gazed after 
him wonderingly, convinced that he 
had been closeted with a madman. 

With trembling heart, scarcely know- 
ing what he thought or did, the student 
reached his room and closed the door, 
and throwing himself upon his knees, 
he cried out in tones of anguish : “ Oh, 
my God! I have seen Eckhof: he is 
young, he is glorious in beauty, un- 
happy that I am!” With his hands 
folded and still upon his knees, he gazed 
dj-eamily in the distance ; then spring- 


ing up suddenly, his eyes glowing with 
energy and passion, he cried : “ I must 
go, I must go ! I will return to Halle, 
to my books and my quiet room ; it is 
lonely, but there I am at peace; there 
the world and the voice of Eckhof can- 
not enter. I must forget this wild 
awakening of my youth ; my heart must 
sleep again and dream, and be buried 
at last under the dust of books. Un- 
happy that I am, I feel that the past is 
gone forever. I stand trembling on the 
borders of a new existence. I will go 
at once — perhaps there is yet time ; per- 
haps I may yet escape the wretchedness 
which threatens me. Oh ! in my books 
and studies I may forget all. I may no 
longer hear this voice, which is forever 
sounding in my em^aptured ears, no 
longer see those fearful but wondrous 
eyes.” 

With feverish haste and trembling 
hands he made up his little parcel. A 
few hours later the post-wagon rolled 
by Eckhof’s dwelling. A young man 
with pale, haggard face and tearful 
eyes gazed up at his windows. 

“Farewell, Eckhof,” murmured he; 
“ I fiee from you, but may God bless 
you ! I go to Halle ; there I shall nevei 
see you, my heart shall never thrill at 
the sound of your eloquent voice.” 

Lupinus leaned sadly back in the car- 
riage, comforting himself with the con- 
viction that he M^as safe ; but Fate was 
too strong for him, and the danger from 
which he so bravely fled, followed him 
speedily. 


CHAPTER XH. 

SUPEESTITION AND PIETY. 

The goal was at last reached. The 
black ram for the propitiatory offering 
was found, and was now awaiting in 
Berlin the hour of sacrifice. 

With what eager impatience, with 


I 


82 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


what throbbing pulses, did Freders- 
dorf wait for the evening I At last this 
sublime mystery would be explained, 
and rivers of gold would flow at his 
command. Happily, the king was not 
in Berlin — he had gone to Charlotten- 
burg. Fredersdorf was free — lord of 
himself. 

“And after to-morrow, it will be ever 
the same,” said he to himself, joyfully. 
“ To-morrow the world will belong to 
me! I will not envy the king his 
crown, the scholar his learning, or youth 
and beauty their bloom. I shall be 
more powerful, more honored, more be- 
loved, than them all. I shall possess 
an inexhaustible fountain of gold. Gold 
is the lord and king of the world. The 
king and the philosopher, youth, beau- 
ty, and grace, bow down before its 
shrine. Oh, what a life of gladness 
and rapture will be mine ! I shall be 
at liberty. I shall wed the woman I 
adore. The sun is sinking; the moon 
will soon ride triumphantly in the 
heavens, and then — ” 

A light rustling on the tapestry door 
interrupted him; and he turned anx- 
iously toward this door, which led di- 
rectly to the chambers of the king, and 
through which he alone could enter. It 
was indeed Frederick. He entered the 
room of his private secretary with a 
bright, gay smile. 

“ I come unexpectedly,” said the king. 
His clear, piercing glance instantly re- 
marked the cloud which lowered upon 
the brow of Fredersdorf. “ But what 
will you have ? The king and Fate, as 
Bern ex machind^ appear without warn- 
ing, and confuse me calculations of in- 
significant mortals.” 

“ I have made no calculations, sire,” 
said Fredersdorf, confused; “and the 
presence of my king can never disturb 
my peace.” 

“ So much the better,” said Frederick, 
smiling. “Well, I have made my cal- 
culations, and you, Fredersdorf, have 


an irfiportant part to play. We have a 
great work on hand, and if you have 
set your heart upon being at liberty this 
evening, I regret it ; the hope is a vain 
one. This evening you are the prisoner 
of your king.” 

The king said this with so grave, so 
peculiar, and at the same time so kindly 
an expression, that Fredersdorf was 
involuntarily touched and softened, and 
he pressed his lips warmly upon the 
hand which Frederick held out to him. 

“We must work diligently,” said the 
king. “The time of idleness is past, 
and also the time consecrated to the 
Muses. Soon I will lay my flute in its 
case, and draw my sword from its scab- 
bard. It appears that my godmother, 
Maria Theresa, thinks it unseemly for a 
King of Paussia to pass his days else- 
where than in a tented field, or to hear 
other music than the sound of trumpet 
or the thunder of cannon calling loudly 
to battle. Well, if Austria will have 
war, she shall have it promptly. Never 
will Prussia yield to her imperious con- 
ditions, and never will the house of 
Hohenzollera subject herself to the 
house of Hapsburg. My godmother, 
the empress, can never forget that the 
Prince-Elector of Brandenburg once, at 
the table, held a wash-basin for the em- 
peror. For this reason she always re- 
gards us as cavalier servant to the house 
of Hapsburg. Now, by the help of 
England, Saxony, and Russia, she hopes 
to bring us under the old yoke. But 
she shall not succeed. She has made 
an alliance with England, Russia, and 
Saxony. I have united with France 
and Bavaria, for the protection ot 
Charles the Seventh. This, you see, 
Fredersdorf, is war. Our life of fantasy 
and dreaming is over. I have given 
you a little dish of politics,” said the 
king, after a pause. “ I wish to show 
you that I have need of you, and that 
we have much to do. We must arrange 
my private accounts, we have manj' 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


63 


etters to write ; and then we must se- 
lect and prepa^-e the rich presents to be 
given to the Princess Ulrica on her 
marriage. Fredersdorf, we cannot af- 
ford to be idle.’’ 

“I shall be ready at all times to obey 
the pommands of my king. I will work . 
the entire night ; but I pray your ma- 
jesty to grant me a few hours this 
evening — I have most important busi- 
ness, which cannot be postponed.” 

“ Ah ! without doubt, you wish to 
finish the epistle of Horace, of which 
we spoke a few days since. If I re- 
member correctly, this epistle relates to 
the useless offering of a lamb or black 
ram. Well, I give up this translation 
for the present ; we have no time for it; 
and I cannot possibly give you leave of 
absence this evening.” 

“And yet I dare to repeat my re- 
quest,” said Fredersdorf, with passion- 
ate excitement. “ Sire, my business can- 
not be postponed, and I beseech you to 
grant me a few hours.” 

“ If you will not yield to the earnest 
wish of your friend, you will be forced 
to submit to the command of your 
king,” said Frederick, sternly. “ I forbid 
you to leave your room this evening.” 

“ Have pity, sire, I entreat you 1 I 
wish but for two hours of liberty. I tell 
you my business is most important ; the 
happiness of my life depends upon it.” 

The king shrugged his shoulders con- 
temptuously. “ The happiness of your 
life ! How can this poor, short-sighted, 
vain race of mortals decide any question 
relating to ‘ the happiness of life ? ’ 
You seek it to-day, perhaps, in riches ; 
to-morrow in the arms of your beloved ; 
and the next day you turn away from 
and despise both the one and the other. 

I cannot fulfil your wish; I have impor- 
tant work for you, and will not grant 
you one moment’s absence.” 

“ Sire, I must — ” 

“ Not another word I remain here; I 
wmraand you not to leave this room I ” 


“ I will not obey this command,” said 
Fredersdorf, completely beside himself 
with rage and despair. “Will your 
majesty dismiss me from your service, 
withdraw your favor, and banish me 
forever from your presence? I must 
and will have some hours of liberty 
this evening 1 ” 

The king’s eyes flashed lightning, and 
his features assumed so threatening an 
expression, that Fredersdorf, though 
completely blinded by passion, trembled. 
Without a word in reply, the king 
stepped hastily to the door which led 
into the corridor. Two soldiers stood 
before the door. 

“ You will see that no one leaves tliis 
room,” said Frederick — “ you will fire 
upon any one who opens the door.” 
He turned and fixed his eyes steadily 
upon the parle face of the secretary. “ I 
said to you that you were the prisoner 
of your king to-day. You would not 
understand my jest. I will force you 
to see that I am in earnest. The guards 
stand before this door ; the other door 
leads to my apartment, and I will close 
it. You shall not work with me to- 
day; you are not worthy of it. You 
are a bold rebel, deserving punishment, 
and ‘ having eyes see not.’ ” 

Fredersdorf had not the courage 
to reply. The king stepped hastily 
through the room and opened the tapes- 
try door; as he stood upon the thresh- 
old, he turned once again. “Freders- 
dorf, the time will come when you will 
thank me for having been a stern king.” 
He closed the door, placed the key in 
his pocket, and returned to his room, 
where Jordan awaited him. 

“ And now, friends, the police may 
act promptly and rigorously ; Freders- 
dorf will not be there, and I shall not 
find it necessary to punish him further. 
Alas 1 how difficult it is to turn a fool 
from his folly 1 Fredersdorf would 
learn to make gold through the sacri- 
fice of a black ram ; in order to do this, 


64 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


he joins himself to my adversaries, to 
tlie hypocrites and pietists ; he goes to 
the so-called prayer-meetings of the 
godless, who call themselves, for- 
sooth, the children of God 1 Ah 1 Jor- 
dan, how selfish, how pitiful is this 
small race of man 1 how little do they 
merit I I took Fredersdorf from obscu- 
rity and poverty. I not only took him 
into my service, I made him my confi- 
dant and my fiiend — I loved him sin- 
cerely. And what is my reward? He 
is ungrateful, and he hates me with a 
perfect hatred ; he is now sitting in his 
room and cursing his king, who has 
done nothing more than protect him 
from the withering ridicule which his' 
childish and mad pursuit was about 
to bring upon him. Jordan, Jordan ! 
kings are always repaid with ingrati- 
tude.” 

“Yes, sire; and God, our heavenly 
Father, meets with the same rew^ard,” 
said Jordan, with a painful smile. 
“ God and the king are the two powers 
most misunderstood. In their bright 
radiance they stand too high above the 
sons of men : they demand of the king 
that he shall be all-wise, almighty, even 
as God is; they require of God that 
He shall judge and act as weak, short- 
sighted men do, not ‘ knowing the end 
from the beginning.’ ” 

The king did not reply ; with his 
arms folded, he walked thoughtfully 
through the room. 

“Poor Fredersdorf,” said he, softly, 
“ I have slain his hobby-horse, and that 
is always an unpardonable offence to 
any man. I might, perhaps, have 
closed my eyes to the mad follies of 
these so-called pietists, if they had not 
drawn my poor secretary into the toils. 
For his sake I will give them a lesson. 
I will force him to see that they are hyp- 
ocrites and charlatans. Happen what 
will, I have saved Fredersdorf from rid- 
icule; if he curses me for this, I can 
bear it cheerfully.’* 


The king was right; Fredersdorf 
was insane with passion. He cursed the 
king, not only in his heart, but with 
his trembling lips; he called him a 
tyrant, a heartless egotist. He hated 
him, even as an ignorant, unreasoning 
child hates the kind hand which .cor- 
rects and restrains. 

“ They will discover this mysteiy ; 
they will learn how to make gold, and 
I shall not be there,” murmured Fre- 
dersdorf, gnashing his teeth ; “ who 
knows ? perhaps they will not divulge 
to me this costly receipt 1 They will 
lie to me and deceive me. Ah ! the 
moon is rising ; she casts her pure, sil- 
ver rays into this hated room, now be- 
come my prison. Now, even now, they 
are assembling ; now the holy incanta- 
tion begins, and I — ^I am not there ! ” 
He tore his hair, and beat his breast, 
and cried aloud. 

Fredersdorf was right. As the moon 
rose, the conspirators, who had been 
notified by Von Kleist, the husband of 
the beautiful Louise von Schwerin, be- 
gan to assemble. The great saloon in 
which the gay and laughter-loving Lou- 
ise had given her superb balls and soi- 
rees — in which her dancing feet had 
trampled upon her fortune and her hap- 
piness, was now changed into a solemn 
temple of worship, where the pious be- 
lievers assembled to pray to God and 
to adjure the devil. The king had for- 
bidden that the churches should be 
opened except on Sunday and the reg- 
ular fete days. Some over-pious and 
fanatical preachers had dared to diso- 
bey this order. The assemblies had 
been broken up by force of arms, the 
people driven to their homes, and the 
churches closed. Both priests and peo- 
ple were threatened with severe pun- 
ishment if they should dare to open the 
churches again during the week.* 

The pietists, forgetting the Bible rule, 

♦ Preuss’a “ Geschlchte Friedi'ichs des Grossen ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


65 


to “give unto Caesar that which is 
Caesar’s,” refused obedience to the spirit 
of the command, and assembled to- 
gether in the different houses of the 
faithful. Their worship consisted prin- 
cipally in stern resolves to remain obe- 
dient to the only true doctrine. To the 
proud fanatic this is, of course, the faith 
which he professes, and there is salva- 
tion in no other. With zealous speech 
they railed at the king as a heretic or 
unbeliever, and strengthened themselves 
in their disobedience to his commands 
by declaring it was well-pleasing in the 
eight of God. 

The pietists, who had in vain en- 
deavored to retain the power and influ- 
ence which they had enjoyed under 
Frederick William, whom they now 
declared to have been the holiest and 
wisest of kings, had become the bitter- 
est enemies of Frederick the Great. 
The king called their piety hypocrisy, 
laughed at their rage, replied to their 
curses by witty words and biting sar- 
casm; and on one occasion, after lis- 
tening to an impertinent request, he re- 
plied laconically : “ The cursed priest 
don’t know himself what he wants. 
Let him go to the devil ! ” * 

This so-called prayer-meeting was to 
take place to-day in the ballroom of 
the beautiful Louise, after the regular 
hour of worship. Only the elect and 
consecrated would remain behind to 
take part in the deeper mysteries, and 
be witness to the incantation by which 
the astrologist Pfannenschmidt would 
constrain his majesty the devil to ap- 
pear. No woman was allowed to be 
present at this holy ordinance, and each 
one of the consecrated had sworn a sol- 
emn oath not to betray an act of the 
assembly. 

Von Kleist had taken the oath, and 
«.cpL it faithfully. But there is a 
wise Persian proverb which says : “ If 


♦ Buscting’s “ Character of Frederick the Great.” 


you would change an obedient and 
submissive wife into a proud rebel, you 
have only to forbid something ! If you 
wish to keep a secret from the wife ol 
your bosom, slay yourself, or tear out 
your tongue ; if you live, she will dis- 
cover your secret, even though hidden 
in the bottom of your heart.” Louise 
von Kleist had proved the truth of this 
proverb. She had discovered the se-. 
cret which her husband wished to con- 
ceal from her. She had soon recovered 
from the fleeting love entertained at 
first for the husband chosen for her by 
the king. She had returned to the 
levity of her earlier days, and only 
waited for an opportunity to revenge' 
herself upon her husband. Louise 
hated him because he had never been 
rich- enough to gratify her extravagant 
taste and caprices. He had even re- 
strained her in the use of her own 
means: they were always in want of 
money, and constantly railing bitterly 
at each other. 

For all this misery Louise wished to 
revenge herself upon her husband, as 
beautiful and coquettish women always 
wish to revenge themselves. She was 
more than ready to believe the words 
of that poet who says that “ a woman’s 
heart is always girlish and youthful 
enough for a new love.” She wished to 
take special vengeance upon her hus- 
band for daring to keep a secret from 
her. So soon as she discovered the 
object of these secret meetings, she in- 
formed the king, and implored him to 
come to her assistance and rescue her 
husband from those crooked paths 
which had cost her her wedded happi- 
ness and her fortune. Frederick agreed 
at once to her proposition, not so much 
for her sake as because he rejoiced in 
the opportunity to free Fredersdorf 
from the mystic superstitions which 
had clouded his intellect, and convince 
him of the cunning and hypocrisy of 
the alchemist Pfannenschmidt. 


66 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


Every necessary preparation had been 
made bysorder of the king. The pious 
assembly had scarcely met, when Louise 
called the four policemen who were 
waiting in a neighboring house, and 
placed them in a small closet adjoining 
the ballroom, w’here every thing which 
took place could be both seen and 
heard. 

The conspirators had no suspicion. 
The meeting was larger than ever be- 
fore. There were people of all classes, 
from the day laborer to the comforta- 
ble burgher, from the honorable officer 
under government to the highest noble. 
They prayed earnestly and fervently, 
and sang hymns to the honor and glory 
of God. Then one of the popular 
priests stepped into the pulpit and 
thundered forth one of those arrogant, 
narrow-minded, and violent discourses 
which the believers of those days in- 
dulged in. He declared all those lost, 
condemned to eternal torture, who did 
not believe as he believed; and all 
those elected and sanctified who ad- 
hered to his holy faith, and who, de- 
spising the command of the heretical 
king, met together for these forbidden 
services. 

All this, however, was but the prepa- 
ration for the great solemnity prepared 
for the initiated, who were now wait- 
ing with loudly-beating hearts and 
breathless expectation for the grand 
result. 

And now another orator, the astrolo- 
ger, the enlightened prophet of God, 
ascended the pulpit. With what pious 
words he warned his hearers to repent- 
ance ! how eloquently he exhorted them 
to contemn the hollow and vain world, 
which God has only made lovely and 
attractive in order to tempt men to sin 
and try their powers of resistance! 
“Resist! resist!” he howled through 
his nose, “and persuade men to turn 
to you, and be saved even as we are 
saved — ^to become angels of God, even 


as we are God’s holy angels.” In order 
however, to reach their exalted goal, 
they must make greater efforts, use 
larger means. Power and wealth were 
necessary to make the w^orld happy and 
convert it to the true faith. The world 
must become wholly theirs ; they must 
buy from the devil the gold which he 
has hid in the bowels of the earth, and 
with it allure men, and save their souls 
from perdition. “We, by the grace of 
God, have been empowered to subdue 
the devil, and to force him to give up 
his secret. To those who, like ourselves, 
are enlightened by the holy spirit of 
knowledge, the mysteries of the lower 
world must be made clear. It is also a 
noble and great work which we have 
before us ; we must make gold, and with 
it we must purchase and convert the 
whole race to holiness ! ” 

When this pious rhapsody was con 
eluded, he called the assembly to ear- 
nest prayer. They fell upon their knees, 
and dared to pray to God that He 
would give them strength to adjure the 
devil 1 

It was not, however, exactly the plan 
of the astrologer to crown the efforts 
of the elect with success, and bring the 
devil virtually before them. As long as 
his majesty did not appear, the pious 
must believe and hope in their priest ; 
must give him their love, their confi- 
dence, and their gold ; must look upon 
him as their benefactor, who was to 
crown their future with glory and 
riches, and bring the world to their 
feet. In short, he knew it was impos- 
sible for him to introduce a devil who 
could disclose the great secret. The 
prayers and offerings of the past had 
failed, and their future sacrifices must 
also be in vain. 

And now, in the midst of solemn 
hymns, the ram was led to the altar — 
this rare offering which had cost so 
much weary wandering and so much 
precious gold. With pompous cere- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


mony, and covered with a white veil, 
the black ram was led to the sacri- 
fice. The holy priest Pfannenschmidt, 
clothed in gold-embroidered robes, 
stood with a silver knife in his hand, 
and a silver bowl to receive the blood 
of his victim. As he raised the knife, 
the faithful threw themselves upon their 
knees and prayed aloud, prayed to 
God to be with them and bless their 
efforts. 

The astrologer, glowing with piety 
and enthusiasm, was about to sink the 
knife into the throat of the poor trem- 
bling beast, when suddenly something 
unheard of, incredible, took place. A 
figure fearful to look upon sprang 
fiercely from behind the altar, and 
seized the arm of the priest. 

“ Spare the offering, let the sacrifice 
go free ! ” he said, with a thundering 
voice. “ You have called me, and I am 
here I I am the devil 1 ” 

“ The devil I it is truly the devil I ” 
and with timid glances they looked up 
at the giant figure, clothed in crimson, 
his face completely shaded by a wide- 
brimmed hat, from which three crimson 
feathers waved majestically : these, with 
his terrible club-foot, all gave unmis- 
takable evidence of the presence of Sa- 
tan. They believed truly in him, these 
pious children of God; they remained 
upon their knees and stammered their 
prayers, scarcely knowing themselves if 
they were addressed to God or to the 
devil. 

There in the little cabinet stood Lou- 
ise von Kleist, trembling with mirth, 
and with great effort suppressing an 
outburst of laughter. She looked with 
wicked and mocking eyes upon her 
husband, who lay shivering and deadly 
pale at the feet of the devil and the 
black ram. He fixed his pleading 
glances upon the fiery monster who was 
to him indeed the devil. Louise, how- 
ever, fully understood this scene ; she it 
was Who had induced young Freders- 


67 

dorf to assume this part, and had as- 
sisted him in his disguise. 

“This moment repays me, avenges 
me for all I have suffered by the side of 
this silly and extravagant fool,” said 
Louise to herself. “Oh, I will mock 
him, I will martyr him with this devil’s 
work. . The whole world shall know of 
it, and, from this time forth, I shall be 
justified and pitied. No one will be 
surprised that I am not constant to my 
husband, that I cannot love him.” 

Whilst the pious-elect still rested 
upon their knees in trembling adora- 
tion, the priest Pfannenschmidt had re- 
covered from his surprise and alarm. 
He, who did not believe in the devil, 
although he daily addressed him, knew 
that the monster before him was an un- 
seemly jest or a malicious interruption. 
He must, therefore, tear off his mask 
and expose him to the faithful. 

With passionate energy he stretched 
out both his arms toward him. “ Away 
with you, you son of Baal I Fly, fly, 
before I unmask you ! You are not 
what you appear. You are no true 
devil! ” 

“ How ! you deny me, your lord and 
master ? ” cried the intruder, raising his 
hand, covered with a crimson glove, 
against the priest. “You have long 
called for me. You have robbed these, 
my children, of their gold in order to 
propitiate' me, and now that I am come, 
you will not confess me before men! 
Perhaps you fear that these pious be- 
lievers will no longer lavish their atten- 
tions and their gold upon you, and suf- 
fer you to lead them by the nose. Go, 
go ! you are not my high-priest. I lis- 
tened to yom* entreaties, and I came, 
but only to prove to my children that 
you are a deceiver, and to free them 
from your yoke. Away, you blas- 
phemer of God and of the devil ! Nei- 
ther God nor the devil accepts your 
service ; away with you ! ” Saying this, 
he seized the astrologer with a ^ower 


68 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


ful arm, and dragged him toward the 
altar. 

But Pfannenschmidt was not the man 
to submit to such indignities. With a 
wild cry of rage, he rushed upon his 
adversary; and now began a scene 
which neither words nor colors could 
portray. The pious worshippers raised 
themselves from their knees and stared 
for a moment at this curious spectacle ; 
and then, according as they believed in 
the devil or the priest, sprang forward 
to take part in the contest. ' • 

In the midst of this wild tumult the 
policemen appeared, to arrest those who 
were present, in the name of the king ; 
to break up the assembly, and put an 
end to the noise and tumult. 

Louise, meanwhile, laughing boister- 
ously, observed this whole scene from 
the cabinet; she saw the police seize 
the raging astrologer, who uttered 
curses, loud and deep, against the un- 
believing king, who dared to treat the 
pious and prayerful as culprits, and to 


arrest the servant and pnecst of the Lord. 
Louise saw these counts and barons, 
these officers and secretaries, who had 
been the brave adherents of the astrol- 
oger, slipping away with shame and 
confusion of face. She saw her own 
husband mocked and ridiculed by the 
police, who handed him an order from 
the king, written by the royal hand, 
commanding him to consider himself 
as under arrest in his own house. ’ As 
Louise heard this order read, her laugh- 
ter was hushed and her brow was 
clouded. 

“Truly,” said she, “that is a degree 
of consideration which looks like mal- 
ice in the king. To make my husband 
a prisoner in his own house is to punish 
me fearfully, by condemning me steadily 
to his hateful society. My God, how 
cruel, how wicked is the kingl My 
husband is a prisoner here I that is to 
banish my beautiful, my beloved Salim- 
berri from my presence. Oh, when shall 
we meet again, my love, my adorer?” 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER L 

THE TWO SISTERS. 

“ I HAVE triumphed I I have reached 
the goal I ” said Princess Ulrica, with a 
proud smile, as she laid her hymn-book 
aside, and removed from her head her 
long white veil. “ This important step 
is taken ; yet one more grand ceremony, 
and I will be the Princess Royal of 
Sweden — after that, a queen! They 
have not succeeded in setting me aside. 
Amelia will not be married before me, 
thus bringing upon me the contempt 
and ridicule of the mocking world. 
All my plans have succeeded. In place 
of shrouding my head in the funeral 
veil of an abbess, to which my brother 
bad condemned me, I shall soon wear 
the festive myrtle-wreath, and ere Icng 
a crown will adorn my brow.” 

Ulrica threw herself upon the divan, 
m order to indulge quietly in these 
proud and happy dreams of the future, 
when the door was hastily thrown open, 
and the Princess Amelia, with a pale 
and angry face, entered the room. She 
cast one of those glances of flame, with 
which she, in common with the king, 
was wont to crush her adversaries, upon 
the splendid toilet of her sister, and a 
wild and scornful laugh burst from her 
lips. 

“I have not, then, been deceived,” | 


she cried; “it is not a fairy tale to 
which I have listened. You come from 
the chapel ? ” 

“ I come from the chapel ? yes,” said 
Ulrica, meeting the angry glance of her 
sister with a firm and steady look. Re- 
solved to breast the coming storm with 
proud composure, she folded her arms 
across her bosom, as if she would pro- 
tect herself from Amelia’s flashing eyes. 
“I come from the chapel — what fur- 
ther ? ” 

“What further!” cried Amelia, 
stamping fiercely on the floor. “Ah, 
you will play the harmless and the in- 
nocent! What took you to the chapel?” 

Ulrica looked up steadily and smil- 
ingly ; then said, in a quiet and indif- 
ferent tone : “ I have taken the sacra- 
ment of the Lord’s Supper, according to 
the Lutheran form of worship.” 

Amelia shuddered as if she felt the 
sting of a poisonous serpent. “That 
signifies that you are an apostate ; that 
signifies that you have shamefully out- 
witted and betrayed me ; that means — 

“That signifies,” said Ulrica, inter- 
rupting her, “that I am a less pious 
Christian than you are; that you, my 
noble young sister, are a more innocent 
and unselfish maiden than the Princess 
Ulrica.” 

“Words, words! base, hypocritical 
words ! ” cried Amelia. “ You first in- 
spired me with the thought which led 


70 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


to my childish and contradictory behav- 
ior, and which for some days made me 
the jest of the court. You are a false 
friend, a faithless sister! I stood in 
your path, and you put me aside. I 
understand now your perfidious coun- 
sels, your smooth, deceitful encourage- 
ment to my opposition against the 
proposition of the Swedish ambassador. 
I, forsooth, must be childish, coarse, 
and rude, in order that your gentle and 
girlish grace, your amiable courtesy, 
might shine with added lustre. I was 
your foil, which made the jewel of your 
beauty resplendent. Oh I it is shame- 
ful to be so misused, so outwitted by 
my sister ! ” 

With streaming eyes, Amelia sank 
upon a chair, and hid her face with her 
trembling little hands. 

“ Foolish child ! ” said Ulrica, “ you 
accuse me fiercely, but you know that 
you came to me and implored me to 
find a means whereby you would be 
relieved from this hated marriage with 
the Prince Royal of Sweden.” 

“ You should have reasoned with me, 
you should have encouraged me to give 
up my foolish opposition. You should 
have reminded me that I was a prin- 
cess, and therefore condemned to have 
no heart.” 

“You said nothing to me of your’ 
heart ; you spoke only of your religion. 
Had you told me that your heart re- 
belled against this marriage with the 
Crown Prince of Sweden, then, upon 
my knees, with all the strength of a 
sister’s love, I would have implored 
you to accept his hand, to shroud your 
heart in your robe of purple, and take 
refuge on your throne from the dan- 
ger which threatens a young princess 
if she allows her heart to speak.” 

Amelia let her hands fall from her 
face, and looked up at her sister, whose 
great earnest eyes were fixed upon her 
with an expression of triumph and de- 
rision. 


“ I did not say that my heart had 
spoken,” she cried, sobbing and trem- 
bling ; “ I only said that we poor 
princesses were not allowed to have 
hearts.” 

“ No heart for one ; but a great large 
heart, great enough for all I ” cried 
Ulrica. “ You accuse me, Amelia, but 
you forget that I did not intrude upon 
your confidence. You came to me vol- 
untarily, and disclosed your abhorrence 
of this marriage ; then only did I coun- 
sel you, as I would wish to be advised 
under the same circumstances. In a 
word, I counselled you to obey your 
conscience, your own convictions of 
duty.” 

“Your advice was wonderfully in 
unison with your own plans, your de 
ceitful words were dictated by selfish 
ness,” cried Amelia, bitterly. 

“ I would not have adopted the course 
which I advised you to pursue, because 
my character and my feelings are 
wholly different from yours. My con- 
science is less tender, less trembling 
than yours. To become a Lutheran 
does not appear to me a crime, not 
even a fault, more particularly as this 
change is not the result of fickleness or 
inconstancy, but for an important po- 
litical object.” 

“And your object was to become 
Queen of Sweden ? ” 

“Why should I deny it? I accept 
this crown, which you cast from you 
with contempt. I am ambitious. You 
were too proud to offer up the smallest 
part of your religious faith in order to 
mount the throne of Sweden. I do not 
fear to be banished from heaven, be- 
cause, in order to become a queen, I 
changed the outward form of my reli- 
gion; my inward faith is unchanged : if 
you repent your conduct — if you have 
modified your views — ” 

“No, no!” said Amelia, hastily,. “I 
do not repent. My grief and my de- 
spair are not because of this pitiful 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


71 


crown, but because .of my faithless and 
deceitful sister who gave me evil coun- 
sel to promote her own interests, and 
while she seemed to love, betrayed me. 
Go, go I place a crown upon your proud 
head; you take up that which I de- 
spise and trample upon. I do not re- 
pent, I have no regrets. But, harkl 
in becoming a queen, you cease to be 
my sister. Never will I forget that 
through falsehood and treachery you 
won this crown. Go I be Queen of 
Sweden. Let the whole world bow 
the knee before you. I despise you. 
You have shrouded your pitiful heart 
in your royal robes. Farewell I ” 

She sprang to the door with flashing 
eyes and throbbing breast, but Ulrica 
followed and laid her hand upon her 
shoulder. 

“ Let us not part in anger, my sister,” 
said she softly — “ let us — ” 

Amelia would not listen; with an 
angry movement she dashed the hand 
from her shoulder and fled from the 
,oom. Alone in her boudoir, she 
paced the room in stormy rage, wild 
passion throbbed in every pulse. 
With the insane fury of the Hohenzol- 
lerns, she almost cursed her sister, who 
had so bitterly deceived, so shamefully 
betrayed her. 

In outward appearance, as well as in 
character, the Princess Amelia greatly 
resembled her royal brother : like him, 
she was by nature trustful and confi- 
ding; but, once deceived, despair and 
doubt took possession of her. A dead- 
ly mildew destroyed the love which 
she had cherished, not only for her be- 
trayer, but her confidence and trust in 
all around her. Great and magnani- 
mous herself, she now felt that the rich 
fountain of her love and her innocent, 
girlish credulity were choked within 
her heart. With trembling lips, she 
said aloud and firmly : “ I will never 
more have a friend. I do not believe 
.n friendship. Women are all false, all 


cunning, all selfish. My heart is closed 
to them, and their deceitful smiles and 
plausible words can never more betray 
me. Oh, my God, my Godl must I 
then be always solitary, always alone ? 
must I — ” 

Suddenly she paused, and a rich 
crimson blush overspread her face. 
What was it which interrupted her 
sorrowful words ? Why did she fix 
her eyes upon the . door so eagerly ? 
Why did she listen so earnestly to that 
voice calling her name from the 
corridor. 

“ Pollnitz, it is Pollnitz ! ” she whis- 
pered to herself, and she trembled fear- 
fully. 

“I must speak with the Princess 
Amelia,” cried the master of cere- 
monies. 

“But that is impossible,” replied 
another voice ; “ her royal highness has 
closed the door, and will receive no 
one.” 

“ Her royal highness will open the 
door and allow me to enter as soon as 
you announce me. I come upon a most 
important mission. The life-happiness 
of more than one woman depends upon 
my errand.” 

“My God!” said Amelia, turning 
deadly pale, “ Pollnitz may betray me 
if I refuse to open the door.” So say- 
ing, she sprang forward and drew back 
the bolt. 

“ Look, now. Mademoiselle von Mar- 
witz,” cried Pollnitz, as he bowed 
profoundly, “was I not right? Our 
clear princess was graciously pleased to 
open the door so soon as she heard my 
voice. Remark that, mademoiselle, 
and look upon me in future as a most 
important person, who is not only ac- 
corded les grander but les 'petiteh 
entrees.'''* 

The Princess Amelia was but little 
inclined to enter into the jests of the 
master of ceremonies. 

“ I heard,” said she, in a harsh tone. 


72 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ that j ; u demanded importunately to 
Bee me, and you went so far as to de- 
clare that the happiness of many men 
depended upon this interview.” 

“Pardon me, your highness, I only 
said that the happiness of more than 
one woman depended upon it ; and you 
will graciously admit that I have spo- 
ken the truth when you learn the occa- 
sion which brings me here.” 

“Well, let us hear,” said Amelia, 
“ and woe to you if it is not a grave 
and important affair I ” 

“Grave, indeed; it concerns the 
toilets for a ball, and you must con- 
fess that the happiness of more than 
one woman hangs upon this ques- 
tion.” 

“ In truth, you are right, and if you 
came as milliner or dressmaker. Made- 
moiselle von Marwitz did wrong not to 
announce you immediately.” 

“ Now, ladies, there is nothing less 
important on hand than a masked ball. 
The king has commanded that, besides 
the masked ball which is to take place 
in the opera-house, and to which the 
public are invited, another shall be ar- 
ranged here in the castle on the day 
before the betrothal of the Princess 
Ulrica.” 

“ And when is the ceremony to take 
place ? ” said Amelia. 

“ Has not your royal highness been 
informed ? Ah, I forgot — the king has 
kept this a secret, and to no one but 
the queen-mother has it been officially 
announced. Yes, yes, the Princess Ul- 
rica is to marry this little Prince of 
Holstein, who will, however, be king 
of Sweden. The solemn ceremony 
takes place in four days ; so we have 
but three days before the masquerade, 
and we must work night and day to 
prepare the necessary costumes — his 
majesty wishes it to be a superb fete. 
Quadrilles are arranged, the king has 
selected the partners, and I am here at 
his command, to say your royal 


highness that you will take part in 
these quadrilles. You will dance a 
quadrille, in the costume of Francis the 
First, with the Margravine of Baireuth 
and the Duchess of Brunswick.” 

“And who is to be my partner?” 
said Amelia, anxiously. 

“ The Margrave von Schwedt.” 

“ Ah ! my irresistible cousin. I see 
there the hand of my malicious broth- 
er ; he knows how dull and wearisome 
I consider the poor margrave.” 

The princess turned away displeased, 
and walked up and down the room. 

“ Did you not say that I, also, would 
take part in the quadrille ? ” said Made- 
moiselle von Marwitz. 

“Certainly, mademoiselle; you will 
dance in Kussian costume.” 

“ And who will be my partner ? ” 

Pollnitz laughed heartily. “ One 
would think that the most important 
question was not as to the ball toilet, 
but as to the partner ; that he, in short, 
was as much a life-question as the color 
and cut of your robe, or the fashion of 
your coiffure. So you demand the 
name of your partner ?. Ah, mademoi 
selle, you will be more than content. 
The partner whom the king has select- 
ed for you is one of our youngest, 
handsomest, most amiable and talented 
cavaliers ; a youth whom Alcibiades 
would not have been indignant at being 
compared with, and whom Diana 
would have preferred, perhaps, to the 
dreaming and beautful Endymion, 
had she found him sleeping. And 
mark you, you will not only dance 
with this pearl of creation, but in the 
next few days you must see and speak 
with him frequently. It is necessary 
that you should consult together over 
the choice of color of your costumes, 
and about the dances. If your royal 
highness vull allow it, he must come 
daily to arrange these important 
points. Alas ! why am I not a young 
maiden? Wliy can I not enjoy 


0 


FREL ERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


■elicity of loving this Adonis? Why 
can I not exchange this poor, burnt- 
out heart for one that glows and pal- 
pitates ? ” 

“You are a fool, and know nothing 
about a maiden’s heart I In your ec- 
stasy for this Ganymede, who is proba- 
bly an old crippled monster, you make 
rare confusion. You force the young 
girl to play the part of the ardent lover, 
and give to your monster the character 
of a cool, vain fop.’^ 

“ Monster ? My God ! she said mon- 
ster !” cried Pollnitz, pathetically. 
“Fall upon your knees, mademoiselle, 
and pray fervently to your good fortune 
to forgive you ; you have sinned greatly 
against it, I assure you. You will con- 
fess this when I have told you the name 
of your partner.” 

“Name him, then, at last.” 

“ Not before Princess Amelia is gra- 
cious enough to promise me that she 
will watch over and shield you ; that 
she will never allow you a single tete-d,- 
tete with your dangerous partner.” 

“ Ah, you will make me the duenna 
of my maid of honor,” said Amelia, 
laughing. “ I shall be the chajperon of 
my good Marwitz, and shield her from 
the weakness of her own heart.” ' 

“ If your royal highness declines to 
give this promise. Mademoiselle Mar- 
witz shall have another partner. I can- 
not answer to my conscience if she is 
left alone, unobserved and unprotected, 
with the most beautiful of the beau- 
tiful.” 

“Be merciful, princess, and say yes. 
For you see well that this terrible Poll- 
nitz will make me a martyr to curiosity. 
Consent, gracious princess, and then I 
may perhaps hear the name of my part- 
ner.” 

“Well, then,” said Amelia, smiling, 
“ I consent to play Mentor to my maid 
Df honor.” 

“ Your royal highness promises then, 
solemnly, to be present at every confer- 


n 

ence between Mademoiselle von Mar- 
witz and her irresistible partner ? ” 

“ I promise ; be quick ! Marwitz will 
die of curiosity, if you do not tell the 
name of this wonder.” 

“Wen, now, that I have, so far as it 
is in my power, guarded the heart of 
this young girl from disaster, and 
placed it under the protecting eye of 
our noble princess, I venture to name 
my paragon. He is the young lieuten- 
ant — ^Baron von Trenck, the favorite of 
the king and the court.” 

Very different was the impression 
made by this name upon the two ladies. 
The eager countenance of Mademoiselle 
von Marwitz expressed cool displeasure ; 
while the princess, blushing and con- 
fused, turned aside to conceal the happy 
smile which played upon her full, rosy 
lips. 

Pollnitz, who had seen all this, 
wished to give the princess time to col- 
lect herself. He turned to Mademoi- 
selle Marwitz and said : “ I see, to my 
amazement, that our lovely maid of 
honor is not so enraptured as I had 
hoped. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ! 
you are a wonderful actress, but you 
cannot deceive me. You wish to seem 
disappointed and indifferent, in order 
to induce our gracious princess to with- 
draw her promise to me, and to think 
it unnecessary to be present at your in- 
terviews with Trenck. This acting is 
in vain. The princess has given her 
word, and she will most surely keep 
it.” 

“Certainly,” said Amelia, smiling. 
“I have no alternative. Queens and 
princesses, kings and princes, are bound 
by their promises, even as common men, 
and their honor demands that they fulfil 
their contracts. I will keep my word. 
But enough of jesting for the present. 
Let us speak now of the solemn reali- 
ties of life, namely, of our toilets. Bar- 
on, give me your model engraving, and 
make known your views. Call mj 


74 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI ; OR, 


chambermaid, mademoiselle, and my 
dressmakers; we will hold a solemn 
conference.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE TEMPTEE. 

As Mademoiselle von Marwitz left 
the room, Pollnitz took a sealed note 
from his pocket and handed it hastily 
to the princess. She concealed it in the 
pocket of her dress, and continued to 
gaze indifferently upon a painting of 
Watteau, which hung upon the wall. 

“Not one word! Still! Not one 
word ! ” whispered Pollnitz. “ You 
are resolved to drive my young friend 
to despair. You will not grant him 
one gracious word ? ” 

The princess turned away her blush- 
ing face, drew a note from her bosom, 
and, without a glance or word in reply, 
she handed it to the master of ceremo- 
nies, ashamed and confused, as a young 
girl always is, when she enters upon 
her*first love romance, or commits her 
first imprudence. 

Pollnitz kissed her hand with a 
lover’s rapture. “ He will be the most 
blessed of mortals,” said he, “ and yet 
this is so small a favor ! It lies in the 
power of your royal highness to grant 
him heavenly felicity. You can fulfil 
one wish which his trembling lips have 
never dared to speak ; which Only God 
and the eyes of one faithful friend have 
seen written in his heart.” 

“What is this wish?” said the 
princess, in so low and trembling a 
whisper, that Pollnitz rather guessed 
than heard her words. 

“ I believe that he would pay with 
his life for the happiness of sitting one 
hour at your feet and gazing upon 
you.” 

“Well, you have prepared for him 
this opportunity ; you have so adroitly 


arranged your plans, that I cannot 
avoid meeting him.” 

“ Ah, princess, how despondent would 
he be, if he could hear these cold and 
cruel words ! I must comfort him by 
this appearance of favor, if I cannot ob- 
tain for him a real happiness. Your 
royal highness is very cold, very stem 
toward my poor friend. My God ! he 
asks only of your grace, that which 
the humblest of your brother’s subjects 
dare demand of him — an audience — 
that is all.” 

Amelia fixed her burning eyes upon 
Pollnitz. “ Ajpage^ Satanas ! ” she whis- 
pered, with a weary smile. 

“ You do me too much honor,” said 
Pollnitz. “Unhappily I am not the 
devil, who is, without doubt, next to 
God, the most powerful ruler of this 
earth. I am convinced that three- 
fourths of our race belong to him. I 
am, alas ! but a poor, weak mortal, and 
my words have not the power to move 
the heart of your highness to pity.” 

“ My God ! Pollnitz, why all this elo- 
quence and intercession ? ” cried Amelia. 
“ Do I not allow him to write to me 
all that he thinks and feels ? Am I not 
traitress enough to read all his letters, 
and pardon him for his love ? What 
more can he dare hope for ? Is it not 
enough that he loves a princess, and 
tells her so ? Not enough — ” 

She ceased suddenly ; her eyes, which 
shrank from meeting the bold, reproach- 
ful, and ironical glance of the baron, 
had wandered restlessly about the room 
and fell now upon the picture of Wat- 
teau ; upon the loving, happy pair, who 
were tenderly embracing under the oaks 
in the centre of that enchanting land- 
scape. This group, upon which the 
eye of the princess accidentally rested, 
was an eloquent and decisive answer to 
her question — an answer made to the 
eyes, if not the ears of Amelia — and 
her heart trembled. 

Pollnitz had followed her glances, 


FBEDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


75 


and understood her blushes and her con- 
fusion. He stepped to the picture and 
pointed to the tender lovers. 

“ Gracious princess, demand of these 
blessed ones, if a man who loves pas> 
sionately has nothing more to implore 
of his mistress than the permission to 
write her letters ? ” 

Amelia trembled. She fixed her eyes 
with an expression of absolute terror 
upon Pollnitz, who with his fox smile 
and immovable composure gazed stead- 
ily in her face. He had no pity for her 
girlish confusion, for her modest and 
maidenly alarm. With gay, mocking, 
and frivolous jests, he resolved to over- 
come her fears. He painted in glowing 
colors the anguish and despair of her 
young lover; he assured her that she 
could grant him a meeting in her rooms 
without danger from curious eyes or 
ears. Did not the room of the princess 
open upon this little dark corridor, in 
which no guard was ever placed, and 
from which a small, neglected stairway 
led to the lower etage of the castle? 
This stairway opened into an unoccu- 
pied room, the low windows of which 
looked out upon the garden of Mon- 
bijou. Nothing, then, was necessary 
but to withdraw the bar from these 
windows during the day ; they could 
then be noiselessly opened by uight, 
and the room of the princess safely 
reached. 

The princess was silent. By no look 
or smile, no contraction of the brow or 
expression of displeasure, did she show 
her emotion, but she listened to these 
vile and dangerous words ; she let the 
poison of the tempter enter her heart ; 
she had neither the strength nor will to 
reject his counsel, or banish him from 
her presence ; she had only the power to 
be silent, and to conceal from Pollnitz, 
that her better self was overcome. 

“*I shall soon reach the goal,” said 
Pollnitz, clapping his hands merrily 
after leaving the princess. “ Yes, yes ! | 


the heart of the little Princess Amelia 
is subdued, and her love is like a ripe 
fruit — ^ready to be plucked by the first 
eager hand. And this, my proud and 
cruel King Frederick, will be my re- 
venge. I will return shame for shame. 
If the good people in the streets rejoice 
to hear the humiliation and shame put 
upon the Baron von Pollnitz, cried 
aloud at the corners, I think they will 
enjoy no less the scandal about the 
little Princess Amelia. This will not, 
to be sure, be trumpeted through the 
streets ; but the voice of Slander is pow- 
erful, and her lightest whispers are 
eagerly received.” 

Pollnitz gave himself up for a while 
to these wicked and cruel thoughts, 
and he looked like a demon rejoicing 
in the anguish of his victims. He soon 
smoothed his brow, however, and as- 
sumed his accustomed gay and unem- 
barrassed manner. 

“ But before I revenge myself, I must 
be paid,” said he, with an internal 
chuckle. “ I shall be the chosen confi- 
dant in this adventure, and my name is 
not Pollnitz if I do not realize a large 
profit. Oh, King Frederick, King 
Frederick ! I think the little Amelia 
will pay but small attention to your 
command and your menace. She will 
lend the poor Pollnitz gold ; yes, gold, 
much gold ! and I — I will pay her by 
my silence.” 

Giving himself up to these happy 
thoughts, the master of ceremonies 
sought the young lieutenant, in order 
to hand him the letter of the princess. 

“ The fortress is ready to surrender,” 
cried he ; “ advance and storm it, and 
you will enter the open door of the 
heart as conqueror. I have prepared 
the way for you to see the princess 
every day; make use of your oppor 
tunities like a brave, handsome, young^ 
and loving cavalier. I predict you will 
soon be a general, or a prince, or some 
thing great and envied.” 


76 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ A general, a prince, or a high traitor, 
who must lay his head upon the block 
and expiate his guilt with hi^ life,” 
said Trenck, thoughtfully. “ Let it be 
so. In order to become this high trai- 
tor, I must first be the happiest, the 
most enviable of men. I shall not 
think that too dearly paid for by my 
heart’s blood. Oh, Amelia, Amelia ! I 
love thee boundlessly ; thou art my hap- 
piness, my salvation, my hope ; thou — ” 

“Enough, enough!” said Pollnitz, 
laughing, and placing his hands upon 
his ears. “ These are well-known, well- 
used, and much-abused phrases, which 
have been repeated in all languages 
since the time of Adam, and which 
after all are only lovely and fantastic 
lies. Act, my young friend, but say 
nothing; you know that walls have 
ears. The table upon which you write 
your letters, and the portfolio in which 
you place the letters of the princess, to 
be guarded to all eternity, both have 
prying eyes. Prudence, prudence! — 
burn the letters of the princess, and 
write your own with sympathetic ink, 
or in cipher, so that no man can read 
them, and none but God and the devil 
may know your dangerous secret.” 

Trenck did not hear one word of 
this: he was too happy, too impas- 
sioned, too young, to listen to the words 
of warning and caution of the old 
roue. He read again and again, and 
with ever-increasing rapture, the letter 
of the princess; he pressed it to his 
throbbing heart and glowing lips, and 
fixed his loving eyes upon those charac- 
ters which her hand had written and 
her heart had dictated. 

Pollnitz looked at him with a sub- 
dued smile, and enjoyed his raptures, 
even as the fox enjoys the graceful 
Happing of the wings, the gentle move- 
ments of the dove, wdien he knows that 
she cannot escape him, and grants her 
a few moments of happiness before he 
spiings upon and strangles her. “I 


wager that you know that letter by 
heart,” said he, as he slowly lighted a 
match in order to kindle his cigar; 
“am I not right? do you not know" it 
by heart ? ” 

“ Every word is written in letters of 
flame upon my heart.” 

With a sudden movement, the baron 
snatched the paper from the young 
man and held it in the flames. 

“ Stop ! stop ! ” cried Frederick von 
Trenck, and he tried to tear the letter 
from him. 

Pollnitz kept him off with one arm 
and waved the burning paper over his 
head. 

“My God! what have you done?’’ 
cried the young man. 

“ I have made a sacrifice to the god 
of silence,” said he, solemnly ; “ I have 
burnt this paper lest it might be used 
to light the scaffold upon which* you 
may one day burn as a high traitor. 
Thank me, young man. I have perhaps 
saved you from discovery and from 
death.” 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE WEDDING FESTIVAL OF THE PEIK 
CESS ULRICA. 

Truly this perfidious friend had, for 
one day, guarded the secret of the 
young lovers from discovery ; but the 
poison, which Pollnitz in his worldly 
cunning prepared for them, had entered 
into their hearts. For some days 
they met under strong restraint; on- 
ly by stolen glances and sighs, by f 
momentary pressure of the hand, or a 
few lightly-murmured w^ords, could 
they give expression to their rapture 
and their passion. The presence of 
another held their hearts and lips in 
bondage. 

Pollnitz knew full well that there 
was no surer means to induce a young 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


77 


girl to grant her lover an interview 
than to force tBem to meet before 
strange witnesses, to bring every word 
and look into captivity, to condemn 
them to silence and seeming indiffer- 
ence. The glowing heart bounds 
against these iron bands ; it longs to cast 
off the yoke of silence, and to breathe 
unfettered as the wanton air. Princess 
Amelia had borne two days of this 
martyrdom, and her courage failed. 
She was resolved to grant him a private 
interview so soon as he dared ask for it. 
She wished to see this handsome face, 
now clouded by melancholy, illumina- 
ted by the sunshine of happiness ; those 
sad eyes “should look up clear, and 
the sorrowful lips should smile ; she 
would make her lover happy!” She 
thought only of this ; it was her only 
wish. 

There were many sad hours of pain 
and anguish, sad hours in which she 
saw her danger, and wished to escape. 
In her despair and agony she was al- 
most ready to cast herself at the feet of 
her mother, to confess all, and seek 
this sure protection against her own 
girlish weakness ; but the voice of love 
in her heart held her back from this 
step; she closed her eyes to the abyss 
which was before her, and pressed pant- 
ing onward to the brink. If Amelia 
had had afiiend, a sister whom she could 
love and trust, she might have been 
saved ; but her rank made a true friend 
impossible; being a princess, she was 
isolated. Her only friend and sister 
had alienated her heart, through the 
intrigues by which she had won the 
crown of Sweden. 

Perhaps these costly and magnificent 
wedding festivities which would have 
been prepared for her, had she not re- 
fused a husband worthy of her birth, 
aroused her anger, and in her rage and 
her despair she entered upon dangerous 
paths, and fell into the cruel snares of 
Pollnitz. She said to herself: “ Yes, 


all this honor and glory was my own, 
but my weak heart and my perfidious 
sister wrenched them from my grasp. 
Fate offered me a way of escape, but 
my sister cast me into the abyss in 
W’hich I now stand ; upon her rests the 
responsibility. Upon her head be my 
tears, my despair, my misery, and my 
shame. Ulrica prevented me from be- 
ing a queen: well, then, I will be 
simply a young girl, who loves and 
who offers up all to her beloved, her 
pride, her rank, and the unstained 
greatness of her ancestors. For Ulrica 
be honor, pomp, and power; for me 
the mystery of love, and a girl’s silent 
happiness. Who can say which of us 
is most to be envied ? ” 

These were indeed happy, sunny 
days, which were prepared for the 
bride of Adolph Frederick of Holstein, 
the Crown Prince of Sweden. FHe 
succeeded to fUe. The whole land took 
part in the happiness of the royal fam- 
ily. All the provinces and cities sent 
deputations to congratulate the king, 
and bring rich gifts to the princess; 
she who had been always cast into the 
shade by the more noble and bewilder- 
ing beauty of her younger sister, had 
now become the centre of attraction in all 
these superb festivities which followed 
each other in quick succession. It was 
in honor of the Princess Ulrica that the 
king gave a masked ball in the opera- 
house, to which the whole city was in- 
vited ; for her, on the evening of her 
betrothal, every street in Berlin was 
brilliantly illuminated with wax-lights, 
not by command of the king, but as a 
free-will offering of the people ; for her 
the queen, at Schonhausen, gave a su- 
perb ball ; for her the Swedish ambas- 
sador arranged a fUe^ whose fabulous 
pomp and extravagant luxuiy were 
supposed to indicate the splendor 
which awaited her in her new home. 
Lastly, this ball at the royal palace, to 
which not only the nobles, but manv 


18 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI OR, 


of tlie wealthy burghers were invited, 
was intended as a special compliment 
to Ulrica. 

More than three thousand persons 
moved gayly through these royal sa- 
loons, odorous with the perfume of 
flowers, glittering with wax-h‘ghts, the 
glimmer of diamonds, and rich gold 
and silver embroideries — ^nothing was to 
be seen but ravishing toilets and happy 
faces. All the beauty, youth, rank, fame, 
and worth of Berlin were assembled at 
the palace ; and behind these lovely la- 
dies and glittering cavaliers, the won- 
dering, gaping crowd, of common men, 
moved slowly onward, dumb with 
amazement and delight. The king had 
commanded that no well-dressed per- 
son should be denied entrance to the 
castle. 

Those who had cards of invitation 
were the guests of the king, and wan- 
dered freely through the saloons. 
Those who came without cards had to 
content themselves behind the silken 
rope stretched across one side of the 
rooms ; by means of this rope an almost 
invisible and yet an insurmountable 
barrier was interposed between the 
people and the court circle. 

It was difficult to preserve the rules 
and customs of courtly etiquette in such 
a vast assem bly, and more difficult still 
to see that every man was received and 
served as the guest of a king, and suit- 
able to his own personal merit. Crowds 
of lackeys flew through the rooms bear- 
ing silver plateavx filled with the rich- 
est viands, the most costly fruits, and 
the rarest wines. Tables were loaded 
with the luxuries of every clime and 
season, and the clang of glasses and the 
sweet sound of happy laughter were 
heard in every direction. The king ex- 
pressed a proud confidence in his good 
people of Berlin, and declined the ser- 
vices of the police. He commissioned 
some officers of his lifeguard to act as 
his substitute and play the host, attend- 


ing to the wants and pleasures of alL 
Supper was I prepared in the picture- 
gallery for the court circle. 

But what means this wild laughter 
which echoes suddenly through the vast 
crowd and reaches the ear of the king, 
who looks up surprised and question- 
ing to his master of ceremonies, and 
orders him to investigate the tumult. 
In a few moments Pollnitz returned, 
accompanied by a young officer, whose 
tall and graceful figure, and whose 
handsome face, glowing with youth, 
pride, and energy, attracted the atten- 
tion of the noblest ladies, and won a 
smile of admiration from the queen- 
mother. 

“ Sire,” said Pollnitz, “ a mask in the 
guise of a thief, and in the zealous pur- 
suit of his calling, has robbed one of 
the officers who were commanded by 
your majesty to guard the public peace 
and property. Look, your majesty, at 
our young lieutenant. Von Trenck : in 
the midst of the crowd, his rich, gold- 
embroidered scarf has been adroitly re- 
moved; in his zeal for your service, he 
forgot himself, and the merry gnome, 
whom Trenck should have kept in order, 
has made our officer the target for his 
sleigh t of hand. This jest, sire, caused 
the loud laughter which you heard.” 

The eyes of the king rested with an 
expression of kindliness and admira- 
tion upon the young man, and the 
Princess Amelia felt her heart tremble 
with joy and hope. A rich crimson 
suffused her cheeks; it made her al- 
most happy to see that her lover was 
appreciated by her exalted brother and 
king. 

“I have watched and wondered at 
him during the whole evening,” said 
the king, merrily ; “ his glance, like the 
eye of Providence, pierces the most dis- 
tant and most obscure corner, and sees 
all that occurs. That he who sees all 
else has forgotten himself, proves that 
he is not vain, and that he forgets hia 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


19 


Dwn interest in the discharge of his 
public duties. I will remember this 
and reward him, not in the gay saloon, 
but on the battle-field^ where, I am sure, 
his scarf will not be taken from him.” 

Frederick gave his hand to the young 
officer, who pressed it warmly to his 
lips ; then turning to the queen-mother, 
he said : “ Madame, I know that this 
young man has been commended to 
you, allow me also to bespeak your 
favor in his behalf; will your majesty 
have the grace to instruct him in all 
the qualities which should adorn a no- 
ble cavalier ? I will make him a war- 
rior, and then we shall possess a noble- 
man beyond praise, if not beyond com- 
parison.” 

The king, rising from the table, left 
his seat and laid his hand kindly upon 
Trenck’s shoulder. “ He is tall enough,” 
said Frederick laughing; “for that he 
may thank Providence; let him not be 
satisfied with that, but strive to be 
great, and for that he may thank him- 
self.” He nodded graciously to Trenck, 
gave his arm to the queen-mother, and 
led her into the ballroom. 


CHAPTER lY. 

BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

The crowd and heat of the dancing- 
saloon were intolerable. All wished to 
see the quadrille in which the two prin- 
cesses, the loveliest w^omen of the court, 
and the most gallant cavaliers were to 
appear. The music also was a special 
object of interest, as it was composed 
by the king. The first quadrille closed 
in the midst of tumultuous applause, 
restrained by no-courtly etiquette. The 
partners for the second quadrille ad- 
vanced to the gay and inspiring sound 
of pipes and drums. 

The Princess Amelia had withdrawn 


from the crowd into a window recess. 
She was breathless and exhausted from 
the dance and the excitement of the 
last few days. She required a few mo- 
ments of rest, of refreshment, and med- 
itation; she drew the heavy silk 
curtains carefully together, and seated 
herself upon a little tabouret which 
stood in the recess. This quiet retreat, 
this isolation from the thoughtless 
crowd, brought peace to her soul. It 
was happiness to close her weary eyes, 
and indulge in sweet dreams to the 
sound of this glorious music; to feel 
herself shut off from the laughing, 
heartless crowd. 

She leaned her lovely head upon the 
cushion, not to sleep but to dream. 
She thought of her sister, who would 
soon place a crown upon her head; 
who had sold herself for this crown to 
a man whom she had never seen, and 
of whom she knew nothing, but that 
he was heir to a throne. Amelia shud- 
dered at the thought that Ulrica had 
sacrificed her religion to this man, 
whom she knew not, and had promised 
at God’s altar to love and be faithful 
to him. In the purity and innocence 
of her girlish heart she considered this 
a crime, a sacrilege against love, truth, 
and faith. “ I will never follow Ulrica’s 
example,” she whispered to herself, “ I 
will never sell myself. I will obey the 
dictates of my heart and give myself 
to the man I love.” As she said this, a 
crimson glow overspread her cheeks, 
and she opened her eyes wide, as if she 
hoped to see the man she loved before 
her, and wished him to read in her 
steady glance the sweet confirmation 
of the words she had so lightly whis- 
pered. 

“ No, no ! I will never marry without 
love, I love, and as there can be but 
one true love in a true life, I shall never 
marry — then — ” She ceased and bowed 
her head upon her bosom, her trembling , 
lips refused to speak the hope and 


80 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


dream of her heart, to give words to 
the wild, passionate thoughts which 
burned like lava in her breast, and, like 
the wild rush of many waters, drowned 
her reason. She thought that in the 
eloquence of her great love she might 
touch the heart of the king, and in the 
magnanimity of his soul he might allow 
her to be happy, to place a simple myr- 
tle-wreath upon her brow. She re- 
peated the friendly and admiring words 
which the king had spoken to her lover. 
She saw again those wondrous eyes 
resting with interest and admiration 
upon the splendid form of the young 
baron. A happy, playful smile was on 
her lip. “ The king himself finds him 
handsome and attractive; he cannot 
then wonder that his sister shares his 
opinion. He will think it natural that 
I love him — that — ” 

A wild storm of applause in the sa- 
loon interrupted the current of her 
thoughts. She drew the curtains 
slightly apart, and gazed into the room. 
The second quadrille was ended, and 
the dancers were now sinking upon the 
tabourets^ almost breathless from fa- 
tigue. 

The princess could not only see, but 
she could hear. Two ladies stood just 
in front of the curtains behind which 
she was concealed ; engaged in earnest 
conversation, they spoke of Frederick 
von Trenck ; they were enraptured 
with his athletic form and glowing 
eyes. 

“ He has the face of a Ganymede and 
the figure of a Hercules,” said one. “I 
think him as beautiful as the Apollo 
Belvidere,” said the other ; “ and then 
his expression is so pure and innocent. 
I envy the woman who will be his fiirst 
love.” 

“You think, then, that he has never 
loved ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. The passion and 
fire of his heart is yet concealed under 
the veil of youth. He is unmoved by 


a woman’s tender smile and her speak 
ing and promising glances. He does 
not understand their meaning.” 

“ Have you tried these powerful 
weapons ? ” ^ 

“ I have, and I confess wholly in vain, 
but I have not given up the contest, 
and I shall renew the attack until — ” 

The ladies now moved slowly away, 
and the princess heard no more, but 
she knew their voices ; they were 
Madame von Brandt and Louise von 
Kleist, whom the king often called the 
“ loveliest of the lovely.” Louise von 
Kleist, the irresistible coquette, who 
was always surrounded with worship- 
pers and adorers, confessed to her friend 
that all her tender glances had been un- 
availing; that she had in vain attempt- 
ed to melt the ice-rind of his heart. 

“But she will renew her efforts,” 
cried Amelia, and her heart trembled 
with its first throb of jealousy. “ Oh, 
I know Louise von Kleist! She will 
pursue him with her tenderness, her 
glances of love, and bold encourage- 
ment, until he admires, falls at her feet 
a willing victim. But no, no, I cannot 
suffer that. She shall not rob me of 
my only happiness — the golden dream 
of my young life. He belongs to me, 
he is mine by the mighty power of 
passion, he is bound to me by a thou- 
sand holy oaths. I am his first love. 
I am that happy woman whom he 
adores, and who is loved by the beau- 
teous Louise von Schwerin. He is 
mine and he shall be mine in spite of 
the whole world. I love him, and I 
give myself to him.” 

Amd now she once more looked 
through the curtains and shrank back 
in sweet surprise. Right before her 
stood Trenck — ^the Apollo of Louise 
von Kleist, the Hercules and the Gany- 
mede of Madame von Brandt, the be- 
loved of the Princess Amelia — Trenck 
stood with folded arms immovable, 
and gazed piercingly in the crowd of 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


81 


maskers. Perhaps he sought for 
Amelia; perhaps he was sorrowful be- 
cp.use she had withdrawn herself. 

Suddenly he heard a soft, low voice 
whispering: “Do not move, do not 
turn — remain standing as you are ; but 
if you hear and understand me, bow 
your head.” 

Frederick von Trenck bowed his 
head. But the princess could not see 
the rapturous expression which illumi- 
nated his face; she could not know 
that his breath almost failed him ; she 
could not hear the stormy, tumultuous 
beating of his heart. 

“ Do you know who speaks ? if you 
recognize me, incline your head.” 

The music sounded loud and clear, 
and the dancing feet, the gay jest, and 
merry laughter of five hundred persons 
gave confidence and security to the 
lovers. Frederick was not content 
with this silent sign. He turned tow- 
ard the recess and said in low tones: 
“ I know the voice of my angel, and I 
would fall upon my knees and worship 
her, but it would bring danger and sep- 
aration.” 

“ Still 1 say no more,” whispered the 
voice ; and Trenck knew by its trem- 
bling tones, that the maiden was in- 
spired by the same ardent passion which 
glowed in every fibre of his being. 
That still small voice sounded in his 
ears like the notes of an organ : “ Say 
no more, but listen. To-morrow the 
Princess Ulrica departs for Sweden, 
and the king goes to Potsdam ; you 
will accompany him. Have you a 
swift horse that knows the way from 
Potsdam to Berlin, and can find it by 
night ? ” 

“ I have a swift horse, and for me 
and my horse there is no night.” 

“Four nights from this, you will 
flna the window which you know open, 
and the door which leads to the small 
stair, only closed. Come at the hour of 
eleven, and you will receive a compen- 


sation for the scarf you have lost this 
evening. Hush — no word; look not 
around, move onward indifferently ; 
turn not your head. Farewell I in four 
days — at eleven — ^go ! ” 

“ I had to prepare a coat of mail for 
him, in order that he might be invul- 
nerable,” whispered Amelia trembling- 
ly ; exhausted and remorseful, she sank 
back upon the tabouret. “ The beauti- 
ful Kleist shall not ravish my beloved 
from me. He loves me — me alone ; and 
he shall no longer complain of my 
cruelty. I dare not be cruel I I dare 
not make him unhappy, for she might 
comfort him. He shall love nothing 
but me, only me ! If Louise von Kleist 
pursues him with her arts, I will mur- 
der her— that is all ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

A shame-fAced king. 

The king laid his flute aside, and 
walked restlessly and sullenly about 
his room. His brow was clouded, and 
he had in vain sought distraction in his' 
faithful friend, the flute. Its soft me- 
lodious voice brought no relief; the 
cloud was in his heart, and made him 
the slave of melancholy. Perhaps it 
was the pain of separation from his 
sister which oppressed his spirit. 

The evenmg before, the princess had 
taken leave of the Berliners at the 
opera-house, that is, she had shown 
herself to them for the last time. 
While the prima donna was singing her 
most enchanting melodies, the travel- 
ling-carriage of Ulrica drove to the 
door. The king wished to spare him- 
self the agony of a formal parting, and 
had ordered that she should enter her 
carriage at the close of the opera, and 
depart, without saying farewell. 

The people knew this. They were 


62 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


atterly indifferent to the beautiful 
opera of “ Rodelinda,” and fixed their 
eyes steadily upon the king’s loge. 
They thus took a silent and affection- 
ate leave of their young princess, who 
appeared before them for the last time, 
in all the splendor of her youth and 
beauty, and the dignity of her proud 
and royal bearing. An unwonted si- 
lence reigned throughout the house; 
all eyes were turned to the box where 
the princess sat between the two queens. 
Suddenly the door was thrown open, 
and the young Prince Ferdinand 
rushed, with open arms, to his sister. 

“ My dear, dear Ulrica ! ” he cried, 
weeping and sobbing painfully, “ must 
it then be so ? Do I indeed see you for 
the last time ? ” With childish eager- 
ness he embraced his sister, and leaned 
his head upon her bosom. The prin- 
cess could no longer control herself; 
she mingled her tears with those of her 
brother, and drawing him softly out of 
view, she whispered weeping and trem- 
bling words of tenderness; she im- 
plored him not to forget her, and prom- 
ised to love him always. 

The queen-mother stood near. She 
had forgotten that she was a queen, 
and remembered only that she was a 
mother about to lose her child forever ; 
the thought of royal dignity and 
courtly etiquette was for some mo- 
ments banished from her proud heart ; 
she saw her children heart-broken and 
weeping before her, and she wept with 
them.* 

The people saw this. Never had the 
most gracious smile, the most conde- 
scending word of her majesty, won 
their hearts so completely as these 
tears of the mother. Every mother 
felt for this woman, who, though a 
queen, suffered a mother’s anguish ; and 
every maiden wept for this young girl. 


* Schneider's “History of the Opera and tlie 
Royal Opera-House.” 


who, although entering upon a splendid 
future, shed hot tears over the happy 
past and the beloved home. When the 
men saw their wives and children 
weeping, and the prince not ashamed 
of his tears, they also wept, from sym- 
pathy and love to the royal house. In 
place of the gay jests and merry laugh- 
ter wont to prevail between the acts, 
scarcely suppressed sobs were the only 
sounds to be heard. The glorious 
singer Salimberri was unapplauded. 
The Barbarina danced, but the accus- 
tomed bravos were hushed. 

Was it the remembrance of this 
touching scene which moved the king 
so profoundly ? Did this eternal sepa- 
ration from his beloved sister weigh 
upon his heart? The king himself 
knew not, or he would not acknowl- 
edge to himself what emotion pro- 
duced this wild unrest. After laying 
his fiute aside, he took up Livy, which 
lay always upon his writing-table, and 
tried to read a chapter ; but the let- 
ters danced before his eyes, and his 
thoughts wandered far away from the 
old Roman. He threw the book 
peevishly aside, and, folding his arms, 
walked rapidly backward and for- 
ward. 

“ Ah me ! ah me ! I wish this were 
the day of battle ! ” he murmured. 
“To-day I should be surely victori- 
ous! I am in a fierce and desperate 
mood. The wild roar of conflict would 
be welcome as a sweet home sonsr in a 
strange land, and the shedding^f blood 
would be medicinal, and relieve my op- 
pressed brain. What is it which has 
drawn this evil over my spirit ? What 
mighty and mysterious power has 
stretched her hand over me? With 
what bonds am I held a helpless cap- 
tive? I feel, but I cannot see them, 
and cannot tear them apart. No, no ! 
I will be lord of myself. I will be no 
sighing dreamer. I will live a true 
life. I will work, and be a faithful 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


83 


ruler, if I cannot be a free and happy 
man.” 

He rang the bell, and ordered the 
ministers to assemble for a cabinet 
council. 

“ I will work, and forget every thing 
else,” he said, with a sad smile, and en- 
tered his cabinet with this proud resolve. 

This time the king deceived himself. 
The most earnest occupation did not 
drive the cloud from his brow : in fact, 
it became more lowering. 

“ I cannot endure this,” he said, af- 
ter walking backward and forward 
thoughtfully. “ I will put a stop to it. 
As I am not a Ulysses, I do not see 
why I should blind my eyes, and stop 
my ears with wax, in order not to see 
this bewildering siren, and hear her in- 
toxicating song. In this sorrowful and 
pitiful world, is it not a happiness to 
meet with an enchantress, to bow down 
to the magic of her charms, and for 
a small half hour to dream of bliss? 
All other men are mad: why should 
I alone be reasonable? Come, then, 
spirit of love and bliss, heavenly insan- 
ity, take possession of my struggling 
5oul. Let old age be wise and cool, I 
am young and warm. For a little 
while I will play the fool, and forget 
my miserable dignity.” 

Frederick called his servant, and sent 
for General Rothenberg, then took his 
flute and began to play softly. When 
the general entered, the king nodded 
to him, but quietly finished his adagio ; 
then laid the flute aside, and gave his 
hand to his friend. 

“ You must be Pylades, my friend, 
and banish the despondency which op- 
presses the heart and head of thy poor 
Orestes.” 

“ I will be all that your majesty al- 
lows or commands me to be,” said the 
general, laughing; “but I think the 
queen-mother would be little pleased 
to hear your majesty compare yourself 
to Orestes.” I 


“Ah, you allude to Clytemnestra’s 
faithless love-story, with which, truly, 
my exalted and virtuous mother can- 
not be associated. Well, my compari- 
son is a little lame, but my despondency 
is real — deeply seated as my friendship 
for you.” 

“ How ! your majesty is melancholy ? 
I understand this mood of my king,” 
said Rothenberg, “ It only takes pos- 
session of you the day before some 
great deed, and only then because the 
night' before the day of triumph seems 
too long. Your majesty confesses that 
you are sad. I conclude, therefore, 
that we will soon have war, and soon 
rejoice in the victories of our king.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” said the 
king, smiling. “ I do not love war, but 
it is sometimes a necessary evil ; and if 
I cannot relieve my godmother, Maria 
Theresa, of this mortal malady of pride 
and superciliousness without a gene ’al 
blood-letting, I must even play the 
physician and open a vein. The alli- 
ance with France is concluded; Charles 
the Seventh goes to Frankfort for cor- 
onation; the French ambassador ac- 
companies him, and my army stands 
ready for battle, ready to protect the 
emperor against Austria. We will soon 
have war, friend, and I hope we will 
soon have a victory to celebrate. In a 
few weeks we will advance. Oh 
Rothenberg 1 when I speak of battle, I 
feel that I am young, that my heart is 
not of stone — ^it bounds and beats as if 
it would break down its prison walls, 
and found a new home of glory and of 
fame.” 

“ The heart of my king will be ever 
young; it is full of trust and kindli- 
ness.” 

Frederick shook his head thought- 
fully. “Ho not believe that, Rothen- 
berg; the hands that labor become 
hard and callous, and so is it with the 
heart. Mine has labored and suffered ; 
it will turn at last to stone. Then 1 


84 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


shall be condemned. The world will 
forget that it is responsible ; they will 
speak only of my hard heart, and say 
nothing of the anguish and the decep- 
tions which have turned me to stone. 
But what of that? Let these foolish 
two-legged creatures, who proudly 
claiip that they are made in the image 
of God, say what they please of me ; 
they cannot deprive me of my fame and 
my immortality. He who possesses that 
has received his reward, and dare utter 
no complaint. Truly Erostratus and 
Schinderhannes are celebrated, and 
Eulenspiegle is better known and be- 
loved by the people than Socrates.” 

“This proves that Wisdom herself 
must take the trouble to make herself 
popular,” said Rothenberg. “ True 
fame is only obtained by popularity. 
Alexander the Great and Csesar were 
popular, and their names were there- 
fore in the mouths of the people. This 
was their inheritance, handed down 
from generation to generation, from fa- 
ther to son. So will it be with King 
Frederick the Second. He is not only 
the king and the hero, but he is the 
man of the people. His fame will not 
be written alone on the tablets of histo- 
ry by the Muses ; the people will write 
it on the pure, white, vacant leaves of 
their Bibles; the children and grand- 
children will read it; and, centuries 
hence, the curious searchers into histo- 
ry will consider this as fame, and exalt 
the name of Frederick the Great.” - 

“ God grant it may be so I ” said the 
king, solemnly. “ You know that I am 
ambitious. I believe that this passion 
is the most enduring, and that its burn- 
ing thirst is never quenched. As 
crown prince, I was ever humiliated by 
the thought that the love, considera- 
tion, and respect shown to me was no 
tribute to my worth, but was offered to 
a prince, the son of a powerful king. 
With what admiration, with what en- 
thusiasm did I look at Voltaire I he 


needed no high birth, no title, to be 
considered, honored, and envied by the 
whole world. 1, however, must have 
rank, title, princely revenues, and a 
royal genealogical tree, in order to fix 
the eyes of men upon me. Ah, how 
often did I remind myself of the his- 
tory of that great prince, who, surround- 
ed by his enemies, and about to sur- 
render, saw his servants and fiiends 
despairing and weeping around him I 
He smiled upon them, and uttered 
these few but expressive words : ‘ I 
feel by your tears that I am still a 
king.’ I swore then to be like that 
noble man, to owe my fame, not to my 
royal mantle, but to myself. I have 
fulfilled but a small portion of my oath. 
I hope that my godmother, Maria 
Theresa, and the Russian empress, will 
soon afford me more enlarged oppor- 
tunities. Our enemies are indeed our 
best friends; they enrage and inspire 
us.” 

“ In so saying, sire, you condemn us 
all, we who are the most faithful, sub- 
missive, and enthusiastic friends of 
your highness.” 

“ You are also useful to me,” said the 
king. “ You, for example ; your cheer- 
ful, loving face does me good when- 
ever I look upon it. You keep my 
heart young and fresh, and teach me to 
laugh, which pleasant art I am con- 
stantly forgetting in the midst of these 
wearisome and hypocritical men. I 
never laugh so merrily as when I am 
with you at your table, where I have 
the high privilege of laying aside my 
royalty, and being a simple, happy man 
like yourself. I rejoice in the prospedt 
of this evening, and I am impatient as 
a young maiden before her first ball. 
This evening, if I remember correctly, 
I am invited by General von Rothenberg 
to a petit soupery 

“ Yom’ majesty was kind enough to 
promise me that you would come.” 

“Do you know, Rothenberg, I realh 


85 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Dolieve -that the expectation of this fete 
nas made the hours of the day so long 
and -wearisome. Now, tell me, who 
are we to have ? who takes part in our 
gayety ? ” 

“Those who were selected by your 
majesty : Chazot and Algarotti, Jordan 
and Bielfeld.” 

“ Did I select the company ? ” said 
the king, thoughtfully ; “ then I won- 
Jer that — He stopped, and, looking 
down, turned away silently. 

“What causes your majesty’s won- 
der ? ” said the general. 

“ I am surprised that I did not ask 
you to give us Rhine wine this even- 
ing,” said the king, with a sly 
smile. 

“ Rhine wine ! why, your majesty 
has often told me that it was a slow 
poison, and produced death.” 

“Yes, that is true, but what will you 
have ? There are many things in this 
incomprehensible world which are poi- 
sonous, and which, for that reason, are 
the more alluring. This is peculiarly 
BO with women. He does well who 
avoids them ; they bewilder our reason 
and make our hearts sick, but we do 
not flee from them. We pursue them, 
and the poison which they infuse in 
our veins is sweet ; we quaff it raptur- 
ously, though death is in the cup.” 

“In this, however, your majesty is 
wiser than all other men: you alone 
have the power to turn away from or 
withstand them.” 

“Who knows ? perhaps that is 
sheer cowardice,” said the king; he 
turned away confused, and beat his 
fingers upon the window - glass. “I 
called the Rhine wine poison, because 
of its strength. I think now that it 
alone deserves to be called wine — it 
.s the only wine which has bloom.” 
Frederick was again silent, and beat a 
march upon the window. 

The general looked at him anxiously 
and thoughtfully ; suddenly his counte- 


nance cleared, and a half-suppressed 
smile played upon his lips. 

“ I will allow myself to add a con- 
clusive word to those of my king, that 
is, a moral to his fable. Your majesty 
says Rhine wine is the only wine which 
deserves the name, because it alone has 
bloom. So I will call that society only 
society which is graced and adorned by 
women. Women are the bloom of so- 
ciety. Do you not agree with me, 
sire ? ” 

“If I agree to that proposition, it 
amounts to a request that you -will in- 
-\dte women to our fete this evening — 
will it not ? ” said the king, still thrum- 
ming on the window. 

“And with what rapture would I 
fulfil your wish, but I fear it would be 
difficult to induce the ladies to come to 
the house of a young bachelor as I am ! ” 

“ Ah, bah I I have determined dur- 
ing the next winter to give these little 
suppers very often. I will have a pri- 
vate table, and women shall be present.” 

“Yes, but your majesty is married.” 

“They would come if I were a 
bachelor. The Countess Carnas, Frau 
von Brantd, the Kleist, and the Morien, 
are too witty and too intellectual to be 
restrained by narrow - minded preju- 
dice.” 

“Does your majesty wish that 1 
should invite these ladies ? ” said the 
general; “they will come, without 
doubt, if your majesty commands it. 
Shall I in-vite them ? ” 

The king hesitated a moment to re- 
ply. “Perhaps they would not come 
willingly,” said he ; “ you are unmar- 
ried, and they might be afraid of their 
husbands’ anger.” 

“ I must, then, invite ladies who are 
not married,” said Rothenberg, whose 
face was now radiant with delight; 
“but I do not know one unmarried 
lady of the higher circles who carries 
her freedom from prejudice so far as 
to dare attend a bachelor’s supper.” 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


S6 

“ Must we always confine our invita- 
tions to the higher circles ? ” said the 
king, beating his parade march still 
more violently upon the window. 

Kothenberg watched him with the 
eye of a sportsman, who sees the wild 
deer brought to bay. 

“ If your majesty will condescend to 
set etiquette aside, I will make a propo- 
sition.” 

“ Etiquette is nonsense and folly, and 
shall not do the honors by our petits 
soupers : pleasure only presides.” 

“ Tlien I propose that we invite some 
of the ladies from the theatre — is your 
majesty content ? ” 

“ Fully ! but which of the ladies ? ” 
said the king. 

“ That is your majesty’s affair,” said 
Rothenberg, smiling. “You have se- 
lected the gentlemen, will it please you 
to name the ladies ? ” 

“ Well, then,” said the king, hesita- 
ting, “ what say you to Cochois, Astrea, 
and the little Petrea.” . i 

“Sire, they will be all most wel- 
come ; but I pray you to allow me to 
add one name to your list, the name of 
a woman who is more lovely, more 
gracious, more intellectual, more allur- 
ing, than all the prima donnas of the 
world ; who has the power to intoxi- 
cate all men not excepting emperors 
and kings, and make them her willing 
slaves. Dare I name her, sire ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ The Signora Barbarina.” 

Tlie king turned his head hastily, 
and his burning eyes rested question- 
ingly upon the face of Rothenberg, who 
met his glance with a merry look. 

Frederick was silent; and the gen- 
eral, making a profound bow, said 
solemnly : “ I pray your majesty to al- 
low me to invite Mesdames Cochois, 
Astrea, and Petrea, also the Signcira 
Barbarina, to our petit aouper,'^' 

“ Four prima donnas at once ! ” said 
the king, laughing; “that would be 


dangerous; we would, perhaps, have 
the interesting spectacle of seeing them 
tear out each other’s eyes. No, no ! to 
enjoy the glories of the sun, there must 
be no rival suns in the horizon ; we will 
invite but one enchantress, and as you 
are the host, you have the undoubted 
right to select her. Let it be then the 
Signora Barbarina.” * 

“ Your majesty graciously permits me 
to invite the Signora Barbarina ? ” said 
Rothenberg, looking the king steadily 
in the face ; a rich blush suffused the 
cheeks of Frederick. Suddenly he 
laughed aloud, and laying his arm 
around the neck of his friend, he 
looked in his radiant face with an ex- 
pression of confidence and love. 

“You are a provoking scamp,” said 
Frederick. “ You understood me 
from the beginning, and left me hang- 
ing like Absalom upon the tree. That 
was cruel, Rothenberg.” 

“ Cruel, but well deserved, sire. 
Why would you not make known your 
wishes clearly? Why leave me to 
guess them ? ” 

“ Why ? My God 1 it is sometimes 
so agreeable and convenient to have 
your wishes guessed. The murder is 
out. You will invite the beautiful 
Barbarina. You can also invite an- 
other gentleman, an artist, in order 
that the lovely Italian may not feel so 
lonely amongst us barbarians.” 

“ What artist, sire ? ” 

“The painter Pesne; go yourself to 
invite him. It might be well for him 
to bring paper and pencil— he will as- 
suredly have an irresistible desire to 
make a sketch of this beautiful 
nymph.” 

“ Command him to do so, sire, and 
then to make a life-size picture from the 
sketch.” 

“ Ah ! so you wish a portrait from the 
Barbarina ? ” 


* Eodenbeck: “ Jotirnal of Frederick the Grea> , 


87 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ Yes, sire ; bat not for myself.” 

For whom, then ? ” 

“To have the pleasure of presenting 
-i; to my king.” 

“And why? ” 

“ Because I am vain enough to be- 
lieve that, as my present, the picture 
would have some value in your eyes,” 
said Rothenberg, mockingly. “ What 
cares my king for a portrait of the 
Barbarina ? Nothing, sans doute. But 
when this picture is not only painted 
by the great Pesne, but is also the gift 
of a dear, faithful friend, I wager it 
will be highly appreciated by your 
majesty, and you will perhaps be 
gracious enough to hang it in your 
room.” 

“You I you!” said the king, point- 
ing his finger threateningly at Rothen- 
berg, “ I am afraid of you. I believe 
you listen to and comprehend my most 
secret thoughts, and form your petition 
■ctccording to my wishes. I will, like 
a good-natured, easy fool, grant this 
request. Go and invite the Barbarina 
and the painter Pesne, and commission 
him to paint a life-size picture of the 
fair one.* Pesne must make several 
sketches, and I will choose from 
amongst them.” 

“I thank your majesty,” cried the 
general ; “ and now have the goodness 
to dismiss me — I must make my prepa- 
rations.” 

As Rothenberg stood upon the 
threshold, the king called him. “ You 
have guessed my thoughts, and now I 
will prove to you that I read yours. 
You think I am in love.” 

“ In love ? What ! I dare to think 
that ? ” said the general ; and folding 
his hands he raised his eyes as if in 
prayer. “ Shall I dare to have such an 
unholy thought in connection with my 
anointed king ? ” 

* This splendid picture of Barbarina hung for a 
lOng time in the king's caDinet, and Is still to be 
leen in the Koynl Palace at Berlin. 


The king laughed heartily. “As to 
my sanctity, I think the holy Antonius 
will not proclaim me as his brother. 
But I am not exactly in love.” He 
stepped to the window, upon the sill 
of which a Japanese rose stood in rich 
bloom ; he plucked one of the lovely 
flowers, and handing it to the general, 
he said : “ Look, now ! is it not en- 
chantingly beautiful ? Think you, that 
because I am a king, I have no heart, 
no thirst for beauty ? Go ! but remem- 
ber that, though a king, I have the eyes 
and the passions of other men. I, too, 
am intoxicated by the perfume of flow- 
ers and the beauty of women.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS. 

The night was dark and still ; so 
dark in the garden of Moubijou, that 
the keenest eye could not detect the 
forms of the two men who slipped 
stealthily among the trees ; so still, that 
the slightest contact of their clothing 
with the motionless leaves, and the 
slightest footstep in the sand could be 
heard. But, happily, there was none 
to listen ; unchallenged and unseen, the 
two muffled figures entered the avenue, 
at the end of which stood the little 
palace, the summer residence of the 
queen-mother. Here they rested for a 
moment, and cast a searching glance 
at the building, which stood also dark 
and silent before them. 

“No light in* the windows of the 
queen-mother,” whispered one ; “ ail 
asleep.” 

“ Yes, all asleep, we have nothing to 
fear; let us go onward.” The last 
speaker made a few hasty steps for- 
ward, but his companion seized him 
hastily by the arm, and held him back. 

“You forget, my young Hotspur 


88 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


that we must wait for the signal. Still ! 
still ! do not stamp so impatiently with 
your feet ; you need not shake yourself 
like a young lion. He who goes upon 
such adventures must, above all things, 
be self-possessed, cautious, and cool. 
Believe me, I have had a long range of 
experience, and in this species of love 
adventure I think I might possibly 
rival the Dimous King Charles the 
Second, of England.” 

“But here there is no question of 
love adventure, Baron Pollnitz,” said 
his' companion impatiently, almost 
fiercely. 

“Not of love, adventure, Baron 
Trenck ! well, may I dare to ask what 
is the question ? ” 

“ A true — an eternal love ! ” 

“ Ah ! a true, an eternal love,” re- 
I)eated Pollnitz, with a dry, mocking 
laugh. “All honor to this true love, 
which, with all the reasons for its jus- 
tification, and all the pathos of its 
heavenly source, glides stealthily to the 
royal palace, and hides itself under the 
shadow of the silent night. My good 
young sentimentalist, remember I am 
not a novice like yourself ; I am an old 
fogy, and call things by their right 
names. Every passion is a true and 
eternal love, and every loved one is an 
angel of virtue, beauty, and purity, 
until we weary of the adventure, and 
seek a new distraction.” 

“You are a hopeless infidel,” said 
Trenck, angrily; “truly he who has 
changed his faith as often as you have, 
has no religion — not even the religion 
of love. But look ! a light is shown, 
and the window is opened ; that is the 
signal.” 

“You are right, that is the signal. 
Let us go,” whispered Pollnitz ; and he 
stepped hastily after the young oflicer. 

And now they stood before the win- 
dow on the ground floor, where the 
light had been seen for a moment. 
The window was half open. 


“ We have arrived,” said Trenck 
breathing heavily; “now, dear Poll- 
nitz, farewell ; it cannot certainly be 
your intention to go farther. The prin- 
cess commissioned you to accompany 
me to the castle, but she did not intend 
you should enter with me. You must 
understand this. You boast that you 
are rich in experience, and will there- 
fore readily comprehend that the pies- 
ence of a third party is abhorrent to 
lovers. I know that you are too ami- 
able to make your friends wretched 
Farewell, Baron Pollnitz.” 

Trenck was in the act of springing into 
the window, but the strong arm of the 
master of ceremonies held him back. 

“Let me enter first,” said he, “and 
give me a little assistance. Your so- 
phistical exposition of the words of our 
princess is entirely thrown away. She 
said to me, ‘ At eleven o’clock I will 
expect you and the Baron von Trenck 
in my room.’ That is certainly explicit 
— as it appears to me, and needs no ex- 
planation. Lend me your arm.” 

With a heavy sigh, Trenck gave the 
required assistance, and then sprang 
lightly into the room. 

“Give me your band and follow 
cautiously,” said Pollnitz. “I know 
every step of the way, and can guai-d 
you against all possible accidents. I 
have tried this path often in former 
years, particularly when Peter the 
Great and his wife, with twenty ladies 
of her suite, occupied this wing of the 
castle.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Trenck ; “ we have 
reached the top — onward, silently.” 

“Give me your hand, I will lead 
you.” 

Carefully, silently, and on tip-toe, they 
passed through the dark corridor, and 
reached the door, through which a 
light shimmered. They tapped lightly 
upon the door, which was immediately 
opened. The confidential chamber- 
maid of the princess came forward t« - 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


89 


uieet them, and nodded to them silently 
to follow her; they passed through 
several rooms ; at last she paused, and 
said, earnestly : “ This is the boudoir 
of the princess; enter — you are ex- 
pected.” 

With a hasty movement, Trenck 
opened the door — this door' which sep- 
arated him from his first love, his only 
hope of happiness. He entered that 
dimly-lighted room, toward which his 
weary, longing eyes had been often 
turned almost hopelessly. His heart 
beat stormily, his breathing was irreg- 
ular, he thought he might die of rap- 
ture ; he feared that in the wild agitation 
of the moment he might utter a cry, in- 
dicative as much of suffering as of joy. 

There, upon the divan, sat the Prin- 
cess Amelia. The hanging lamp lighted 
her face, which was fair and colorless. 
She tried to rise and advance to meet 
him, but she had no power; she ex- 
tended both her hands, and murmured 
a few unintelligible words. 

Frederick von Trenck’s heart read 
her meaning ; he rushed forward and 
covered her hands with his kisses and 
his tears ; he fell upon his knees, and 
murmured words of rapture, of glow- 
ing thanks, of blessed joy — words 
which filled the trembling heart of 
Amelia with delight. 

All this fell upon the cold but listen- 
ing ear of the master of ceremonies, and 
seemed to him as sounding brass and 
the tinkling cymbal. He had discreet- 
ly and modestly withdrawn to the back 
part of the room ; but he looked on like 
a worldling, with a mocking smile at 
the rapture of the two lovers. He soon 
found, however, that the role which he 
was condemned to play had its ridicu- 
lous and humiliating aspect, and he re- 
solved to bear it no longer. He came 
forward, and with his usual cool imperti- 
nence he approached the princess, who 
greeted him with a crimson blush and 
a silent bow. 


“Pardon me, your royal highness, if 
I dare to ask you to decide a question 
which has arisen between my friend 
Trenck and myself. He did not wish 
to allow me to accompany him farther 
than the castle window. I declare that 
I was authorized by your royal high- 
ness to enter with him this holiest of 
holies. Perhaps, however, I was in 
error, and have carried my zeal in your 
service too far. I pray you, therefore, 
to decide. Shall I go or stay ? ” 

The princess had by this time entire- 
ly recovered her composure. “ Remain,” 
said she, with a ravishing smile, and 
giving her hand to the baron. “You 
were our confidant from the beginning, 
and I desire you to be wholly so. I 
wish you to be fully convinced that our 
love, though compelled for a while to 
seek darkness and obscurity, need not 
shun the eye of a friend. And who 
knows if we may not one day need 
your testimony ? I do not deceive my- 
self. I know that this night my good 
and evil genius are struggling over 
my future — that misfortune and shame 
have already perhaps stretched their 
wings over my head; but I will not 
yield to them wdthout a struggle. It 
may be that one day I shall require 
your aid. Remain, therefore.” 

Pollnitz bowed silently. The prin- 
cess fixed her glance upon her lover, 
who, with a clouded brow and sad 
mien, stood near. She understood him, 
and a smile played upon her full, red 
lip. 

“Remain, Von Pollnitz, but allow us 
to step for a moment upon the balcony. 
It is a wondrous night. What we two 
have to say to each other, only heaven, 
with its ‘shining stars, dare hear ; I be- 
lieve they only can understand our 
speech.” 

“ I thank you ! oh, I thank you ! ” 
whispered Trenck, pressing the hand of 
Amelia to his lips. 

“Your royal highness, then, gra- 


90 


BERLIN AND SAxWS-SOUCI; OR, 


ciously allowed me to come here,” said 
Pollnitz, with a complaining voice, “ in 
order to give me up entirely to my 
own thoughts, and force me to play the 
part of a Trappist. I shall, if I under- 
stand rightly my privileges, like the 
lion in the fairy tale, guard the door 
of that paradise in which my young 
fiiend revels in his first sunny dream 
of bliss. Your royal highness must 
confess that this is cruel work ; but I 
am ready to untertake it, and place 
myself, like the angel with the flaming 
sword, before the door, ready to slay 
any serpent who dares undertake to en- 
ter this elysium.-’ 

The princess pointed to a table upon 
which game, fruit, and Spanish wine 
had been placed. “ You will find there 
distraction and perhaps consolation, 
and I hope you will avail yourself of 
it. Farewell, baron; we place our- 
selves under your protection; guard 
us well.” She opened the door and 
stepped with her lover upon the bal- 
cony. 

Pollnitz looked after them contempt- 
uously. “ Poor child I she is afraid of 
herself; she requires a duenna^ and that 
she should have chosen exactly me for 
that purpose was a wonderful idea. 
Alas I my case is indeed pitiful ; I am 
selected to play the part of a duenna. 
No one remembers that I have ears to 
hear and teeth to bite. I am supposed 
to see, nothing more. But what shall 
I see, what can I see in this dark night, 
which the god of love has so clouded 
over in compassion to this innocent 
and tender pair of doves ? This was a 
rich, a truly romantic and girlish idea, 
to grant her lover a rendezvous, it is 
true, under God’s free heavei’., but upon 
a balcony of three feet in length, with 
no seat to repose upon after the pow- 
erful emotions of a burning declaration 
of love. Well, for my part I find it 
more comfortable to rest upon this di- 
van and enjoy my evening meal, while 


these two dreameis commune with the 
night-birds and the stars.” 

He threw himself upon the seat, 
seized his knife and fork, and indulged 
himself in the grouse and truffles which 
had been prepared for him 


CHAPTER VII. 

ON THE BALCONY. 

Without, upon the balcony, stood 
the two lovers. With their arms 
clasped around each other, they gazed 
up at the dark heavens — too deeply 
moved for utterance. They spoke to 
each other in the exalted language of 
lovers (understood only by the angels), 
whose words are blushes, sighs, glances, 
and tender pressures of the hand. 

In the beginning this was their only 
language. Both shrank from inter- 
rupting this sweet communion of souls 
by earthly material speech. Suddenly 
their glances fell from heaven earth- 
ward. They sought another heaven, 
and other and dearer stars. Their 
eyes, accustomed to the darkness, met ; 
their blushes and their happy smiles, 
though not seen, were understood and 
felt, and at the same moment they softly 
called each other’s names. 

This was their first language, soon 
succeeded by passionate and glowing 
protestations on his part ; by blushing, 
trembling confessions on hers. They 
spoke and looked like all the millions 
of lovers who have found themselves 
alone in this old world of ours. The 
same old story, yet ever new. 

The conduct, hopes, and fears of 
these young lovers could not be judged 
by common rules. Theii*s was a love 
which could not hope for happiness or 
continuance ; for which there was no 
perfumed oasis, no blooming myrtle- 
wreath to crown its dark and stormi 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


91 


path. They might be sure, that the 
farther they advanced, the more track- 
less and arid would be the desert open- 
ing before them. Tears and robes of 
mourning would constitute their festal 
adorning. 

“Why has Destiny placed you so 
high above me that I cannot hope to 
reach you ? can never climb the ladder 
which leads to heaven and to happi- 
ness ? ” said Trenck, as he knelt before 
the princess. 

She played thoughtfully with his 
long dark hair, and a burning tear 
rolled slowly over her cheek and fell 
upon his brow. That was her only an- 
swer. 

Trenck shuddered. He dashed the 
tear from his face with trembling hor- 
ror. “ Oh, Amelia ! you weep ; you 
have no word of consolation, of encour- 
agement, of hope for me ? ” 

“No word, my friend; I have no 
hope, no consolation. I know that a 
dark and stormy future awaits us. I 
know that this cloudy night, under 
whose shadow we for the first time join 
our hands, will endure forever; that 
for us the sun will never shine. I know 
that the moment our glances first met, 
my protecting angel veiled her face, 
and, weeping, left me. I know that it 
would have been wiser and better to 
give your heart, with its treasures, to a 
poor beggar-girl on the street, than to 
consecrate it to the sister of a king — to 
the poor Princess Amelia.” 

“ Stop, stop ! ” cried Trenck, still on 
his knees, and bowing his head almost 
to the earth. “ Your words pierce my 
heart like poisoned daggers, and yet I 
feel that they are truth itself. Yes, I 
was indeed a bold traitor, in that I 
dared to raise my eyes to you ; I was a 
blasphemer, in that I, the unconsecra- 
ted, forced myself into the holy temple 
of your heart ; upon its altar the vestal 
flame of your pure and innocent 
thoughts burned clearly, until my hot 


and stormy sighs brought unrest and 
wild disorder. But I rejicnt. There 
is yet time. You are bound to me by 
no vow, no solemn oath. Oh, Amelia ! 
lay this scarcely-opened flower of our 
first young love by the withered violet- 
wreaths of your childhood, with which 
even now you sometimes play and smile 
upon in quiet and peaceful hours; to 
which you whisper : ‘ You were once 
beautiful and fragrant ; you made me 
happy — but that is past.’ Oh, Amelia I 
yet is there time; give me up; spurn 
me from you. Call your servants and 
point me out to them as a madman, 
who has dared to glide into your room ; 
whose passion has made him blind and 
wild. Give me over to justice and to 
the scafibld. Only save yourself from 
my love, which is so cowardly, so 
egotistic, so hard-hearted; it has no 
strength in itself to choose banishment 
or death. Oh, Amelia I cast me away 
from your presence ; trample me under 
your feet. I will die without one re- 
proach, without one complaint. I will 
think that my death was necessary to 
save you from shame, firom the torture 
of a long and dreary existence. All 
this is still in your power. I have no 
claim upon you ; you are not mine; you 
have listened to my oaths, but you have 
not replied to them; you are fi’ee. 
Spurn me, then, you are bound by no 
vow.” 

. Amelia raised her arm slowly and 
solemnly toward heaven. “ I love you I 
May God hear me and accept my oath I 
I love you, and I swear to be yours ; to 
be true and faithful ; never to wed any 
other man ! ” 

“ Oh, most unhappy woman ! oh, 
greatly to be pitied 1 ” cried Trenck. 
Throwing his arms around her neck he 
laid his head upon her bosom. “ Ame- 
lia, Amelia I these are not tears of rap- 
ture, of bliss. 1 weep from wretched 
ness, from anguish, for your dear sake 
Ah, no! I will not accept your oath. 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


D2 

I have not heard your words — those 
heavenly words which would have 
filled my heart with light and gladness, 
had they not contained your fatal con- 
demnation. Oh, my beloved ! you 
swear that you love me ? That is, to 
sacrifice all the high privileges of your 
rank ; the power and splendor which 
would surround a husband of equal 
birth — a throne, a royal crown. Be- 
ware! when I once accept your love, 
then you are mine ; then I will never 
release you ; not to the king — not even 
to God. You will be mine through all 
time and all eternity; nothing shall 
tear you from my arms, not even your 
own wish, your own prayers. Oh, 
Amelia ! do you see that I am a mad- 
man, insane from rapture and despair I 
Should you not flee from a maniac ? 
Perhaps his arm, imbued with giant 
strength, seeking to hold you ever to 
his heart, might crush you. Fly, then ; 
spurn me from you ; go to your room ; 
go, and say to this mocking courtier, 
to whom nothing is holy, not even our 
love, who is surprised at nothing — go 
and say to him: ‘Trenck was a mad- 
man ; I summoned him for pity; I hoped 
by mildness and forbearance to heal 
him. I have succeeded; he is gone. 
Go, now, and watch over your friend.’ 
I will not contradict your words; so 
soon as you cross the threshold of the 
door, I will spring from the balcony. 
I will be careful ; I will not stumble ; 
I will not dash my head against the 
stones; I will not be found dead under 
your window ; no trace c f blood shall 
mark my desperate path. My wounds 
are fatal, but they shall bleed inward- 
ly ; only upon the battle-field will I lie 
down to die. Amid the roar of can- 
non I shall not be heard ; I dare call 
your name with the last sigh which 
bursts from my icy lips; my last words 
of love will mingle with the convulsive 
groans of the dying. Flee, then I flee 
from wretchedness and despair. May 


God bless you, and make you hap- 
pyl” 

Trenck drew aside reverentially, that 
she might pass him ; but she moved 
not — her eyes were misty with tears, 
tears of love, of heavenly peace. Ame- 
lia laid her soft hand upon his shoul- 
der. Her eyes, which were fixed upon 
his face, had a wondrous glow. Love 
and high resolve were written there. 
“ Two of the brightest stars in yonder 
heavens did wander in our sphere.” 
Trenck looked upon her, and saw and 
felt that we are indeed made in the 
image of God. 

“ I seek no safety in flight. I remain 
by your side ; I love you, I love you I 
This is no trembling, sighing, blushing, 
sentimental love of a young maiden. 
I offer you the love of a bold, proud 
woman, who looks shame and death in 
the face. In the fire of my anguish, 
my love has become purified and hard- 
ened ; in this flame it has forgotten its 
girlish blushes, and is unbending and 
unconquerable. I have baptized it 
with my tears ; I have taken it to my 
heart, p a mother takes her new-born 
child whose existence is her condemna- 
tion, her dishonor, her shame ; whom 
she loves boundlessly, and blesses even 
while weeping over it I I also weep, 
and I feel that condemnation and 
shame are my portion. I also bless my 
love ; I think myself happy and envl, 
able. God has blessed me; He has 
sent one pure, burning ray of His celes- 
tial existence into my heart, and taught 
me how to love unchangeably, immor- 
tally.” 

“Oh, Amelia, why cannot I die 
now ? ” cried Trenck, falling powerles^ 
at her feet. 

She stooped and raised him up with 
a strong hand. “ Rise,” she said ; “ we 
must stand erect, side by side, firm and 
cool. When you kneel before me, I 
fear that you see in me a princess, the 
sister of a king. I am simply your be 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


•93 


oved, tlie woman wlio adoros you. 
Look you, Trenck, I do not say ‘ the 
young girl ; ’ in my interior life I am 
no longer that. This fearful battle 
with myself has made me old and cau- 
tious. A young girl is trembling and 
cowardly. I am firm and brave , a 
young girl blushes when she confesses 
her love ; I do not confess, I declare 
and glory in my passion. A young girl 
shudders when she thinks of dishonor 
and misery, of the power and rage and 
^ menaces of her family ; when with pro- 
phetic eye she sees a herald clad in 
mourning announcing her dark fate. I 
shudder not. I am no weak maiden ; 
I am a woman who loves without limit, 
unchangeably, eternally.” 

*She threw her arms around him, 
and a long and blessed pause ensued. 
Lightly whispered the wind in the 
tops of the^ lofty poplars and oaks of 
the garden; unnumbered stars came 
out in their soft splendor and looked 
down upon this slumbering world. 
Many slept, forgetful alike of their joys 
and their griefs ; some, rejoicing in 
unhoped-for happiness, looked up with 
grateful and loving hearts ; others, 
with convulsive wringing of the hands 
and wild cries of anguish, called upon 
Heaven for aid. What know the stars 
of this? they flash and glimmer alike 
upon the happy and the despairing. 
The earth and sky have no tears, no 
sympathy for earthly passions. Ame- 
lia released herself from the arms of 
her lover and fixed her eyes upon the 
heavens. Suddenly a star fell, mark- 
ing its downward and rapid flight with 
a line of silver ; in a moment, in the 
twinkling of an eye, it was extin- 
guished. 

“An evil omen!” cried she, pointing 
upward. With a mysterious sympathy, 
Trenck had looked up at the same mo- 
ment. 

“The heavens will not deceive us, 
Amelia ; they warn us, but this warn- 


ing comes too late. You are mine, you 
have sworn that you love me ; I have 
accepted your vows. May God also 
have heard them, and may He be gra- 
cious to us ! Is it not written that 
faith can remove mountains ? that she 
is more powerful than the mightiest 
kings of the earth ; stronger than death 
— that conquerors and heroes fall be- 
fore her ? Let us, then, have faith in 
our love ; let us be strong in hope, in 
patience, in constancy.” 

“ My brother says we shall soon have 
war. Will you not win a wreath of 
laurel upon the battle-field ? who can 
know but the king may value it as 
highly, may consider it as glorious, as 
a princely crown ? All my sisters are 
married to princes; perhaps my royal 
brother may pardon me for loving a 
hero whose brow is bound by a laurel- 
wreath alone.” 

“ Swear to me, Amelia, to wait — to 
be patient, to give me time to reach 
this goal, which you paint in such 
heavenly colors.” 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ You will never be the wife of an- 
other ? ” 

“ I will never be the wife of another.” 

“ Be it prince or king ; even if your 
brother commands it ? ” 

“ Be it prince or king ; even if my 
brother commands it, I will never obey 
him.” 

“ God, my God ! you have heard our 
vows.” While speaking, he took 
Amelia’s head in his hands softly and 
bowed it down as if it were a holy 
sacrifice which he offered up to Heav- 
en. “ You have heard her oath : O 
God, punish her, crush her in your 
wrath, if she prove false 1 ” 

“ I will be faithful to the end. May 
God punish me if I fail ! ” 

“And now, beloved, you are mine 
eternally. Let me press our betrothal 
kiss upon your sweet lips ; you are my 
bride, my wife. Tremble not now, 


94 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


turn not away from my arms! you 
have no other refuge, no other strong 
fortress than my heart, but it is a rock 
on which you can safely build; its 
foundation is strong, it can hold and 
sustain you. If the storm is too fierce, 
we can plunge together into the wild, 
raging sea, and be buried in the deep. 
Oh, my bride, let me kiss your lips ; you 
are sanctified and holy in my eyes till 
that glorious day in which life or death 
shall unite us.” 

“ No, you shall not kiss me ; I em- 
brace you, my beloved,” and she 
pressed her soft full lips, which no un- 
truthful, immodest word had ever 
desecrated, to his. It was a kiss ho- 
ly, innocent, and pure as a maiden’s 
prayer. “ And now, my beloved, fare- 
well,” said Amelia, after a long pause, 
in which their lips had been silent, but 
their hearts had spoken to each other 
and to God. “ Go,” she said ; “ night 
melts into morn, the day breaks ! ” 

“My day declines, my night comes 
on apace,” sighed Trenck. “ When do 
we meet again ? ” 

Amelia looked up, smilingly, to the 
heavens. “Ask the stars and the 
calendar when the heavens are dark, 
and the moon hides her fair face ; then 
I expect you — the window will be open 
and the door unbarred.” 

“ The moon has ever been thought to 
be the friend of lovers,” said Trenck, 
pressing the hand of the princess to his 
heart; “but I hate her with a perfect 
hatred, she robs me of my happiness.” 

“ And now, let us return to Baron 
Pollnitz, who is, without doubt, im- 
patient.” 

“ Why must he always accompany 
me, Amelia? why will you not allow 
me to come alone ? ’’ 

“ Why ? I scarcely know myself. It 
seems to me we are safer when watched 
over by the eye of a friend ; perhaps I 
am unduly anxious; a warning voice 
whispers me that it is better so. Poll- 


nitz has become the confidant of our 
love, let us trust him fully; let him 
know that, though traitors and merit- 
ing punishment in the sight of men, we 
are not guilty in the sight of God, and 
have no cause to blush or look down. 
Pollnitz must always accompany you.” 

“Ah, Amelia!” sighed Trenck; 
“ you have not forgotten that you are 
a princess. Love has not wholly con- 
quered you. Tou command. It is not 
so with me. I submit, I obey, and I 
am silent. Be it as you will : Pollnitz 
shall always accompany me — only 
promise me to come ever upon the bal- 
cony,” 

“ I promise ! and now, beloved, let 
us say farewell to God, to the heavens, 
to the soft stars, and the dark night, 
which has spread her mantle over us 
and allowed us to be happy.” 

“Farewell, farewell, my hapf)iness, 
my love, my pride, my hope, my fu- 
ture ! Oh, Amelia, why cannot I go 
this moment into battle, and pluck 
high honors which will make me more 
worthy of you ? ” 

They embraced for the last time 
and then stepped into the room. Poll- 
nitz still sat on the divan before the 
table. Only a poor remnant of the 
feast remained; his tongue had been 
forced to silence in this lonely room, 
but he had been agreeably occupied 
with the game, fruits, jellies, and wine 
which were placed before him ; he had 
stretched himself comfortably upon the 
sofa, and was quietly enjoying the bless- 
ed feeling of a healthy and undisturbed 
digestion. At last he had fallen asleep, 
or seemed so; it was some moments 
before Trenck succeeded in forcing him 
to open his eyes. 

“You are cruel, young friend,” said 
he, rising up ; “ you have disturbed me 
in the midst of a wondrous and rap- 
turous dream.” 

“ Might I inquire into this dream ? ‘ 
said the princess. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


95 


“ Ah, youi royal highness, I dreamed 
of the only thing which could ever sur- 
prise or enrapture me in this comi- 
cal and good-for-nothing world. I 
dreamed I had no creditors, and heaps 
of gold,” 

“ And your dream differs widely 
from the reality ? ” 

“ Yes, my gracious princess, just the 
opposite is true. I have unnumbered 
creditors, and no gold.” 

“ Poor Pollnitz 1 how do you propose 
to free yourself from this painful em- 
barrassment ? ” 

“ Ah, your royal highness, I shall 
never attempt it ! I am more than 
content when I can find some soothing 
palliatives for this chronic disease, and, 
at least, find as many louis d’ors in my 
pocket as I have creditors to threaten 
me.” 

“ And is that now your happy state ? ” 
“No, princess, I have only twelve 
louis d’ors.” 

“ And how many creditors ? ” 

“ Two-and-thirty.” 

“ So twenty louis d’ors are wanting 
to satisfy your longing ? ” 

“ Yes, unhappily. ” 

The princess walked to her table and 
took from it a little roll of gold, which 
she handed to the master of ceremonies. 
“ Take it, ” said she, smiling ; yester- 
day I received my pin-money for the 
month, and I rejoice that I am in a 
condition to balance your creditors 
and your louis d’ors at this time. ” 
Pollnitz took the gold without a 
blush, and kissed the hand of the prin- 
cess gallantly. “ Ah ! I have but one 
cause of repentance,” sighed he. 

“ Well, what is that ? ” 

“ That I did not greatly increase the 
number of my creditors. My God ! who 
could have guessed the magnanimous 
aitentions of my royal princess ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FIRST CLOUD. 

Drunk with happiness, revelling in 
the recollection of this first interview 
with his lovely and exalted mistress, 
Frederick von Trenck rode slowly 
through the lonely highways toward 
Potsdam. It was not necessary for him 
to pay any attention to the road, as his 
horse knew every foot of the way. 
Trenck laid his bridle carelessly upon 
the neck of the noble animal, and gave 
himself up entirely to meditation. 
Suddenly night waned, the vapors 
melted, light appeared in the east, and 
the first purple glow was succeeded by 
a clear, soft blue. The larks sang out 
their joyous morning song in the 
heavens, not yet disturbed by the noise 
and dust of the day. 

Trenck heard not the song of the lark, 
he saw not the rising sun, which, with 
his golden rays, illuminated the land- 
scape, and changed the dew-drops in 
the cups of the fiowers into shimmer- 
ing diamonds and rubies ; he was 
dreaming, dreaming. The sweet and 
wondrous happiness of the last few 
hours intoxicated his soul ; he recalled 
every word, every smile, every pressure 
of the hand of his beloved, and a 
crimson blush suffused his cheek, a 
sweet tremor oppressed his heart, as he 
remembered that she had been clasped 
in his arms; that he had kissed the 
pure, soft, girlish lips, whose breath 
was fresher and more odorous than 
the glorious morning air which fanned 
his checks and played with his long 
dark hair. With a radiant smile and 
proudly-erected head, he recalled the 
promise of the princess. She had given 
him reason to hope ; she believed in the 
possibility of their union. 

And why, indeed, might not this be 
possible? Had not his career in the 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


last few months been so brilliant as to 
excite the envy of his comrades ? was 
he not recognized as the special favorite 
of the king ? Scarcely six months had 
passed since he arrived in Berlin; a 
young, poor, and unknown student, he 
was commended to the king by his 
protector, the Count von Lottum, who 
earnestly petitioned his majesty to re- 
ceive him into his lifeguard. The king, 
charmed by his handsome and martial 
figure, by his cultivated intellect and 
wonderful memory, had made him cor- 
net in his cavalry-guard, and a few 
weeks later he was promoted to a lieu- 
tenancy. Though but eighteen years 
of age, he had the distinguished honor 
to be chosen by the king to exercise 
two regiments of Silesian cavalry, and 
Frederick himself had expressed his 
content, not only in gracious but affec- 
tionate words.* It is well known that 
the smile of -a prince is like the golden 
rays of the sun ; it lends light and 
glory to every object upon which it 
rests and attracts the curious gaze of 
men. 

The handsome young lieutenant, bask- 
king in the rays of royal favor, was 
naturally an object of remark and the 
most distinguished attentions to the 
circle of the court. More than once 
the king had been seen to lay his arm 
confidingly upon the shoulder of Trenck, 
and converse with him long and smil- 
ingly ; more than once had the proud 
and almost unapproachable queen- 
mother accorded the young officer a 
gracious salutation; more than once 
had the princesses at the fetes of the last 
winter selected him as their partner, 
and all those young and lovely girls of 
the court declared that there was no bet- 
ter dancer, no more attentive cavalier, 
no more agreeable companion than Fred- 
erick von Trenck — than this youthful, 
witty, merry officer, who surpassed all 

* “ M6moires de Frederic Baron von Trenck,” 
tradults par lui-m6tno sur Tonglnal allemande. 


his comrades, not only in his heigh* 
and the splendor of his form, but in 
talent and amiability. It was there- 
fore to be expected that this proud 
aristocracy would seek to draw the 
favorite of the king and of the ladies 
into their circle. 

Frederick von Trenck was of too 
sound and healthy a nature, he had too 
much strength of character, to be made 
vain or supercilious by these attentions- 
He soon, however, accustomed himself 
to them as his right; and he was 
scarcely surprised when the king, after 
his promotion, sent him two splendid 
horses from his own stable, and a thou- 
sand thalers,* at that time a consider- 
able sum of money. 

This general adulation inspired natu- 
rally bold wishes and ambitious dreams, 
and led him to look upon the impos- 
sible and unheard of as possible and 
attainable. Frederick von Trenck was 
not vain or imperious, but he was proud 
and ambitious ; he had a great object 
in view, and all his powers were con- 
secrated to that end; in his hopeful, 
sunny hours, he did not doubt of suc- 
cess ; he was ever diligent, ever watch- 
ful, ever ready to embrace an opportu- 
nity ; ever expecting some giant work, 
which would, in its fruition, bring him 
riches and honor, fame and greatness. 
He felt that he had strength to win a 
world and lay it bound at his feet; 
and if the king had commanded him 
to undertake the twelve labors of Her- 
cules, he would not have shrunk from 
the ordeal. Convinced that a glorious 
future awaited him, he prepared him 
self for it. No hour found him idle. 
When his comrades, wearied by the 
fatiguing service and the oft-repeated 
exercises and preparations for war, re- 
tired to rest, Trenck was earnestly en- 
gaged in some grave study, some scien- 
tific work, seated at his writing-table, 

* “M6moires de Fr6d6ric von Trenck,” tracuita 
par lui-menae sur I’original allemande. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


9 ) 


surrounded witli books, maps, and 
drawings. 

The young lieutenant was prepaiing 
himself to be a general, or a conquer- 
ing hero, by his talents and his great 
deeds; to subdue the world and its 
prejudices ; to bridge over with laurels 
and trophies the gulf which separated 
Him from the princess. Was he not 
already on the way ? Did not the fu- 
ture beckon to him with glorious prom- 
ise ? Must not he, who at eighteen 
years of age had attained that for 
which many not less endowed had 
given their whole lives in vain — he, the 
flattered cavalier, the scholar, and the 
officer of the king’s guard — be set 
apart, elected to some exalted fate ? 

These were the thoughts which oc- 
cupied the young man, and which 
made him forgetful of all other things, 
even the danger with which the slow 
movements of his horse and the ever- 
rising sun threatened him. 

It was the custom of the king to at- 
tend the early morning parade, and the 
commander. Captain Jaschinsky, did 
not belong to Trenck’s friends ; he en- 
vied him for his rapid promotion; it 
angered him that Trenck had, at a 
bound, reached that position to which 
be had wearily crept forward through 
long years of service. It would have 
made him happy to see this young 
man, who advanced so proudly and 
triumphantly upon the path of honor 
and distinction, cast down from the 
giddy height of royal favor, and 
trampled in the dust of forgetfulness. 
He watched his young lieutenant with 
the smiling cunning of a base soul, re- 
solved to punish harshly the smallest 
neglect of duty. 

And now he*had found his opportu- 
nity. A sergeant, who was a spy for 
the captain, informed him that Trenck’s 
corporal had told him his master had 
ridden forth late in the night and had 
ni)t yet returned. The sergeant had 
7 


watched the door of the house in 
which Trenck resided, and was con- 
vinced that he was still absent. This 
intelligence filled the heart of Ca;2)tain 
Jaschinsky with joy ; he concealed it, 
however, under the mask of indiffer- 
ence ; he declared that he did not be- 
lieve this story of Trenck’s absence. 
The young man knew full well that no 
officer was allowed to leave Potsdam, 
even for an hour, without permission, 
particularly during the night. 

In order, as he said, to convince the 
sergeant of the untruth of this state- 
ment, he sent him with some trifling 
commission to Lieutenant von Trenck. 
The sergeant returned triumphant ; the 
baron was not at home, and his servant 
was most anxious about him. The 
captain shrugged his shoulders silently. 
The clock struck eight ; he seized his 
hat, and hastened to the parade. 

The whole line was formed; every 
officer stood by his regiment, except 
the lieutenant of the second company. 
The captain saw this at a glance, and 
a wiqjked smile for one moment played 
upon his face. He rode with zealous 
haste to the front of his regiment and 
saluted the king, who descended the 
steps of the castle, accompanied by his 
generals and adjutants. 

At this moment, to the right wing 
of the regiment, there was a slight dis- 
turbance, which did not escape the lis- 
tening ear of the captain. He turned 
his head, and saw that Trenck had 
joined his company, and that his horse 
was panting and bathed in sweat. 
The captain’s brow was clouded; the 
young officer seemed to have escaped 
the threatened danger. The king had 
seen nothing. Trenck was in his place, 
and it would be useless to bring a 
charge against him. 

The king, however, had seen all ; his 
keen eye had observed Trenck’s rapid 
approach, and his glowing, heated 
countenance; and as he rode to the 


98 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


front, he drew in his horse directly be- 
fore Trenck. 

“How comes it that your horse is 
fatigued and sweating? I must sup- 
pose he is fresh from the stable, and 
his master just from his bed. It ap- 
pears, however, that he has been de- 
layed there ; I see that he has just ar- 
rived upon the parade-ground.” 

The officer murmured a few incom- 
prehensible wo]*ds. 

“ Will you answer me ? ” said the 
king; “is your horse just from the 
stable — are you directly from your 
bed ? ” 

Frederick von Trenck’s head had 
been bowed humbly upon his breast, 
he now raised it boldly up ; he was re- 
solved ; his fierce, eyes met those of the 
king. “ No, your majesty,” said he, with 
a cool, composed mien, “my horse is 
not from- the stable — I am not from my 
bed” 

There was a pause, an anxious, 
breathless pause. Every eye was fixed 
observantly upon the king, whose se- 
verity in military discipline was l^nown 
and feared. 

“ Do you know,” said the king at 
last, “ that I command my officers to 
be punctual at parade ? ” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“Do you know that it is positively 
forbidden to leave Potsdam without 
permission ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty.” 

“Well, then, since this was known to 
you, where have you been ? You con- 
fess that you do not come from your 
dwelling ? ” 

“ Sire, I was on the chase, and loi- 
tered too long. I know I am guilty of 
a great misdemeanor, and I expect my 
pardon only from the grace of my 
king.” 

The king smiled, and his glance was 
mild and kindly. “ You expect also, 
as it appears, under any circumstances, 
a pardon? Well, this time you shall 


not be disappointed. I am well pleased 
that you have been bold enough to 
speak the truth. • I love truthful peo- 
ple ; they are always brave. This time 
you shall go unpunished, but beware 
of the second offence. I warn you.” 

Alas ! what power had even a king’s 
warning over the passionate love of a 
youth of eighteen ? Trenck soon for- 
got the danger from which he had es- 
caped ; and even if remembered, it 
would not have restrained him. 

It was again a cloudy, dark night, 
and he knew that the princess expect- 
ed him. As he stood again upon the 
balcony, guarded by the watchful mas- 
ter of ceremonies ; as he listened to the 
sweet music of Amelia’s voice and com- 
prehended the holy and precious char- 
acter of her girlish and tender nature ; 
as he sat at her feet, pouring out the 
rich treasures of his love and happiness, 
and felt her trembling small white 
hand upon his brow; as he dreamed 
with her of a blessed and radiant fu- 
ture, in which not only God and the 
night but the king and the whole 
world might know and recognize their 
love — how could he remember that the 
king had ordered the parade at seven 
in the morning, and that it was even 
now impossible for him to reach Pots- 
dam at that hour ? 

The parade was over when he reached 
his quarters. A guard stood before his 
door, and led him instantly before the 
king. Frederick was alone in his cabi- 
net. He silently dismissed his adjutant 
and the guard, then walked for some 
time backward and forward through 
the room, without seeming to observe 
Trenck, who stood with pale but re- 
solved countenance before the door. 

Trenck followed eve^y movement of 
the king with a steady glance. “ If he 
cashiers me, I will shoot myself,” he 
said, in a low tone. “ If he puts me to 
the torture, in order to learn the secret 
of my love, I can bear it and be silent ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


But there was another possibility 
upon which, in the desperation of his 
soul, Trenck had not thought. What 
should he do if the king approached 
him mildly and sorrowfully, and, with 
the gentle, persuasive words of a kind 
friend, besought him to explain this 
mystery ? 

This was exactly the course adopted 
by the king. He stepped forward to 
the poor, pale, almost breathless youth, 
and looked him steadily in the eyes. 
His glance was not threatening and 
scornful, as Trenck had expected, but 
sad and reproachful. 

“Why have you again secretly left 
Potsdam ? ” said the king. , “ Where 
do you find the proud courage to dis- 
obey my commands ? Captain Jaschin- 
sky has brought serious charges against 
you. He tells me that you often leave 
Potsdam secretly. Do you know that, 
if punished according to the law, you 
must be cashiered ? ” 

“Yes, I know, sire, I know also 
that I will not outlive this shame.” 

A scornful glance shot from the 
king’s eye. “ Do you intend to make 
me anxious ? Is that a menace ? ” 

“ Pardon, sire. It is not in my power 
to make you anxious, and I do not dare 
to menace. Of what importance to your 
majesty is this atom, this unknown and 
insignificant youth, who is only seen 
when irradiated by the sunshine of 
your eye ? lam nothing, and less than 
nothing, to your majesty ; you are 
every thing to me. I will not, I cannot 
live if your highness withdraws your 
favor from me, and robs me of the pos- 
sibility of winning a name and position 
for myself That was my meaning, 
sire.” 

“ You are, then, ambitious, and thirst 
for fame ? ” 

“Your majesty, I would gladly sell 
one-half of my life to the devil if he 
would insure me rank and glory for the 
other half, and after death an immor- 


99 

tality of fame. Oh, how gladly would 
I make this contract 1 ” 

“ If such ambition fires your soul, 
how can you be so foolish, so inconsid- 
erate, as to bring degradation and 
shame upon yourself by carelessness in 
duty ? He who is not prompt and or- 
derly in small things, will neglect the 
most important duties. Where were 
you last night ? ” 

“ Sire, I was on the chase.” 

The king looked at him with angry, 
piercing eyes. Trenck had not the 
courage to bear this. He blushed and 
looked down. 

“You have told me an untruth,” 
said the king. “ Think again. Wliere 
were you last night ? ” 

“ Sire, I was on the chase.” 

“ You repeat that ? ” 

“ Your majesty, I repeat that.” 

“ Will you solemnly declare that this 
is true ? ” 

Trenck was silent. 

“ Will you declare that this is true ?” 
repeated the king. 

The young officer looked up, and this 
time he had the courage to meet the 
flaming eye of the king. “ No, sire, I 
will not affirm it.” 

“You confess, then, that you have 
told me an untruth ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty.” 

“Do you know that that is a new 
and grave ofience ? ” 

“Yes, your majesty, but I cannot act 
otherwise.” 

“You will not, then, tell me the 
truth ? ” 

“ I cannot.” 

“Not if your obstinacy will lead to 
your being immediately cashiered, and 
to your imprisonment in the fortress ? ” 
“ Not then, your majesty. I cannot 
act diflerently.” 

“ Trenck, Trenck, be on your guard ! 
Kemember that you speak to your lord 
and king, who has a right to demand 
the truth.” 


I 


100 


BERLIN AND SANS-SODCI; OR, 


“ Your majesty may punish me, it is 
your right and your duty, and I must 
bear it,” said Trenck, trembling and 
ghastly pale, but firm and confident in 
himself. 

The king moved off for a few mo- 
ments, then stood again before his 
lieutenant, “ You will report to your 
captain and ask for your discharge.” 

Trenck replied not. Perhaps it was 
not in his power. Two great tears ran 
slowly down his cheeks, and he did not 
restrain them. He wept for his youth, 
his happiness, his honor, and his fame. 

“ Go ! ” repeated the king. 

The young man bowed low. “ I 
thank you for gracious punishment,” 
he said; then turned and opened the 
door. 

The eyes of the king had followed 
him with marked interest. Trenck 1 ” 
cried he ; and, as he turned and waited 
silently upon the threshold for the new 
command, the king stepped forward 
hastily and held out his hand. 

“ I am content with you I You have 
gone astray, but the anguish of soul 
you have just now endured is a suffi- 
cient punishment. I forgive you.” 

A wild cry of joy burst from the 
pale lips of the youth. He bowed low 
over the king’s hand, and pressed it 
with passionate earnestness to his lips. 

“ Your majesty gives me my life 
ffgain I I thank you ! oh, I thank 
you ! ” 

The king smiled. “And yet your 
life must have but little worth for you, 
if you would sign it away so readily. 
Once more I have forgiven you, but I 
warn you for the future. Be on your 
guard, monsieur, or the lightning will 
fall and consume you.” * And now the 
king’s eye was threatening, and his 
voice trembled in anger. “You have 
guarded your secret; you did not be- 
tray it, even when threatened with 

♦The king’s own words. — dee Trenck’s “M6- 
nolrcs.” 


punishment worse than death. Yoit 
honor, as a cavalier, demanded that; 
and I am not surprised that you hold 
it sacred. But there is yet another 
kind of honor, which 5"ou have this 
day tarnished — I mean obedience to 
your king and general. I forgive you 
for this ; and now I must speak to you 
as a friend, and not as a king. You 
are wandering in dangerous paths, 
young man. Turn now, while there is 
yet time; turn, before the abyss opens 
which will swallow you up 1 No man 
can serve two masters, or strive success- 
fully after two objects. He who wills 
something, must will it wholly ; must 
give his undivided heart and strength 
to its attainment; must sacrifice every 
thing else to the one great aim ! You 
are striving for love and fame at the 
same time, you will forfeit both. Love 
makes a man soft and yielding. He 
who leaves a mistress behind him can- 
not go bravely and defiantly into bat- 
tle, though women despise men who 
are not gallant and laurel-crowned. 
Strive then, Trenck, first to become a 
hero; then it will be time to play the 
lover. Pluck your laurels first, and 
then gather the mjTtle-wreath. If this 
counsel does not suit you, then give up 
your ambition, and the path to fame 
which you have chosen. Lay aside 
your sword ; though I can promise you 
that soon, and with honor, you may 
hope to use it. But lay it aside, and 
take up the pen or the hammer; build 
yourself a nest ; take a wife, and thank 
God for the gift of a child every twelve 
months; and pray that the sound of 
battle may be heard only in the dis- 
tance, and the steps of soldiers may not 
disturb your fields and gardens. That 
is also a future, and there are those 
who are content with it; whose ears 
are closed to the beat of drums and the 
sound of alarm-bells which now resound 
throughout Europe. Choose, then, 
young man. Will you be a soldier 


FREDERICK THE GREAT HIS FRIENDS. 


101 


and with God’s help a hero? or will 
you go again ‘ upon the chase ? ’ ” 

“ I will be a soldier,” cried Trenck, 
completely carried away. “ I will win 
fame, honor, and distinction upon the 
battle-field, and above all I will gain 
the approbation and consideration of 
my king. My name shall be known 
and honored by the world,” 

“That is a mighty aim,” said the 
king, smiling, “ and it requires the ded- 
ication of a life. You must offer up 
many things, and above all other things 
‘ the chase.’ I do not know what you 
have sought, and I do not wish to 
know. I counsel you though, as a 
friend, to give up the pursuit. I have 
placed the two alternatives before you, 
and you have made your choice — you 
will be a brave soldier. Now, then, 
from this time onward, I will be inex- 
orable against even your smallest neg- 
lect of duty. In this way only can I 
make of you what you resolve to be — a 
gallant and stainless officer. I will tell 
your captain to watch you and report 
every fault; I will myself observe and 
scrutinize your conduct, and woe to 
you if I find you again walking in 
crooked paths ! I will be stern and im- 
movable. Now, monsieur, you are 
warned, and cannot complain if a vsdld 
tempest bursts over your head ; the 
guilt and the responsibility will be 
yours. Not another word ! Adieu ! ” 

Long after Trenck had left the room, 
the king stood thoughtfully looking 
toward the door through which the 
tall, graceful figure of the young officer 
had disappeared. 

“ A heart of steel, a head of iron,” 
said the king to himself. “ He will be 
very happy, or very wretched. For 
such natures there is no middle way. 
Alas I I fear it had been better for him 
if I had dismissed him, and — ” Fred- 
erick did not complete his sentence ; he 
sighed deeply, and his brow was cloud- 
ed. He stepped to his writing-table 


and took up a large sealed envelope, 
opened and read it carefully. A sad 
smile played upon his lips. “Poor 
Amelia 1 ” said he — “ poor sister I They 
have chosen you to be assistant Abbess 
of Quedlinburg. A miserable alterna- 
tive for the Swedish throne, which was 
in your power 1 Well, I will sign this 
paper.” He took the pen and hastily 
wrote his name upon the diploma. “ If 
she is resolved never to marry, she will 
be one day Abbess of Quedlinburg — 
that is something. Aurora of Konigs- 
mark was content with that, but only 
after she had reached the height of 
earthly grandeur.” • 

Frederick was completely unmanned 
by these painful thoughts. He raised 
his eyes to heaven, and said in a low 
tone : “ Poor human heart I why has 
Fate made you so soft, when you must 
become stone in order to support the 
disappointments and anguish of liffi ? ” 
He stood bowed down for a long time, 
in deep thought ; then suddenly rising 
proudly erect, he exclaimed: “Away 
with such cares I I have no time to 
play the considerate and amiable father 
to my family. My kingly duty and 
service call me with trumpet-tones.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE COUNCIL OP WAK. 

Frederick stepped from the room 
into the adjoining saloon, where his 
ministers and generals were assembled 
for a council of war. His expression 
was calm and clear, and an imposing 
fire and earnestness lighted up his 
eyes. He was again the king and the 
conqueror, and his voice rang out mar- 
tially :• 

“ The days of comfort and repose 
are over ; we have reasoned and diplo- 
matized too long ; we must now move 


102 


BERLIN AND SANS-SODCI; OR, 


and strike. I am surfeited with this 
contest of pen and ink. I am weary 
of Austrian cunning and intrigue. In 
these weighty and important matters I 
will not act alone upon my own con- 
victions ; I will listen to your opinions 
and receive your counsel: I will not 
declare war until you say that an hon-^ 
orable peace is no longer possible. I 
will unsheath the sword only when the 
honor of my throne and of my people 
demands it, and even then with a heavy 
heart; for I know what burdens and 
bitter woes it will bring upon my poor 
land. Let us therefore carefully read, 
weigh, and understand the paper which 
lies upon the table, and fulfil the duties 
which it lays upon us.” 

Frederick stepped to the table and 
seated himself. The generals, the old 
Dessauer, Ziethen, Winterfeld, and the 
king’s favorite, Rothenberg, with the 
ministers and councillor of state, placed 
themselves silently around the table. 
The eyes of all these experienced men, 
accustomed to battle and to victory, 
were steadily fixed upon the king. His 
youthful countenance alone was clear 
and bright; not a shadow was seen 
upon his brow. 

There was a pause — a stillness like 
that which precedes a tempest. Every 
one felt the importance of the moment. 
All these wise and great men knew that 
the young man who stood in their 
midst, with such proud and calm com- 
posure and assurance, held in his hands 
at this moment the fate of Europe ; that 
the scales would fall on that side to 
which his sword was consecrated. The 
king raised his head, and his eyes wan- 
dered searchingly from one to the other 
of the earnest faces which surrounded 
him. 

“You know, messieurs,” said Fred- 
erick, “that Maria Theresa, who calls 
herself Empress of Germany and of 
Rome, still makes war against our ally 
Charles the Seventh. Her general, 


Karl von Lothringen, has triumphec 
over the Bavarian and French army at 
Sempach; and Bavaria, left, by the 
flight of the emperor, without a leader, 
has been compelled to submit to Maria 
Theresa, Queen of Hungary. She has 
allied herself with England, Hanover, 
and Saxony. And these allied powers 
have been victorious over the army of 
our ally. King Louis of France, com- 
manded by Marshal Noailles. These 
successes have made our enemies im- 
perious. They have demanded much ; 
they have resolved to obtain all. Ap- 
parently they are the most powerful. 
Holland has offered money and ships ; 
Sardinia and Saxony have just signed 
the treaty made at Worms by England, 
Austria, and Holland. So they have 
troops, gold, and powerful allies. We 
have nothing but our honor, our swords, 
and our good cause. We are the allies 
of a land poor in itself, and, what is 
still worse, governed by a weak and 
faint-hearted emperor; and of France, 
whose king is the plaything of cour- 
tiers and mistresses. Our adversaries 
know their strength, and are acquaint- 
ed with our weakness. Look, mes- 
sieurs, at this letter of George of Eng- 
land to our godmother, Maria Theresa 
of Hungary ; an accident placed it in 
our hands, or, if you will, a Providence, 
which, without doubt, watches over 
the prosperity of Prussia. Read it, 
messieurs.” 

He handed General Rothenberg a 
paper, which he read with frowning 
brow and scarcely suppressed scorn, 
and then passed it on to Winterfeld. 
The king studied the face of every 
reader, and, the more dark and stormy 
it appeared, the more gay and hapj^y 
was the expression of his countenance. 

He received the letter again with a 
friendly smile from the hands of his 
minister, and pointing to it with his 
finger, he said : “ Have you well con- 
sidered these lines where the king says, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


103 


IH.'idame, wRat is good to take, is also 
good to return ? ’ What think you of 
these words, Prince von Anhalt ? ” 

“ I think,” said the silver-haired old 
warrior, “that we will prove to the 
English king what Frederick of Prus- 
sia once holds cannot be rescued from 
him.” 

“You think, then, that our hands 
are strong enough to hold our posses- 
sions ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty.” 

“ And you, gentlemen ? ” 

“We share the opinion of the 
prince,” 

“You have expressed precisely my 
own views,” cried Frederick, with de- 
light. “ If this is your conclusion, 
messieurs, I rejoice to lay before you 
another document. It was above all 
other things the desire of my heart, as 
long as it was possible, to preserve the 
peace of Germany. I have sacrificed 
my personal inclination and my ambi- 
tion to this aim. I have united the 
German princes for the protection of 
Charles the Seventh. The Frankfort 
union should be a lever to restore free- 
dom to Germany, dignity to the em- 
peror, and peace to Europe. But no 
success has crowned this union; dis- 
cord prevails amongst them. A part 
of our allies have left us, under the 
pretext that France will not pay the 
promised gold. Charles the Seventh is 
flying from place to place, and our 
poor land is groaning under the bur- 
dens of a crippling and exhausting 
war. We must put an end to tliis. In 
such dire need and necessity it is bet- 
ter to die an honorable death than to 
bear disgrace, to live like beggars by 
the grace of our enemies. I have not 
the insolence and courage of cowardice 
so to live. I will die or conquer I I 
will wash out these scornful words of 
the King of England with blood. Si- 
lesia, my Silesia, which I have con- 
quered, and which is mine by right, I 


will hold against all the efibrts of the 
Hungarian queen. Look, now, at this 
document; it is a treaty which I have 
closed with France against Austria, 
and for the protection of the Emperor 
Charles. And now, here is another 
paper. It is a manifesto which Maria 
Theresa has scattered throughout all 
Silesia, in which she declares that she 
no longer considers herself bound by 
the treaty of Breslau, but claims Silesia 
and Glatz as her own. Consequently 
she commands the Silesians to with- 
draw from the protection of Prussia, 
and give their allegiance to their right- 
ful inheritor.” 

“ That is an open breach of con- 
tract,” said one of the generals. 

*“That is contrary to all justice and 
the rights of the people,” cried an- 
other. 

“ That is Austrian politics,” said the 
king, smiling. “ They hold to a solemn 
contract, which was detrimental to 
them, only so long as necessity compels 
it; so soon as an opportunity offers to 
their advantage, they prove faithless. 
They do not care to be considered hon- 
orable, they only desire to be feared, 
and above all, they will bear no equals 
and no rivals in Germany. Maria The- 
resa feels herself strong enough to take 
back this Silesia I won from her, and a 
peace contract is not sacred in her eyes. 
Austria was and is naturally the enemy 
of Prussia, and will never forgive us 
because our father, by the power of his 
genius, made himself a king. Austria 
would gladly see the King of Prussia 
buried in the little Elector of Branden- 
burg, and make herself rich with our 
possessions. Will we suffer that, mesr 
sieurs ? ” 

“ Never ! ” said the generals, and the 
fire of battle flashed in their eyes. 

“The Queen of Hungary has com- 
manded her troops to enter Glatz. 
Shall we wait tiU this offence is repeat 
ed?” 


BERLIN AND SANS^SOUCI ; OR, 


:o4 

“If the Austrian troops have made 
us a visit, politeness requires that we 
should return the call,’’ said Ziethen, 
with a dry laugh. 

“ If the Queen of Hungary has sent 
a manifesto to Silesia, we must, above 
all other things, answer this manifes- 
to,” said the councillor of state. 

“ Maria Theresa is so bold and inso- 
lent because Bellona is a woman, con- 
sequently her sister ; but we wUl prove 
to her that Dame Bellona will rather 
ally herself with gallant men than with 
sentimental women,” said General Roth- 
enberg. 

“Now, messieurs, what say you? 
shall we have peace or war ? ” 

“War, war!” cried they all in one 
breath, and with one movement. * 

The king raised himself from his 
chair, and his eagle eye was dazzling. 

“ The decisive word is spoken,” said 
he, solemnly. “ Let it be as you say ! 
We will have war I Prepare yourself, 
then, generals, to return the visit of 
Austria. Ziethen tells us that this is 
a courtly duty. Our councillor wiU 
write the answer to Maria Theresa’s 
manifesto. The Austrians have visited 
us in Glatz, we will return their call in 
Prague. Rothenberg thinks that Dame 
Bellona would incline to our arms 
rather than to those of the queen, so 
we will seek to win her by tender em- 
braces. I think the goddess would 
favor our Prince of Anhalt, they have 
often fought side by side. Up, then, 
prince, to battle and to love’s sweet 
courtesies with your old mistress Bel- 
lona 1 Up, my friends, one and all ! 
the days of peace are over. We will 
have war, and may God grant His 
blessing to our j> ist cause ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE CLOISTER OP CAMENS. 

It was a still, lovely morning. The 
sun gilded the lofty, giant mountain 
and irradiated its snow-crowned top 
with shifting and many-colored light ; 
it appeared like a giant lily, luminous 
and odorous. The air was so clear and 
pure, that even in the far distance this 
range of mountains looked grahd and 
sublime. The spectator was deluded 
by the hope of reaching their green 
and smiling summits in a few moments. 
In their majestic and sunny beauty they 
seemed to beckon and to lure you on. 
Even those who had been for a long 
time accustomed to this enchanting 
region, would have been impressed to- 
day with its exalted beauty. Grand 
old Nature is a woman, and has her 
feminine peculiarities; she rejoices in 
her l)eauxjours^ even as other women. 

The landscape spread out at the feet 
of those two monks now walking in 
silent contemplation on the platform 
before the Cloister of Camens, had 
truly to-day her teau jour^ and spark- 
led and glittered in undisturbed re- 
pose. 

“ How beautiful is the world I ” said 
one, folding his hands piously, and 
gazing up into the valley ; “ created by 
wisdom and love, adapted to our ne- 
cessities and enjoyments, to a life well- 
pleasing to God. Look now, brother, 
at the imposing majesty of that moun- 
tain, and at the lovely, smiling valley 
which lies at its feet. There, in the 
little village of Camens, this busy 
world is in motion, and from the city 
of Frankenstein I distinguish the 
sound of the bells calling to early 
morning prayer.” 

“ That is, perhaps, the alarm-bell,” 
said the second monk ; “ the wind is 
against us; we could not hear the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


105 


loiind of the small bells. I fear that is 
the alarm-bell.” 

“Why should the Frankensteiners 
sound the alarm-bell, Brother Tobias ? ” 
said his companion, with a soft, incred- 
alous smile 

“ Why, Brother Anastasius, because 
the Austrians have possibly sent their 
advance guard to Frankenstein. The 
Frankensteiners have sworn allegiance 
to the King of Prussia, and probably 
desire to keep this oath ; they sound 
the alarm, therefore, to call the lusty 
burghers to arms.” 

“ And do you truly believe that the 
Austrians are so near us. Brother To- 
bias ? ” 

“ I do not believe — I know it. Be- 
fore three days General Count Wallis 
will enter our cloister with his staff, 
and, in the name of Maria Theresa, 
command us to take the oath.” 

“ You can never forget that we were 
once Austrians, Brother Tobias, Your 
eyes sparkle when you think that the 
Austrians are coming, and you forget 
that his excellency the Abbot Stusche 
is, with his whole heart, devoted to 
the Kin g of Prussia, and that he will 
never again subject himself to Austrian 
rule.” 

“ He will be forced to it, Brother 
Anastasius. The star of the Prussian 
king has declined ; his war triumphs 
are at an end; God has turned away 
His face from him, because he is not a 
true Christian ; he is, indeed, a heathen 
and an infidel.” 

“ Still, still. Brother Tobias ! If the 
abbot heard you, he would punish you 
with twenty pater-nosters^ and you 
know very well that praying is not the 
business of your choice.” 

“ It is true ; I am fonder of war and 
politics. I can never forget that in my 
youth I was a brave soldier, and have 
more than once shed my blood for Aus- 
tria. You will understand now why 
I am an Austiian. I declare to you, I 


would cheerfully say pater-nost&r» 
eveiy day, if we could be once more 
subject to Austria.” 

“ Well, happily, there is no hope of 
that.” 

‘‘ Happily, there is great hope of it. 
You know nothing about it. You read 
your holy prayers, you study your 
learned books, and take but little inter- 
est in the outward world. I know all, 
hear all, take part in all. I study poli- 
tics and the world’s history, as dili- 
gently as you study the old Fathers.” 

“Well, Brother Tobias, instruct me 
a little in your studies. You are right ; 
I care but little for these things, and I 
am heartily glad of it. It grieves me 
to hear of the wrath and contentions 
of men. God sent us into the world 
to live in peace and love with one an- 
other.” 

“If that be so, why has God per- 
mitted us to discover gunpowder?” 
said Brother Tobias, whistling merrily, 
“I say to you that by the power of 
gunpowder and the naked sword, Si- 
lesia will soon be in possession of the 
faithful believer Maria Theresa. Is it 
not manifest that God is with her? 
The devil in the beginning, with the 
help of the Prussian king and his wild 
army, did seem more powerful than 
God Himself? Only think that the 
gates of Breslau were opened by a 
box on the ear I that the year before, 
Prague was taken almost without a 
blow! It seemed indeed like child’s 
play. Frederick was in possession of 
almost the whole of Bohemia, but like 
a besieged and suffering garrison he 
was obliged to creep away. God sent 
an enemy against him who is more 
powerful than all mortal foes, his army 
was perishing with hunger. There is 
no difference between the bravest sol- 
dier and the little maiden when they 
fall into the hands of this adversary 
Hunger drove the victorious King of 
Prussia out of Bohemia ; hunger 


106 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


him abandon Silesia and seek refuge in 
Berlin * Ob, I assure you, we will soon 
cease to be Prussians. While King 
Frederick is refreshing and amusing 
himself in Berlin, the Austrians have 
entered Glatz, and bring us greetings 
from our gracious queen, Maria The- 
resa.” 

“If the King of Prussia hears of 
these greetings, he 'will answer them 
by cannon-balls I ” 

“ Did I not tell you that Frederick 
of Prussia was idling away in Berlin, 
and recovering from his disastrous 
campaign in Bohemia ? The Austrians 
will have taken possession of all Upper 
Silesia before the king and his soldiers 
have satisfied their hunger. I tell you, 
in a few days they will be with us.” 

“ God forbid ! ” said Brother Anasta- 
sius ; “ then will the torch of war burn 
anew, and misfortune and misery will 
reign again throughout Silesia.” 

“ Yes, that is true. I will tell you 
another piece of news, which I heard 
yesterday in Frankenstein; it is said 
that the King of Prussia has quietly 
left Berlin and gone himself into Si- 
lesia to look after the Austrians. 
Would it not be charming if Freder- 
ick should make our cloister a visit, 
just as General Count Wallis and his 
troops entered Camens ? ” 

“And you would call that charm- 
ing ? ” said Brother Anastasius, with a 
reproachful look. 

“ Yes, most assuredly ; the king 
would be taken prisoner, and the war 
would be at an end. You may rest 
assured the Austiians would not give 
the king his liberty till he had yielded 
up Silesia for ransom.” 

“ May God be gracious, and guard 
us from war and pestilence I ” mur- 
Diured Brother Anastasius, folding his 
hands piously in prayer. 

The thrice-repeated stroke of the 


♦ Preues’s “ History of Frederick the Great.” 


bell in the cloister inten-upted his de- 
votions, and the full, round face ol 
Brother Tobias glowed with pleasing 
anticipations. 

“They ring for breakfast. Brother 
Anastasius,” said he; “let us hasten 
before Brother Baptist, who is ever the 
first at the table, appropriates the best 
morsels and lays them on his plate. 
Come, come, brother; after breakfast 
we will go into the garden and water 
our flowers. We have a lovely day 
and ample time — it will be three hours 
before mass.” 

“ Come, then, brother, and may your 
dangerous prophecies and expectations 
not be fulfilled!” 

The two monks stepped into the 
cloister, and a deep and unbroken si- 
lence reigned around, interrupted only 
by the sweet songs of the birds and the 
light movements of their wings. The 
building was in the noble style of the 
middle ages, and stood out in grand 
and harmonious proportions against 
the deep blue of the horizon. 

It was, without doubt, to observe the 
beauty and grandeur of this structure, 
that two travellers who had toiled 
slowly up the path leading from the 
village of Camens, now paused and 
looked with wondering glances at the 
cloister. 

“There must be a splendid view 
from the tower,” said the oldest and 
smaller of the travellers to his tall and 
slender companion, who was gazing 
with rapture at the enchanting land- 
scape. 

“ It must indeed be a glorious pros- 
pect,” he rejAied, with a respectful 
bow. 

“It affords a splendid opportunity 
to look far and wide over the land, and 
to see if the Austrian troops are really 
on the march,” said the other, with a 
stern and somewhat hasty tone. “ Let 
us enter and ascend the tower.” 

The youth bowed silently, and fot 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


.owed, at some little distance, the hasty 
steps of his companion. They reached 
the platform, and stood for a moment 
to recover breath. 

“ We have reached the summit — if 
we were only safely down again ! ” 

“We can certainly descend; the 
question is, under what circumstan- 
ces ? ” 

“ You mean, whether free or as pris- 
oners ? Well, I see no danger; we 
are completely disguised, and no one 
knows me here. The Abbot Amandus 
is dead, and the new abbot is unknown 
to me. Let us make haste; ring the 
bell.” 

The youth was in the act of obey- 
ing, when suddenly a voice cried out : 
“Don’t sound the bell — I will come 
myself and open the door.” 

A man had been standing at the up- 
per story, by an open window, and 
heard the conversation of the two trav- 
ellers. He dr^w in his head hastily 
and disappeared. 

“ It seems I am not so unknown as I 
supposed,” said the smaller of the two 
gentlemen, with a quiet smile. 

“Who knows whether these monks 
are reliable and true ? ” whispered the 
other. 

“You certainly would not doubt 
these exalted servants of God? I, for 
my part, shall believe in their sincerity 
till they convince me of the contrary. 
Ah I the door is opened.” 

The small door was indeed open, and 
a monk came out, and hastily di’ew 
near to the two travellers. 

“I am the Abbot Tobias Stusche; I 
am also a man wholly devoted to the 
King of Prussia, though he does not 
know me.” 

The abbot laid such a peculiar ex- 
pression upon these last words, that 
the strangers were forced to remirk 
them. 

“ Do you not know the King of Prus- 
gia ? ” said the elder, fixing his eagle eye 


107 

upon the kindly and friendly face of the 
abbot. 

“ I know the king when he does not 
wish to be incognito^'' said the abbot, 
with a smile. 

“ If the king were here, would you 
counsel him to remain incognito ? ” 

“ I would counsel that ; some among 
my monks are Austrians in sympathy, 
and I hear the Austrians are at hand.” 

• “ My object is to look out from your 
town after the Austrians. Let us en- 
ter ; show us the way.” 

The abbot said nothing, entered the 
cloister hastily, and cast a searching 
glance in every direction. 

“They are all yet in the refectory, 
and the windows open upon the gar- 
den. But no — there is Brother Anas- 
tasius.” 

It was truly Brother Anastasius, who 
stood at the window, and regarded 
them with astonished and sympathetic 
glances. The abbot nodded to him 
and laid his fore-finger lightly upon 
his lips; he then hastily crossed the 
threshold of the little door. 

The stranger laid his hand upon the 
shoulder of the abbot, and said sternly, 
“Did you not give a sign to this 
monk ? ” 

“ Yes, the sign of silence,” answered 
the abbot ; and turning back, he 
looked calmly upon the strangers. 

“Let us go onward.” And with a 
firm step they entered the cloister. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE KING AND THE ABBOT. 

Silently they passed through the 
lofty halls and corridors, which re- 
sounded with the steps of the strangers, 
and reached the room appropriated to 
the abbot. As they entered, and the 
door closed behind them, shutting 


108 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUOI ; OR, 


them off from the seemg and listening 
world, the face of the abbot assumed 
an expression of the most profound rev- 
erence and emotion. He crossed his 
hands over his breast, and bowing pro- 
foundly, he said : “ Will your majesty 
allow me from the depths my soul to 
welcome you ? In the rooms of the 
Abbot Tobias Stusche, King Frederick 
need not preserve his incognito. Blessed 
be your entrance into my house, and 
may your departure also be blessed I ” 

The king smiled. “ This blessed 
conclusion, I suppose, depends entirely 
upon your excellency. I really cannot 
say what danger threatens us. It cer- 
tainly was not my intention to wander 
here : to stretch out my reconnoissance 
to such a distance. But what would 
you, sir abbot ? lam not only a king 
and soldier, but I am a man, with 
eye and heart open to the beauties of 
nature, and I worship God in His 
works of creation. Your cloister en- 
ticed me with its beauty. In place of 
mounting my horse and riding back 
from Frankenstein, I was lured hither 
to admire your building and enjoy the 
splendid prospect from your town. 
Allow me to rest awhile; give me a 
glass of wine, and then we will mount 
the tower.” 

There was so much of calm, bold cour- 
age, so much of proud self-conscious- 
ness in the beaiing of the king, that 
the poor, anxious abbot could not find 
courage to express his apprehensions. 
He turned and looked imploringly at 
the companion of the king, who was 
no other than the young officer of the 
life-guard, Frederick von Trenck. The 
youth seemed to share fully the care- 
less indifference of his royal master ; 
his face was smiling, and he did not 
seem to understand the meaning looks 
of the abbot. 

“ Will your majesty allow me, and 
me alone, to have the honor of serving 
you?” said his excellency. “I am 


jealous of the great happiness >Nhich 
Providence has accorded me, and 1 will 
not divide it with another, not even 
with my monks.” 

Frederick laughed heartily. “ Con- 
fess, your excellency, that you dare not 
trust your monks. You do not know 
that they are as good Prussians as I 
have happily found you to be? Go, 
then, if it is agreeable to you, and with 
your own pious hands bring me a 
glass of wine, I need not say good 
wine — you cloistered men understand 
that.” 

Frederick leaned back comfortably 
in his arm-chair and conversed cheer- 
fully, even merrily, with his young ad- 
jutant and the worthy abbot, who 
hastened here and there, and drew 
from closets and hiding-places wine, 
fruit, and other rich viands. The 
cloistered stillness, the unbroken quiet 
which surrounded him, were pleasing 
to the king ; his features were illumina- 
ted with that soft and at the same time 
imposing smile which played but sel- 
dom upon his lips, but which, like the 
sun, when it appeared, filled all hearts 
with light and gladness. Several 
hours passed — ^hours which the king 
did not seem to observe, but the heart 
of the poor abbot was trembling with 
apprehension. 

“ And now,” said the king, “ I am 
rested, refreshed, and strengthened. 
Will your excellency conduct me to the 
tower ? then I will return to Franken- 
stein.” 

“ There is happily a way to the tower 
for my use alone,” said the abbot, 
“ where we are certain to be met by no 
one. I demand pardon, sire, the way 
is dark and winding, and we must 
niount many small steps.” 

“ Well, abbot, it resembles the way to 
eternal life; from the power of darkness 
to light; from the path of sin and folly 
to that of knowledge and true wisdom. 
I will seek after this knowledge fror» 


Fi-ederick leaned back in hie arm-chair and convereed cheerfully, even merrily, with hie 
youn.ir adjutant and tlie worthy abbot. 


p. lOS. 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


iOO 


your tower, worthy abbot. Have you 
my field-glass, Trenck ? ” 

The adjutant bowed, silently ; they 
passed through the corridor and mount- 
ed the steps, reaching at last "the plat- 
form at the top of the tower. 

A wondrous prospect burst upon 
their view ; the horizon seemed bounded 
by majestic mountains of porphyry — 
this third element or place of deposit 
of the enchanting primeval earth, out 
of which mighty but formless mass our 
living, breathing, and beautiful world 
sprang into creation, and the stars sang 
together for joy. In the midst of these 
mountains stood “ the Giant,” with his 
snow-crowned point, like the great 
finger of God, reaching up into the 
heavens, and contrasting strangely with 
the lofty but round green summits of 
the range, now gilded by the morning 
sun, and sparkling in changing rays of 
light. 

The king looked upon this picture 
with rapture; an expression of prayer 
and praise was written upon his face. 
But with the proud reserve which ever 
belongs to those who, by exalted rank 
or genius, are isolated from other men, 
with the shrinking of a great soul, the 
king would allow no one to witness his 
emotion. He wished to be alone, alone 
with Nature and Nature’s God ; he dis- 
missed the abbot and his adjutant, and 
commanded them to wait in the rooms 
below for him. And now, convinced 
that no one saw or heard him, the king 
gave himself up wholly io the exalted 
and pious feelings which agitated his 
soul. With glistening eyes he gazed 
upon the enchanting landscape, which 
glowed and shimmered in the dazzling 
sunshine. 

“ God, God ! ” said he, in low tones ; 
^ who can doubt that He is, and that 
He is from everlasting to everlasting ? 
Who, that looks upon the beauty, the 
harmony, and order of creation, can 
doubt of His wisdom, and that His 


goodness is over all His woikr?* O 
my God, I worship you in your works 
of creation and providence, and I bow 
my head in adoration at the footstool 
of your divine Majesty. Why cannot 
men be content with this great, mysteri- 
ous, exalted, and ever-during church, 
with which God has surrounded them ? 
Why can they not worship in Nature’s 
great cathedral ? Why do they confine 
themselves to churches of biick and 
mortar, the work of men’s hands, and 
listen to their hypocritical priests, ra- 
ther than listen to and worship God in 
His beautiful world? They cry out 
against me and call me an infidel, but 
my heart is full of love and faith in my 
Creator, and I worship Him, not in 
priestly words, but in the depths of my 
soul. ” 

And now Frederick cast a smiling 
greeting to the lovely phenomena 
which lay at his feet. His thoughts 
had been with God, and his glance up- 
ward ; but now his eyes wandered over 
the perfumed and blooming valley 
which lay in the depths between the 
mountains ; he numbered the little 
cities and villages, with their red roofs 
and graceful church-spires ; he admired 
the straw-thatched huts upon whose 
highest points the stork had built her 
nest, and stood by it in observant and 
majestic composure. 

“ This is all mine ; I won it with my 
spear and bow. It is mine, and I will 
never yield it up. I will prove to 
Maria Theresa that what was good to 
take is Twt good to restore. No, no I 
Silesia is mine ; my honor, my pride, 
and my fame demand it. I will never 
give it up. I will defend it with rivers 
of blood, yes, with my own heart’s 
blood ! ” 

He took his glass and looked again 
over the luxurious valley ; he started 
and fixed his glass steadily upon one 

* The king’s own words. “ (Buvres posthaniei, 
page 162 . 


ilO 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


point. In the midst of the smiling 
meadows through which the highway 
wound like a graceful stream, he saw a 
curious, glittering, moving mass. At 
the first glance it looked like a crowd 
of creeping ants ; it soon, however, as- 
sumed larger proportions, and, at last, 
approaching ever nearer, the forms of 
men could be distinctly seen, and now 
he recognized a column of marching 
soldiers. 

“Austrians,” said the king, with 
calm composure. He turned his glass 
in the other direction, where a road 
led into the valley ; this path was also 
filled with soldiers, who, by rapid 
marches, were approaching the cloister. 
“ Without doubt they know that I am 
here,” said the king; “they have 
learned this in the village, and have 
come to take me prisoner. Eh Men^ 
nous nerronsP 

So saying, Frederick put his glass in 
his pocket, descended the step, and with 
cool indifference entered the room of 
the abbot. 

“ Messieurs,” said he, laughing mer- 
rily, as he looked at the good-natured 
and unsuspicious faces of the worthy 
abbot and the young officer, “we must 
decide upon some plan of defence, for 
the Austrians drew near on every side 
of the cloister.” 

“ Oh, my prophetic soul ! ” murmured 
the abbot, folding his hands in prayer. 

Trenck rushed to the window and 
looked searchingly abroad. At this 
moment a loud knock was heard upon 
the door, and an anxious voice called 
to the abbot. 

“ All is lost, the Austrians are already 
here ! ” cried Tobias Stusche, wringing 
his hands despairingly. • 

“No!” said the king, “ they cannot 
yet have reached the cloister, and that 
is not the voice of a soldier who com- 
mands, but that of a monk who prays, 
and is almost dead with terror ; let us 
oxien the door.” 


“ O my God, your majesty ! would 
you betray yourself?” cried Stusche, 
and forgetting all etiquette, he rushed 
to the king, laid his hand upon his 
arm and held him back. 

“ No,” said the king, “ I will not be- 
tray myself, neither will I conceal my- 
self. I will meet my fate with my face 
to the foe.” 

“ Open, open, for God’s sake 1 ” cried 
the voice without. 

“ He prays in God’s name,” said the 
king. “I will open the door.” He 
crossed the room and drew back the 
bolt. 

And now, the pale and anxious face 
of Brother Anastasius appeared. He 
entered hastily, closed and fastened the 
door. 

“Pardon,” said he, trembling and 
breathless — “pardon that I have dared 
to enter. The danger is great ; the 
Austrians surround the cloister.” 

“ Are they already here ? ” said the 
king. 

“ No ; but they have sent a courier, 
who commands us immediately to open 
all the doors and give entrance to the 
soldiers of Maria Theresa.” 

“ Have they given a reason for this 
command ? ” 

“ Yes ; they say they know assuredly 
that the King of Prussia is concealed 
here, and they come to search the 
cloister.” 

“Have you not said to them, that 
we are not only the servants of God, 
but the servants of the King of Prus- 
sia ? Have you not said to them that 
the doors of our cloister can only open 
to Prussian troops ? ” 

“Yes, your excellency. I told the 
soldier all this, but he laughed, and 
said the pandours uf Colonel von 
Trenck knew how to obtain an en- 
trance.” 

“Ah! it is Trenck, with his pan- 
dours,” cried the king, casting a search- 
ing glance at Frederick von Trenck. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


who stood opposite, witli pale and 
tightly-compressed lips; he met the 
eye of the king boldly, however, and 
looked him steadily in the face. 

“ Is Colonel Trenck your relation ? ” 
said the king, hastily. 

“ Yes, your majesty ; he is my father’s 
brother’s son,” said the young man, 
proudly. 

“ Ah ! I see you have a clear con- 
science,” said the king, laying his hand 
smilingly upon the youth’s shoulder. 
“But tell me, worthy abbot, do you 
know any way to rescue us from this 
mouse-trap ? ” 

Tobias did not reply immediately ; 
he stood thoughtfully with his arms 
folded, then raised his head quickly, 
as if he had come to some bold con- 
clusion ; energy and purpose were writ- 
ten in his face. “Will your majesty 
make use of the means which I dare 
to offer you ? ” 

“ Yes, if they are not unworthy. I 
owe it to my people not to lay upon 
them the burden of my ransom.” 

“ Then I hope, with God’s help, to 
serve your majesty.” He turned to the 
monk, and said, with a proud, com- 
manding tone : “ Brother Anastasius, 
listen to my commands. Go immedi- 
ately to Messnerj order him in my 
name to call all the brothers to high 
mass in the choir of the church; 
threaten him with my wrath and the 
severest punishment, if he dares to 
speak to one of the brethren. I will 
prove my monks, and see if they recog- 
nize that obedience is the first duty in 
a cloister.” 

While Messner assembles the 
priests, shall the bell sound for mass ? ” 

“ Hasten, Brother Anastasius ; in 
ten minutes we must be all in the 
church.” 

“And you expect to save me by 
celebrating high mass ? ” said Freder- 
ick, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Yes, sire, I expect it. Will your 


111 

majesty graciously accompany me to 
my dressing-room ? ” 


CHAPTER XH. 

THE UNKNOWN ABBOT. 

The bell continued to sound, and its 
silver tones echoed in the lofty halls 
and corridors, through which the 
priests, in their superb vestments and 
holy orders, passed onward to the 
church. Surprise and wonder were 
written upon every face ; curious ques- 
tions were burning upon every lip, re- 
strained, however, by the ^trong habit 
of obedience. The abbot had com- 
manded that not one word should be 
exchanged between the brethren. The 
abbot must be obeyed, though the 
monks might die of curiosity. Silent- 
ly they entered the church. And now 
the bell ceased to toll, and the grand 
old organ filled the church with a rich 
stream of harmony. Suddenly the 
notes were soft and touching, and the 
strong, full voices of men rose high 
above them. 

While the organ swelled, and the 
church resounded with songs of prayer 
and praise, the Abbot Tobias Stusche 
entered the great door. But this time 
he was not, as usual, alone. Amother 
abbot, in the richly-embroidered habili- 
ments of a fete day, stood by his side. 
No one had ever seen this abbot. He 
was wholly unknown. 

Every eye was turned upon him 
every one was struck with the com- 
manding and noble countenance, with 
the imposing brow and luminous eye, 
which cast searching and threatening 
glances in every direction. All felt 
that something strange, unheard of, 
was passing in their midst. They 
knew this stranger, glowing with 
youth, beauty, and majesty, was no 
common priest, no humble brother. 


112 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR. 


Hie command to strict silence had 
been given, and implicit obedience is 
the first duty of the cloister. So they 
were silent, sang, and prayed; while 
Tobias Stusche, with the strange abbot, 
swept slowly and solemnly through the 
aisles up to the altar. They both fell 
upon their knees and folded their 
hands in silent prayer. 

Again the organ swelled, and the 
voices of the choristers rose up in 
adoration and praise; but every eye 
and every thought were fixed upon the 
strange abbot kneeling before the high 
altar, and wrestling with God in prayer. 
And now the organ was silent, and the 
low prayers^ began. The monks mur- 
mured mechanically the accustomed 
words ; nothing was heard but sighs of 
penitence and trembling petitions, which 
seemed to fade and die away amongst 
the lofty pillars of the cathedral. 

Suddenly a loud noise was heard 
without, the sound of pistols and 
threatening voices demanding admit- 
tance. No one regarded this. The 
church doors were violently thrown 
open, and wild, rude forms, sunbrowmed 
and threatening faces appeared. For 
one moment noisy tumult and outcry 
filled the church, but it was silenced 
by the holy service, now celebrated by 
these kneeling, praying monks, who 
held their beads in their hands, and 
gave no glance, in token of interest or 
consciousness, toward the wild men 
who had so insolently interrupted the 
worship of God. The soldiers bowed 
their heads humbly upon their breasts, 
and prayed for pardon and grace. 
This holy duty being fulfilled, they re- 
membered their worldly calling, and 
commenced to search the church for 
the King of Prussia, whom they be- 
lieved to be hidden there. The clang 
of spurs and heavy steps resounded 
through the aisles, and completely 
drowned the prayers and sighs of the 
monks, who, kneeling upon their stools, 


seemed to have no eye or thought for 
any thing but the solemn service in 
which they were engaged. 

The pandours, in their dark, artistic 
costumes, with the red mantle fastened 
to their shoulders, swarmed through 
the church, and with flashing eyes and 
scarcely suppressed curses searched in 
every niche and behind every pillar foi 
Frederick of Prussia. How often did 
these wild forms pass by the two ab 
bots, who were still kneeling, immova 
ble in rapturous meditation, before 
the high altar 1 How often did their 
swords strike upon the floor behind 
them, and even fasten in the vestment 
of the strange abbot, who, with closed 
eyes and head bowed down upon his 
breast, had no knowledge of their pres- 
ence ! 

The prayers had continued much 
longer than usual, and yet the abbot 
did not pronounce the benediction ! 
And now he did indeed give a sign, 
but not the one expected. He rose 
fi’om his knees, but did not leave the 
church ; with his companion, he mount- 
ed the steps to the altar, to draw near 
to the holy crucifix and bless the host. 
He nodded to the choir, and again the 
organ and the choristers filled the 
church with melody. 

This was something so extraordinary 
that the monks turned pale, and ques- 
tioned their consciences anxiously. 
Had they not committed some great 
crime, for which their stern abbot was 
resolved to punish them with everlast- 
ing prayer and penitence ? The pan- 
dours knew nothing of this double 
mass. They had now searched the 
whole church, and as the king was not 
to be found, they rushed out in order 
to search the cells, and, indeed, every 
corner of the cloister. The service still 
continued; the unknown abbot stood 
before the high altar, while Abbot 
Stusche took the host and held it up 
before the kneeling monks. 


113 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


At this moment a wild cry of tri- 
amph was heard without ; then curses 
and loud laughter. The monks were 
bowed down before the host, and did 
not seem to hear the tumult. They 
sang and prayed, and now the outcry 
and noise of strife was hushed, and 
nothing was heard but the faint and 
dying tones of the organ. The pan- 
dours had left the cloister ; they had 
found the adjutant of the king and 
borne him off as a rich spoil to their 
commander, Colonel von Trenck. 

The soldiers were gone, it was there- 
fore not necessary to continue the wor- 
ship of God. Tobias Stusche repeated 
a pater-noster^ gave his hand to the 
unknown abbot, and they turned to 
leave the church. As they slowly and 
majestically swept through the aisles, 
the monks bowed their heads in rever- 
ence ; the organ breathed its last grand 
accord, and the glorious sun threw a 
beckoning love-greeting through the 
lofty windows of painted glass. It 
was a striking and solemn scene, and 
the unknown abbot seemed strangely 
impressed. He paused at the door and 
turned once more, and his glance wan- 
dered slowly over the church. 

One hour later the heavy state-coach 
of the Abbot of Clostenberg rolled 
down from Camens. In the coach sat 
Tobias Stusche with the unknown ab- 
bot. They took the road to Franken- 
stein. Not far from the gate the car- 
riage stopped, and to the amazement 
of the coachman, no abbot, but a sol- 
dier clad in the well-known Prussian 
uniform, descended. After leaving the 
coach, he turned again and bowed to 
the worthy Abbot Stusche. 

“ I will never forget this bold and 
noble act of your excellency,” said the 
king, giving his hand to the abbot. 

“ You and your cloister may at all 
times count upon my special favor. 
But for your aid, I should this day 
have been betrayed into a most unwor- 
8 


thy and shameful imprisonment. The 
first rich abbey which is vacant I will 
give to you, and then in all future time 
I will confirm the choice of abbot, 
which the monks themselves shall 
make.” * 

“ O my God ! ” exclaimed the abbot, 
“ how rarely must your majesty have 
met with honest and faithful men, if 
you reward so richly a simple and 
most natural act of love I ” 

“ Faithful hearts are rare,” said the 
king. “I have met this blue -eyed 
daughter of Heaven but seldom upon 
my path, and it is perhaps for this rea- 
son that her grandeur and her beauty 
are so enchanting to me. Farewell, sir 
abbot, and greet the brother Anastasiui> 
for me.” 

Will not your majesty allow me to 
accompany you to the city ? ” 

“ No, it is better that I go on foot. 
In a quarter of an hour, I shall be 
there ; my carriage and my guard 
await me, and I wish no one to be ac- 
quainted with the adventures of this 
day. It remains a secret between us 
for the present.” 

Frederick greeted him once more, 
and then stepped lightly on toward the 
city. The coach of the abbot returned 
slowly to the cloister. 

The king had advanced but a short 
distance, when the sound of an ap- 
proaching horse met his ear. He stood 


♦ In gratitude for this service, the king gave the 
rich Abbey of Sentus to Stusche, and kept up with 
him always the kindest interconrse. There are 
letters still preserved written by the king him- 
self to the abbot. Ailed with expressions of heart- 
felt kindness and favor. Frederick sent him from 
Meissen a beautiful set of porcelain, and splendid 
stuff for pontiAcal robes, and rare champagne 
wine. While in Breslau, he invited him twice to. 
visit him. Soon after the close of the Seven Years’ 
War, Stusche died. The king sent a royal present , 
to the cloister, with a request that on the birthday 
of the abbot a solemn mass should be celebrated.. 
Some years later, Frederick stopped at Camens,. 
and told the abbot to commission the Arst monk, 
who died to bear his loving greeting to the good' 
Abbot Stusche in Paradise.”— (See llodenbcck.) 


[14 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


still and looked down the highway. 
This time the Austrian imiform did not 
meet his eye ; he recognized in the dis- 
tance the Prussian colors, and as the 
horse approached nearer, he marked 
the uniform of a young officer of his 
life-guard. Before Frederick found 
time for surprise, the rider had reached 
him, checked his horse with a strong 
hand, sprang from the saddle, bowed 
profoundly before the king, and 
reached him the reins. 

“Will not your majesty do me the 
favor to mount my horse ? ” said 
Trenck, calm and unembarrassed, and 
without alluding by word or smile to 
the adventure of the day. 

The king looked at him searchingly. 
“ From whence come you ? ” said he 
sternly. 

“From Glatz, where the pandours 
carried me as a prisoner, and delivered 
me to Colonel Trenck.” 

“ You were then a prisoner, and were 
released without ransom ? ” 

“ Colonel Trenck laughed merrily 
when his pandours delivered me to him, 
and declared I was the King of Prus- 
sia.” 

“ Colonel Trenck knows you ? ” 

“ Sire, I saw him often in my father’s 
house.” 

“ Go on : he recognized you, then ? ” 

“ He knew me, and said laughingly, 
he had sent to take Frederick, King of 
Prussia, and not Frederick von Trenck, 
prisoner. I was free, I might go where 
I wished, and as I could not go on foot, 
he presented me with one of his best 
horses; and now I am here, will not 
your majesty do me the honor to mount 
this horse ? ” 

“ I mount no Austrian horse,” said 
the king in a harsh tone. 

The young officer fixed his glance 
for one moment, with an expression of 
regret, upon the proud and noble ani- 
mal, who with dilating nostrils, flash- 
ing eyes, and impatient stamping of the 


fore-feet, stood by his side, arching 
gracefully his finely-formed and mus- 
cular throat. But this expression of 
regret soon vanished. He let go the 
bridle and bowing to the king he said, 
“ I am at your majesty’s command.” 

The king glanced backward at the 
noble steed, who, slender and graceful 
and swift as a gazelle, was in a moment 
so far distant as to be no larger than a 
flying eagle. He then advanced tow- 
ard Frankenstein; both were silent; 
neither gave another thought to the 
gallant horse, who, riderless and guided 
by instinct alone, was far on the way to 
Glatz. Once before they reached the 
city, the king turned and fixed his eyes 
upon the open, youthful, and handsome 
face of Trenck. 

“ I believe it w^ould be better for you 
if this colonel of pandours were not 
your relation,” said the king, thought- 
fully ; “ there can no good come of you 
from this source, but only evil.” 

Frederick von Trenck turned pale. 
“Does your majesty command that I 
shall change my name ? ” 

“No,” said the king after a mo- 
ment’s reflection. “ The name is a holy 
inheritance which is handed down 
from our fathers, and it should not be 
lightly cast away. But be careful, be 
careful 'in every particular. Under- 
stand my words, and think upon my 
warning, Baron von Trenck.” 


CHAPTER XHI. 

THE LEVEE OF A DANCE K. 

In Behren Street, which was at that 
time one of the most recherche and 
beautiful streets of Berlin, order and 
quiet generally reigned. To-day, how- 
ever, an extraordinary activity pre- 
vailed in this aristocratic locality 


FEEDERICK THE GREAT HIS FRIENDS. 


115 


splendid equipages and gallant riders, 
followed by their attendants, dashed 
oy ; all seemed to have the same ob- 
ject ; all drew up before the large and 
elegant mansion which had for some 
time been the centre of attraction to all 
the courtly cavaliers of the Prussian 
capital. Some of the royal princes, the 
young Duke of Wurtemberg, counts, 
ambassadors, and generals, were to-day 
entreating an audience. 

Who dwelt in this house ? What dis- 
tinguished person was honored by all 
these marks of consideration ? Why 
was every face thoughtful and earnest ? 
Was this a funeral, and was this general 
gloom the expression of the heart’s 
despair at the thought of the loved and 
lost ? Perhaps the case was not quite 
80 hopeless. It might be that a prince 
or other eminent person was danger- 
ously ill I “ It must be a man,” as no 
* woman was seen in this grand caval- 
cade. But how account for those rare 
and perfumed flowers? Does a man 
visit his sick friend with bouquets of 
roses and violets and orange-blossoms ? 
with rare and costly southern fruits 
in baskets of gold and silver? This 
would indeed be a strange custom ! 

But no I In this house dwelt neither 
prince nor statesman, only a woman. 
How strange that only men were there 
to manifest their sympathy I In this 
pitiful and dreary world a woman who 
has made a name for herself by her own 
beauty and talent is never acknowl- 
edged by other women. Those who 
owe their rank to their fathers and 
husbands, are proud of this accidental 
favor of fate ; they consider themselves 
as the chosen accomplices and judges 
of morals and virtue, and cast out from 
their circles all those who dare to ele- 
vate themselves above mediocrity. In 
this house dwelt an artiste — the wor- 
shipped prima donna, the Signora Bar- 
Oarina I 

Barbarina I ah ! that was an adored 


and a hated name. The women spoke 
of her with frowning brows and con- 
temptuous laughter, the men with 
flashing eyes and boundless enthusiasm ; 
the one despised and abhorred her, even 
as the other exalted and adored her. 
And truly both had cause: the wo- 
men hated her because she stole from 
them the eyes and hearts of their lov- 
ers and husbands ; the men worshipped 
her as a blossom of beauty, a fairy 
wonder, a consecrated disunity. 

These two parties were as zealous as 
the advocates of the white and red 
rose. The women fought under the 
banner of the faded, withered white 
rose ; the men gathered around the flag 
of her glowing sister, the enchanting 
Barbarina. This was no equal contest, 
no doubtful result. The red rose must 
conquer. At the head of her army 
stood the greatest of warriors. The 
king was at the same time Barbarian’s 
general and subject. The white rose 
must yield, she had no leader. 

Possibly Elizabeth Christine desired 
to lead the army of martyrs ; possibly 
the same rage and scorn swelled in her 
heart which spoiled the peace of other 
woinen. But her modest and trembling 
lips betrayed nothing of the secret 
storms of her bosom ; her soft and gen- 
tle smile veiled her shrouded wishes 
and the hopes there buried in her 
heart. One could scarcely believe that 
this timid, pious queen could worship 
an earthly object, or yield herself one 
moment to the base passion of hate. 
Truly Elizabeth Christine hated no one, 
not even Barbarina — this woman who 
had given the last blow to her tortured 
heart, and added the passion of jeal- 
ousy to her despised love. Elizabeth 
Christine was indeed jealous, but not 
in the common way ; she felt no scorn, 
she uttered no reproach ; silent tears 
and earnest prayers for strength were 
her only speech. 

The king had given her no <^ccasiou 


116 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCl ; OR, 


to complain of his love for Barbarina ; 
she did not know that he had ever ap- 
proached her, even spoken to her ; she 
knew, however, with what looks and 
smiles of rapture he gazed upon her, 
and she would joyfully have given her 
life for one such glance or smile. 
That, however, which was not known 
to Elizabeth, was fully understood by 
the whole court. It was known that 
more than once the Barbarina had 
supped with the king at the house of 
General Rothenberg; it was known 
that the king, every time the Barba- 
rina danced, was behind the curtain, 
and that he had commanded the court 
painter, Pesne, to paint her portrait, 
life-size, for him. 

Was not this enough to exalt the 
signora in the eyes of every courtier 
and every diplomatist to the first rank 
of beauty and power? Would they 
not, indeed, have hastened to acknowl- 
edge her claims even had she not been 
the loveliest and most enchanting crea- 
ture ? She was indeed a queen, a pow- 
erful enchantress. Men struggle for 
one smile, one glance ; they bow down 
to all her caprices and humors ; wor- 
sliip, submission, and obedience were 
the tribute brought by all. Her house 
was besieged with visits and petitions 
as if it were the palace of a fairy queen. 
Barbarina had her court circle, her 
levees, her retinue.* All her ‘subjects 
rendered her a glad and voluntary ser- 
vice, and received no other compensa- 
tion than a gay smile or friendly word. 

All this splendor, consideration, and 
worship, of which she was the shining 
centre, seemed to make no impression 
upon the heart of the proud and self- 
reliant artiste ; she was accustomed to 
t, and moved on in silent majesty ; her 
whole life had been a triumphant 
march. Like a summer morning glit- 
tering in the dew and sunshine, she 

♦ Schneider, “ History of the Opera and Opera- 
Housee in Berlin.” ' ' . . 


had had her little griefs and tears, but 
they resembled the dew-drops in the 
flower-cups, shining for a moment like 
costly diamonds, then kissed away by 
the sun. Barbarina wept when the 
king separated her from her lover. 
Lord Stuart, and forced her to fulfil 
her contract and come to Berlin. She 
wept no more. Was it because she 
was too proud ? or had the sun ol 
royal favor kissed away her tears? 

Barbarina’s tears had ceased to flow, 
but she smiled rarely. She had the 
grace and imposing beauty of the Ro- 
man, and never forgot that she was a 
daughter of that proud nation who 
had ruled the world, and, even though 
disenthroned, preserved her majesty 
and renown. Barbarina was a glow- 
ing, passionate woman, and passion 
adorns itself with flashing eyes, with a 
clear and touching pallor and crimson 
lips, but never with the innocent smile 
and harmless jest. She was nevei 
heard and rarely seen to laugh. Laugh- 
ter was not in harmony with her proud 
beauty, but smiles illuminated and 
glorified it. She was imperial to look 
upon; but, filled with all sweet char- 
ity and gentle grace, womanly and ten- 
der ; with a full consciousness of hei 
power, she was humble and yielding. 
In the midst of her humility she was 
proud, and sure of success and victory ; 
one moment she was the glowing, ar- 
dent, and yielding woman; the next 
the proud, genial, imposing artiste. 
Such was Barbarina ; an incomprehen- 
sible riddle, unsearchable, unfathom- 
able as the sea — ever changing, but 
great in every aspect. 

Barbarina had appeared the evening 
before, but her dance had been inter- 
rupted by a sudden indisposition ex- 
actly at the moment when the king 
appeared in the opera-house. No one 
knew that the king had returned from 
his mysterious journey to Silesia; every 
one believed him to be absent, and ttii 


FREDERICK THE GREAT 

oallet had been arranged without any 
reference to him. Frederick arrived 
unexpectedly, and changing his travel- 
ling-dress hastened to the opera, no 
doubt to greet the two queens and his 
sisters. Barbarina was seized with in- 
disposition at the moment of the king’s 
entrance. She floated smilingly and 
airily over the stage; her small feet 
seemed borne by the Loves and Graces. 
Suddenly she faltered, the smile van- 
ished from her lips, and the slight 
blush from her cheek, and with a cry of 
pain she sank insensible upon the floor. 

The curtain fell, and an intermission 
of a quarter of an hour was announced. 

The king, who was conversing with the 
queen-mother, appeared to take but 
little interest in this interruption, but 
Baron Swartz approached and an- 
nounced that Signora Barbarina was 
ill and could not appear again during 
the evening. Frederick gave such an 
angry exclamation, that the queen- 
mother looked up astonished and ques- 
tioning. Elizabeth Christine sighed 
and turned pale. She comprehended 
the emotion of her husband; guided 
by the instinct of jealousy, she read 
the king’s alarm and disappointment, 
which he tried in vain to hide under 
the mask of scorn. 

“It appears to me,” said the king, 
“that the signora is again indulging 
in one of her proud and sullen moods, 
and refuses to dance because I have re- 
turned. I will not submit to this ca- 
price; I will myself command her to 
dance.” 

He bowed to the two queens, stepped 
behind the curtain, and advanced to 
the boudoir of the signora. The door 
was fastened within. The king stood 
hesitating for a moment ; he heard the 
Bound of weeping and sobbing — the 
signora was in bitter pain or sorrow. 

“ She is truly ill,” said he. 

“ She has cramp,” suggested Baron 
Swartz, who had followed the king. 


AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Frederick turned hastily. “ Is that 
dangerous ? ” he asked, in a tone which 
betrayed his alarm and agitation. 

“Not dangerous, sire, but the physi- 
cian who was with her has declared 
that absolute quiet was necessary. Will 
your majesty command that another 
dancer shall take her place ? ” 

“ No,” said Frederick ; “ the pm 
which belongs to Barbarina shall be 
danced by no other, Salimberri and 
Astrea shall sing an aria and the house 
be dismissed. Go to their majesties 
and say to them I pray they will ex- 
cuse me ; I only came to greet them, 
and, being much fatigued by my jour- 
ney, I will now retire.” 

Bowing to the baron, the king left 
the opera-house and entered the pal- 
ace. But in the silence of the night, 
when all others slept, the soft tones of 
his flute melted on the air. 

Barbarina was ill. For this reason 
her house was besieged ; for this rea- 
son every face was clouded. Her 
adorers were there begging to see her, 
and thus find comfort and encourage- 
ment; each one wished to prove his 
sympathy by some marked attention. 
They hoped that these glorious and 
costly fruits might win for them a 
smile of gratitude. 

The reception-room of Barbarina 
was like a royal conservatory, only the 
life-giving and dazzling sun was hid- 
den from view. Barbarina was in her 
boudoir, and all these gallant cavaliers 
waited in vain for her appearance. It 
was the hour of her levee, the hour 
when her door was open to all who 
had enjoyed the honor of being pre- 
sented to her. The courtiers stood in 
groups and conver&ed in light whispers 
over the on-dits of the day, and turn- 
ing their eyes from time to time to the 
portiere of purple velvet which sepa- 
rated them from the boudoir of the 
signora; from that point must the sun 
rise to illuminate this dusky room. 


118 


BERLIN AND SAVS^SOUCI; OR, 


But Barbarina came not. She lay 
upon a white silk divan, dressed in the 
most ravishing n^lige of white mus- 
lin, covered with rare and costly lace. 
She was dreaming with open eyes, and 
arms crossed upon her breast. Those 
flashing eyes were soft and misty; a 
melancholy expression trembled upon 
her lips. Barbarina was alone. Why 
should she not dream, and lay aside for 
awhile her gracious smiles and fiery 
glance? Of what were those unfath- 
omable eyes dreaming ? what signified 
those sighs which burst from her full 
crimson lips? Did she know herself, 
or did she wish to know ? Did she 
comprehend the weakness of her own 
proud heart, or had she- veiled it from 
herself, ashamed to read what was 
written there ? 

At this moment the door opened, 
and a young girl entered — one of those 
insignificant, gentle, yielding creatures, 
generally found amongst the attendants 
of an artiste — a Mte de eouffr-ance^ on 
whom they exhaust their humor, their 
scorn, and their passion ; the humble 
companion, kept in the background 
when blessed with the society of distin- 
guished and wealthy adorers. The 
companion of Barbarina did not suf- 
fer, however, from this hard fate. She 
was Barbarina’s sister, and had fol- 
lowed her from tender love to the cold 
north. The signora loved her sister 
fondly; she was the companion of her 
joys and sorrows ; she had no secrets 
from her, and knew that an open ear 
and judicious counsel were always to be 
found with her little sister Marietta. 

Baibarina lay, still dreaming, upon 
the divan. Possibly she did not know 
that Marietta stood by her side, and 
laid her hand upon her shoulder. 

“ Sorella,” said she, “ get up ; many 
gentlemen are in the saloon, waiting 
for you.” 

“ Let them wait I will see nc one 
to day.” 


“It is the hour when you are accus- 
tomed to receive, Sorella, and if you dc 
not come they will think you are still 
unwell.” 

“ Well, let them think so.” 

“ They will not only think so, Sorel- 
la; they will say so, and make mali- 
cious comments.” 

“ What comments ? ” said Barbarina, 
raising herself up; “what comments, 
Marietta ? ” 

“ It was indeed unfortunate that 
your sickness came upon you just as 
the king appeared,” said Marietta. 

Barbarina’s eyes flashed. “Do you 
think they will put those things to- 
gether ? ” said she. “ They will say, 
perhaps, that Barbarina fainted at the 
unexpected appearance of the king; 
that the joy of seeing him overcame 
her ; is that your meaning. Marietta? ” 

“Yes, that is my meaning,” said 
Marietta, in a low tone. 

Barbarina sprang from the divan, 
trembling and pallid. “ They will 
mock at and scorn me,” she cried, rais- 
ing her arms to heaven as if to call 
down the lightning to her aid ; “ they 
will say I love this cold king I ” 

“They will say that, Sorella,” re- 
plied Marietta. 

Barbarina seized her hand. “But 
you, sister I you will not say this ; you 
know that I have sworn to hate him 
with an everlasting hatred. You know 
that I have put an evil spell upon him 
with my tears ; that I never can forgive 
him for the suffering and agony he 
prepared for me. Think, think. Ma- 
rietta, how much I have wept, how 
much I have endured I My life was 
like a lustrous May morning, a fairy 
tale of starry splendor ; roses and pearls 
were in my path ; he has obscured my 
stars, and changed my pearls to tears. 
Woe to him! woe to him! I have 
sworn to hate him eternally, and Bar- 
barina keeps her oath.” 

“ Yes, you have sworn to hate him, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS 


119 


sister, but the world is ignorant of your 
oath and its cause; their eyes are 
blinded, and they strangely mistake 
your hate for love. They see that your 
glance is clearer, brighter, when the 
king is by, and they know not that it 
is hate which flashes from your eyes ; 
they hear that your voice lightly trem- 
bles when you speak to him, they do not 
know that the hatred in your heart de- 
prives you of self-control ; they see that 
you dance with more enchanting grace 
in the king’s presence, they do not un- 
derstand that these are instruments of 
revenge — that you wish to crush him 
by the mighty power of genius, grace, 
and beauty.” 

“Yes, yes! just so,” said Barbarina, 
breathing painfully ; “ you alone know 
me, you alone read my heart ! I hate, 
I abhor this cold, cruel king, and he 
richly deserves my hate ! He may be 
wise and great, but his heart is ice. It 
is true, he is handsome and exalted ; 
genius is marked on his noble brow; 
his smile is magical, and irradiates his 
face ; his eyes, those great, inexplicable 
eyes, are blue as the heavens and un- 
fathomable as the sea. When I look 
into them, I seem to read the mysteries 
of the great deep, and the raptures of 
heaven. His voice, when he pleads, is 
like consecrated music ; when he com- 
mands, it is the voice of God in thun- 
der. He is great above all other men ; 
he is a hero, a man, and a king I ” 

“ And yet you hate him ? ” said Mari- 
etta, with a mocking smile. 

Barbarina trembled. Marietta’s ques- 
tion checked her glowing enthusiasm ; 
it rang in her ears like the name-call in 
the “ Somnambulist,” and roused her to 
consciousness. 

“ Yes,” said she, in a low tone, “ I 
hate him, and I will ever hate him ! 
If I loved him, I should be the most 
wretched of women — I should despise 
and curse myself. He has. no heart; 
ne cannot love ; and shame and dishon- 


or rests upon the woman who loves 
and is not beloved. Frederick loves 
nothing but his Prussia, his fame, and 
his greatness. And the world says, 
that ‘ the Barbarina loves him.’ You 
see that is impossible, that can never be. 
I would rather die than love this man 
without a heart.” 

“The world is incredulous,” said 
Marietta ; “ they cannot look into your 
heart, and you must be silent as to 
your hatred. You dare not say that 
you fainted yesterday from scorn and 
rage at the sudden appearance of the 
king.” 

“ Think you they will believe that 
joy overcame me?” cried Barbarina, 
in wild frenzy. “ They shall not be- 
lieve it ; it shall not be ! ” She sprang 
like an enraged lioness and grasped a 
little stiletto which lay upon her toilet- 
table, and which she had brought as a 
relic from her beautiful fatherland, “ I 
will not be mocked at and despised,” 
cried she, proudly, dashing off her 
gold-embroidered w^hite satin slipper, 
and raising her foot. 

“ Oh 1 Barbarina, what will you do ? ” 
cried Marietta, as she saw her take up 
the stiletto. 

“ This,” said she, significantly. Stick- 
ing the point of the stiletto in the sole 
of her foot ; the blood gushed out and 
covered her stocking with blood. 

Marietta uttered a cry of terror, and 
rushed to her sister, but Barbarina 
waved her away ; the wound and the 
flow of blood had brought relief to her 
wild nature ; she was calm, and a rav- 
ishing smile disclosed two rows of 
pearly teeth. 

“Be still. Marietta,” said she, in a 
commanding tone, “ the wound is not 
deep, not dangerous, but deep enough 
to confirm my statement when I de- 
clare that, while dancing last evening, 
I wounded my foot upon a piece of 
glass from a broken lamp.” 

“Ah! now I understand you, you 


120 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


proud Bister,” cried Marietta, looking 
up gayly. “You would thus account 
for your swoon of yesterday ? ” 

“Yes, and now give me my slipper, 
and allow me to take your arm; we 
will go into the saloon.” 

“ With your bleeding foot, with this 
open wound ? ” 

“Yes, with my bleeding foot; how- 
ever, we had better check the flow of 
blood a little.” 

The cavaliei-s who waited for the 
signora became ever sadder and more 
thoughtful. Barbarina must be indeed 
ill, if she allowed her admirers to wait 
so long, for she was above all the small 
coquetries of women ; they would not 
go, however, till they had news of her, 
till they had seen her sister. 

At last their patience was rewarded ; 
the portiere was drawn back, and Bar- 
barina appeared, leaning upon the arm 
of her sister. She was pale, and evi- 
dently suffering. She w^alked slowly 
through the saloon, speaking here and 
there to the cavaliers, and conversing 
in the gay, gracious, and piquant man- 
ner in which she excelled. Suddenly, 
in the midst of one of those merry in- 
terchanges of thought, in which one 
speaks of every thing or nothing, Bar- 
barina uttered a cry of pain and sank 
upon the sofa. 

“I believe, I fear that my foot is 
bleeding again,” she cried. She slight- 
ly raised her robe and lifted up her 
foot, that small object of wonder and 
rapture to all the lands of Europe. 
Truly her white satin slipper was crim- 
son, and blood was flowing freely from 
it. 

A cry of horror sounded from every 
lip. The gentlemen surrounded Bar- 
barina, who lay pale as death upon the 
■K)fa, while Marietta knelt before her, 
and wrapped her foot in her handker- 
chief. This was a striking scene. A 
saloon furnished with princely splen- 
'lor, and odorous with the rarest flow- 


ers ; a group of cavaliers in their gold- 
embroidered uoats and uniforms, glit- 
tering with crosses and orders ; the 
signora lying upon the divan in a 
charming neglige^ with her bleeding 
foot resting upon the lap of her sister. 

“You are wounded, signora, you 
bleed ! ” cried the young Prince of 
Wurtemburg, with such an expression 
of horror, you would have thought he 
expected the instant death of the Bar • 
barina. 

The lovely Italian looked up in seem- 
ing surprise. “Did not your highness 
know that I was wounded ? I thought 
you were a witness to my accident yes- 
terday ? ” 

“ Certainly, I was at the opera-house, 
as were all these gentlemen ; but what 
has that to do with your bleeding 
foot ? ” 

“ A curious question, indeed ! You 
did not, then, understand the cause of 
my swooning yesterday? I will ex- 
plain. I felt a severe pain in the sole 
of my foot, which passed like an elec- 
tric shock through my frame, and I 
became insensible. While unconscious 
my blood, of course, ceased to flow, 
and the physician did not discover the 
cause of my sudden illness. This 
morning, in attempting to walk, I 
found the wound.” 

“ My God, what a misfortune, what 
an irreparable blow ! ” cried the cava- 
liers, with one voice; “we can never 
again hope to see our enchanting 
dancer.” 

“ Compose yourselves, gentlemen,” 
cried Barbarina, smiling, “ my confine- 
ment will be of short duration, and 
will have no evil consequences. I 
stepped upon a piece of glass which 
had fallen upon the boards, and pier- 
cing the slipper entered my foot ; the 
wound is not deep ; it is a slight cut, 
and 1 shall be restored in a few days.” 

“ And now,” said Barbarina, u ith a 
triumphant smile as she was once 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


121 


more alone 'with her sister, “no one 
will mock at me and make malicious 
comments upon my fainting. In an 
hour the whole city will hear this his- 
tory, and I hope it may reach the ears 
of the king.” 

“ He will not believe it,” said Mari- 
etta shrugging her shoulders; “he 
sen*., immediately for your physician 
and questioned him closely as to your 
sudden indisposition in the theatre. I 
had just left your boudoir to get you a 
glass of water, and when I returned I 
found the king standing before your 
door and listening to your groans.” 

A wondrous expression of light and 
peace shone in her great black eyes. 
“The king was then behind the cur- 
tains, he stood before my door, he 
■wished to speak to me, and you tell me 
this now, only now, when you might 
have known — ” Barbarina paused, and 
turned away her blushing face. 

“Well, I might have kno’wn that the 
king, whom you hate so bitterly, had 
waited in vain at your door, had been 
turned away by the proud dancer as a 
common man ; this was, indeed, a tri- 
umph of revenge,” said Marietta, 
smiling. 

“€ did not turn him away,” said 
Barbarina, with embarrassment. 

“ No ! you drew your bolt on the in- 
side, nothing more.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

. ! i ■ ■ " 

THE STUDIO, ( 

Baubarina w^as right ; the wound in 
her foot was not dangerous. She was 
ordered to be quiet for some days, and 
give up dancing. The physician to 
whom she showed her foot and de- 
clared that she had only just discov- 
ered the cause of her sudden swoon, 
examined the wound with an incredu- 


lous smile, and asked to see the shoe, 
the sole of which must also be neces- 
sarily cut, he said; in this way only 
could he tell if the wound had been in- 
flicted by a piece of glass or nail, and 
know the size and sharpness of the 
instrument. Barbarina blushed, and 
ordered Marietta to bring the shoe ; she 
returned immediately with a slipper, 
showing a sharp cut in the sole. The 
physician examined it silently, and 
then declared it was a piece of glass 
which had caused the fainting of the 
signora; he ordered cooling applica- 
tions and perfect quiet, and promised 
restoration in a few days. 

The king had commanded the phy- 
sician to come to him immediatey after 
his visit to Barbarina. He was an- 
nounced, and as he entered, Frederick 
advanced to meet him. 

“Well,” said he, “is the wound 
dangerous ? will the signora be obliged 
to give up the stage ? ” 

“Ahl surely your majesty cannot 
believe that the Barbarina has given 
herself a wound which will destroy 
her fame and fortune I ” 

“I do not understand you,” said 
Frederick, impatiently; “do not speak 
in riddles.” 

“ I repeat, your majesty, the signora 
would not intentionally have wounded 
her foot seriously, and thereby de- 
stroyed her art.” 

“Do you believe that she wounded 
herself voluntarily ? ” 

“ I am convinced of it, sire. The sig- 
nora declares that she stepped upon a 
piece of glass. I desired to see the slip- 
per ; Marietta brought me one, in tbe sole 
of which I discovered a cut, but it did 
not correspond at all with the wound 
in the foot, and had been evidently just 
made with a knife. Certainly Barba- 
rina was not wounded while she wore 
that shoe ; moreover, I affirm that the 
wound was not inflicted by a piece of 
glass or a nail, but by a stiletto ; the 


122 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


wound is three-sided; I am confident 
she wounded herself with a stiletto I 
saw in her room.” 

The king’s face grew dark while. the 
physician spoke; he pressed his lips 
together : this was ever a sign that a 
storm was raging in his breast which he 
wished to control. 

“ Is that all you have to say ? ” 

“ That is all, sire.” 

“ Good I You will visit the signora 
to-morrow, and bring me news of her.” 

The king w^as alone, and pacing his 
room nervously. It was in vain that 
Biche, his favorite hound, raised her- 
self up and drew near to him. The 
wise little animal seemed, indeed, to 
understand the sadness of her master, 
and looked up at him with sorrowful 
and sympathetic eyes. Once Frederick 
murmured half aloud : “ She has sworn 
to hate me, and she keeps her oath.” 
After long thought, he seemed to be 
resolved, and drew near the door ; he 
opened it and stood a moment on the 
threshold, then closed it again, and 
said: “No I I dare not do that. I 
dare not do what any other man might 
do in my place ; not I — I am a king. 
Alas ! men think it a light matter to be 
a king ; that the crown brings no care, 
no weight to the brow and the heart. 
Our heart’s blood is often the lime with 
which our crowns are secured.” He 
sighed deeply, then stood up and shook 
himself like a lion, when, after a long 
repose, he rouses himself to new life 
and action. “Oh I I am sentimental,” 
he said, with a sad smile. “ I doubt if 
a king has a right to dream. Away, 
then, with sentiments and sighs I 
Truly, what would Maria Theresa say 
if she knew that the King of Prussia 
was a sentimentalist, and sighed and 
loved like a young maiden? Would 
she not think she had Silesia again in 
her dress-pocket ? ” 

While the king struggled with his 
passion, Barbarina had a far more dan- 


gerous enemy to contend with. Senti- 
mentality is veiled in melancholy, in 
softened light and faded tints; but 
ennui has no eye, nor mind, nor heart 
for any thing. It is a fearful enemy ! 
Barbarina was weary, oh, so weary 1 
Was it perhaps impatience to appear 
again upon the stage which made the 
hours so leaden, so long drawn out? 
She lay the whole day stretched out 
upon her sofa, her eyes wide open, si- 
lent, and sighing, not responding to 
Marietta’s loving words by a glance, or 
a piovement of the eyelash. Marietta 
proposed to assemble her friends, but 
she affirmed that society was more 
wearisome than solitude. 

At the end of three days, Barbarina 
sprang from her sofa and tried to walk. 
“ It gives me no pain,” said she, walk- 
ing through the room. 

“Yes, I remember. Arias said the 
same as she handed the dagger to her 
beloved,” replied Marietta. 

“ But I have no beloved,” said Barba- 
rina ; “ no one loves me, no one under- 
stands this poor, glowing, agonized 
heart.” As she said this, a flood of tears 
gushed from her eyes, and her form trem- 
bled with a storm of passion. 

“ Ah, Sorella, how can you say- that 
— you who are so much loved, so 
highly prized ? ” 

Barbarina smiled contemptuously, 
and shook her head. “Do you call 
that love? these empty words, this 
everlasting, unmeaning praise ; this 
rapture about my beauty, my grace, 
and my skill, is this worship ? Go, go. 
Marietta, you know it is not love, it is 
not worship. They amuse themselves 
with a rare and foreign flower, which 
is only beautiful because it has been 
dearly paid for; which is only won- 
dered at while it is rare and strange. 
You know, not one of these men loves 
me for myself ; they think only of my 
outward appearance. I am never more 
solitary than when thev surround me, 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


123 


aever feel so little beloved as wben 
they swear that they love me bound- 
lessly. O my God I must I shroud my 
heart, must I bury it under the snows 
of this cold north ? O God, give me 
a heart for my heart, that can love as 
Barbarina loves ! ” She covered her 
face with her hands, and her tears 
flowed freely ; she trembled and bowed 
from side to side, like a lily in the 
storm. 

Marietta drew near, and laid her 
head upon her sister’s shoulder; she 
did not try to comfort her : she knew 
there were griefs to which words of 
consolation were exasperation ; she 
knew that passion must exhaust itself 
before it could be soothed. She com- 
prehended the nobility and energy of 
Barbarina’s nature; those bursts of 
tears were like the clouds in the trop- 
ics; the storm must break, and then 
the sun would shine more gloriously. 
Marietta was right. In a short time 
her sister withdrew her hands from her 
face ; her tears were quenched, and her 
eyes had their usual lustre. 

“ I am mad,” she cried, “ worse than 
mad I I ask of the north, our southern 
blossoms. I demand that their ice 
shall become fire. Has not a landscape 
of snow and ice its grandeur and 
beauty — yes, its terrible beauty when 
inhabited by bears and wolves ? ” 

“ But woe betide us, when we meet 
these monsters ! ” said Marietta, enter- 
ing readily into her sister’s jest. 

“Why woe betide us? Every dan- 
ger and every monster can be over- 
come, if looked firmly in the face, but 
not too long. Marietta, not till your own 
eye trembles. Now, sister, enough 
of this ; the rain is over, the sun shall 
shine. I am no longer ill, and will not 
be laid aside like a broken plaything. 

I will be sound and healthy; I will 
flap my wings and float once more 
over the gay world.” 

“Do you know, Sorella, that the 


higher you fly, the nearer you are to 
heaven ? ” 

“ I will soar, but think not, that like 
Icarus, I will fasten my wings with wax. 
No, I am wiser, I will fly with my feet ; 
the sun has no power over them : they 
are indeed two suns. They warm the 
coldest heart ; they set the icy blood in 
motion, they almost bring the dead to 
life. You see, sister, I have adopted 
the ^tyle of speech of my adorers ; none 
of them being present, I will worship 
and exalt myself.” 

Barbarina said all this merrily, but 
Marietta felt this gayety was not natu- 
ral. 

“Do you know what I have deter- 
mined upon ? ” said Barbarina, turning 
away, so that her face might not be 
seen ; “ as I cannot dance either to-day 
or to-morrow, I will find some other 
mode of employing my time. I will 
go to Pesne and sit for my portrait.” 

She had turned away, but Marietta 
saw that her throat was sufifused with a 
soft flush. 

“ Will you drive to the palace ? ” said 
Marietta. 

“ Not to the palace, but to Pesne.” 

“ Pesne’s studio is now in the palace ; 
the king appointed him rooms there.” 

“Well, then, I must sit to him in 
the palace.” 

“This, however, will be aisagreeable 
to you ; you abhor the king, and it will 
be painful to be under the same roof. 
You perhaps suppose the king to be in 
Potsdam ; he is now in Berlin.”’ 

Barbarina turned suddenly, and 
throwing her arms around Marietta’s 
neck, she pressed a kiss uj^on her lips, 
and whispered : “ I know it, Marietta, 
but I must go.” 

The sisters went therefore to the 
new studio of the painter Pesne, which 
was in the royal palace. The king 
took great joleasure in the growth and 
development of works of art. While 
Pesne was engaged on his great picture 


124 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOl Cl ; OR, 


of Diana and her Nymphs, the king 
often visited his studio and watched 
him at his work. He had closely ex- 
amined the sketch of the portrait of 
Barbarina, and, on his return from Si- 
lesia, commanded Pesne to arrange a 
studio in the castle, as he wished to be 
near him. 

Barbarina sprang like a gazelle up 
the steps ; her foot was not painful, or 
she was unconscious of it. She *was 
impatient, and would scarcely wait to 
be announced before entering the room. 
Pesne was there, and welcomed the 
signora joyfully. Barbarina looked 
about in vain for her portrait. 

“ Has misfortune overtook the por- 
trait as well as the original ? ” she said, 
smilingly. 

“Not so, signora,” said Pesne; “the 
portrait excites as great a furor as the 
original — only, though, because it is a 
copy.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ I mean, that his majesty is so enrap- 
tured with the copy, that since yester- 
day it has been placed in his study, 
although I protested against it, the 
picture not being finished. The king, 
however, persisted ; he said he wished 
to show the portrait to his friends, and 
consult with them as to its defects.” 

Never, in her most brilliant role^ was 
Barbarina so beautiful as at this mo- 
ment: her countenance glowed with 
rapture; her happy smile and glance 
would have made the homeliest face 
handsome. 

“Then I have come in vain,” she 
said, breathing quickly ; “ you can 
make no use of me to-day ? ” 

“No, no, signora! your face is a star 
seldom seen in my heaven, and I must 
grasp the opportunity — ^have kindness 
to wait ; I will hasten to the king and 
return with the picture.” 

Without giving Barbaiina time to 
answer, he left the room. Why did 
her heart beat so quickly ? Why were 


her cheeks sufiused with crimson? 
Why were her eyes fixed so nervously 
upon the door? Steps were heard in 
the adjoining apartment. Barbarina 
pressed her hand upon her heart : she 
was greatly agitated. The door now 
opened, and Pesne returned, alone and 
without the picture. 

“ Signora,” said he, “ the king wishes 
that the sitting should take place in 
his rooms; his majesty will be kind 
enough to make suggestions and call 
my attention to some faults. I will get 
my palette afid brush, and, if agreeable 
to you, we will go at once.” 

Barbarina gave no reply, and became 
deadly pale, as she walked through the 
king’s rooms ; her steps were uncertain 
and faltering, and she was forced to 
lean upon Pesne’s arm ; she declared 
that her foot was painful, and he per- 
haps believed her. 

They reached at last the room in 
which the portrait was placed. There 
were two doors to this room : the one 
through which they had entered, and 
another which led to the study of the 
king. This door was closed, and Bar- 
barina found herself alone with the 
painter. 

“ The king has yet some audiences to 
give ; he commanded me to commence 
my work. As soon as he is at liberty, 
he will join us.’’ 

“Let us begin, then,” said Barbarina, 
seating herself. “ You must allow me 
to-day to be seated. I think it can 
make no difference to you, as you are 
at present occupied with my face and 
not with my figure.” 

Pesne declared, however, that this 
attitude gave an entirely different ex- 
pression and bearing to the counte- 
nance. Barbarina must, therefore, in 
spite of the pain in her foot, endeavor 
to stand. She appeared now to feel 
no pain: she smiled so happily, she 
spoke so joyously, that Pesne, while 
gazing at her animated, enchanting, 


125 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


-ovely face, forgot that he was there to 
paint, and not to wonder. Suddenly 
ner smile vanished, and she interrupted 
herself in the midst of a gay remark. 
She had heard the door behind her 
lightly opened; she knew, by the 
stormy beating of her heart, that she 
was no longer alone with the painter; 
she had not the courage or strength to 
turn; she was silent, immovable, and 
stared straight at Pesne, who painted 
on quietly. The king had motioned 
him not to betray him. 

Pesne painted on, from time to time 
asked Barbarina the most innocent and 
simple questions, which she answered 
confusedly. Perhaps she was mis- 
taken ; possibly she was still alone with 
the painter. But no, that was impossi- 
ble, it seemed to her that a stream of 
heavenly light irradiated the room; 
she did not see the king, but she felt 
his glance ; she felt that he was behind 
her, that he was watching her, al- 
though no movement, no word of his 
betrayed him. 

“ I will not move, I will not turn, but 
X cannot endure this, I shall fall dead 
o the earth.” 

But now she was forced to turn ; the 
king called her name, and greeted her 
with a few friendly words. She bowed 
and looked up timidly. How cold, in- 
different, and devoid of interest was 
his glance, and he had not seen her for 
weeks, and she had been ill and suffer- 
ing I And now, she felt again that she 
hated him bitterly, and that it was the 
power of this passion which overcame 
her when she saw the king so unexpect- 
edly. She felt, however, that every tone 
of his voice was like heavenly music 
to her ear, that every word he uttered 
moved her heart as a soft wind ruffles 
the sea. 

The king spoke of her portrait ; he 
said he had made it his study and 
Bought for its faults and defects, as others 
Bought for its advantages and beauties. 


“ I tremble, then, before the judg- 
ment of your majesty,” said Pesne. 

“ I must confess you have some cause 
to fear,” said the king. “ I have not 
looked at the picture with the eye of a 
lover, but with that of a critic ; such 
eyes look sharply, and would see 
spots in the sun ; no criticism, how- 
ever, can prevent the sun from shining 
and remaining always a sun, and my 
fault-finding cannot prevent your por- 
trait from being a beautiful picture, 
surpassed only by the original.” 

“Perhaps, sire, I am myself one of 
the spots in the sun, and it may be that 
I grow dark.” 

“ You see, signora, how little I un- 
derstand the art of flattery ; even my 
best - intended compliments can be 
readily changed into their opposites. 
Allow me, then, to speak the simple, 
unadorned truth. You are more beau- 
tiful than your picture, and yet I won- 
der at the genius of Pesne, which has 
enabled him to represent so much of 
your rare loveliness, even as I wonder 
at the poet who has the power to de- 
scribe the calm beauty of a sunny spring 
morning.” 

“ That would be less difficult than 
to paint the signora’s portrait,” said 
Pesne; “a spring morning is still, it 
does not escape from you, it does not 
change position and expression every 
moment.” 

Frederick smiled. “It would be 
truly difficult to hold the butterfly and 
force it to be still without brushing 
the down from its beautiful wings. 
But, paint now, Pesne ; I will seat my- 
self behind your chair and look on.” 

Pesne seized his palette and brush 
and began to paint. Barbarina as- 
sumed the light, gracious, and graceful 
attitude, which the artist has pre- 
served for us in her beautiful portrait. 
She was, indeed, indescribably lovely ; 
her rounded arms, her taper fingers, 
which slightly raised the fleecy robs 


126 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


and exposed tlie faii^ foot, the small 
aristocratic head, slightly inclined to 
one side, the flashing eyes, the sweet, 
attractive smile, were irresistible ; every 
one admired, and every glance betrayed 
admiration. 

The face of the king only betrayed 
nothing; he was cold, quiet, indiffer- 
ent. Barbarina felt the blood mount 
to her cheek, and then retreat to her 
heart; she felt that it was impossible 
for her to preserve her self-control; 
she could not bear this cool comparison 
of the portrait and the original, but 
she swore to herself that the king 
should not have the triumph of seeing 
her once more sink insensible at his 
feet; his proud, cold heart should not 
witness the outbreak of her scorn and 
wounded vanity. But her body was 
less strong than her spirit — her foot 
gave way, she tottered, and turned 
deadly pale. 

The king sprang forward, and asked 
in a sympathetic and trembling voice 
why she was so pale; he himself 
placed a chair for her, and besought 
her to rest. She thanked him with a 
soft smile, and declared she had better 
return home. Would the king allow 
her to withdraw? A cloud passed 
over Frederick’s face ; a dark, stern 
glance rested upon Barbarina. 

“No!” said he, almost harshly; 
“ you must remain here, we have busi- 
ness with each other. Swartz has 
brought me your contract to sign ; it 
requires some changes, and I should 
have sent for you if accident had not 
brought you here.” 

“Your majesty can command me,” 
said Barbarina. 

“We have business and contracts to 
consider,” said the king roughly, “ and 
we will speak of them alone. Go, 
Pesne, and say to Swartz I await him.” 

Frederick nodded to the painter, and, 
seizing Barbarina’s hand, lead her into 
the adjoining room, his Tusculum^ 


never before profaned by a woman’s 
foot ; open only to the king’s dearest, 
most trusty friends. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE CONFESSION. 

Baebarina entered this room with 
peculiar feelings; her heart trembled, 
her pulses beat quickly. She, whose 
glance was usually so proud, so victo- 
rious, looked up now timidly, almost 
fearfully, to the king. He had never 
appeared to her so handsome, so impos- 
ing, as in this moment. Silently she 
took her place upon the divan to. 
which he led her. Frederick seated 
himself directly in front of her. 

“ This is the second time,” said the 
king, with a smile, “ the second time, 
signora, that I have had the honor to 
be alone with you. On the first occa- 
sion you swore to me that you would 
hate the King of Prussia with an ever- 
lasting hatred.” 

“ I said that to your majesty when I 
did not recognize you,” said Barba- 
rina. 

“ Had you known me, signora, you 
would surely not have spoken so 
frankly. Unhappily, the w^orld has 
silently resolved never to speak truth 
to kings. You avowed your resolution, 
therefore, at that time, because you did 
not know you were speaking to the 
king. Oh, signora, I have not forgot- 
ten your words. I know that you pray 
to God every day ; not for your own 
happiness, as all chance of that has 
been destroyed by this cruel king; 
but for revenge on this man, who has 
no heart, and treads the hearts of other 
men under his feet.” 

“ Your majesty is cruel,” whispered 
Barbarina. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


127 


“Cruel I why? I only repeat your 
words. Cruel, because I cannot forget I 
The words of Barbarina cannot be for- 
gotten. In that respect at least I am 
like other men.” 

“ And in that respect should your 
majesty least resemble them. The lit- 
tle windspiel may revenge its injuries, 
but the eagl^ forgives, and soars aloft 
so high in the heavens that the poor 
offender is no longer seen and soon for- 
gotten. Your majesty is like the eagle, 
why can you not also forget ? ” 

“ I cannot and I will not 1 I remind 
you of that hour, because I wish to ask 
now for the same frankness of speech. 
I wish to hear the truth once more 
from those proud lips. Barbarina, will 
you tell me the truth ? ” 

“ Yes, on condition that your majesty 
promises to forget the past.” 

“ I promise not to remind you of it.” 

“ I thank your majesty ; I will speak 
the truth.” 

“ You swear it ? ” 

“ I swear it.” 

“Well, then, why did you wound 
your foot ? ” 

Barbarina trembled and was silent ; 
she had not the courage to raise her 
eyes from the floor. 

“ The truth ! ” said the king, imperi- 
ously. 

“ The truth,” repeated Barbarina, re- 
solved, and she raised her flashing eyes 
to the king ; “ I will speak the truth. 
I wounded my foot, because — ” 

“ Because,” said the king, interrupt- 
ing her fiercely, “ because you knew it 
was a happiness, a life’s joy to the poor, 
lonely, wearied king to see you dance ; 
because you felt that your appearance 
was to him as the first golden rays of 
the sun to one who has been buried 
alive, and who bursts the bonds of the 
dark grave. You hate me so um’elent- 
ingly, that even on the evening of my 
return from an exhausting and danger- 
ous journey, you cruelly resolved to 


disappoint me. I hastened to the 
theatre to see you, Barbarina, you, you 
alone; but your cruel and revengeful 
heart was without pity. You thought 
of nothing but your pride, and rejoiced 
in the power to grieve a king, at the 
sound of whose voice thousands trem- 
ble. Your smiles vanished, your en- 
chanting gayety was suppressed, and 
you seemed to become insensible. 
With the art of a tragedian, you as- 
sumed a sudden illness, resolved that 
the hated king should not see you 
dance. Ah ! Barbarina, that was a 
small, a pitiful role! leave such arts 
to the chambermaids of the stage. 
You are refined in your wickedness; 
you are inexorable in your hate. Not 
satisfied with this pretended swoon, 
the next evening you wounded your- 
self ; you were proud to suffer, in order 
to revenge yourself upon me. You 
knew that a swoon must pass away, 
but a wounded foot is a grave accident ; 
its consequences might prove serious. 
The king had returned to Berlin, and 
had only a few days to refresh himself, 
after the cares and exhaustions of a 
dangerous journey ; after his departure 
you would be able to dance again. 
Ah ! signora, you are a true daughter 
of Italy ; you understand how to hate, 
and your thirst for vengeance is un- 
quenchable I Well, I give you joy ! I 
will fill your heart with rapture. You 
have sworn to hate me; you pray to 
God to revenge you upon the King of 
Prussia, who has trampled your heart 
under his feet. Now, then, Barbarina, 
triumph I you are revenged. The king 
has a heart, and you have wounded it 
mortally I ” 

Completely unmanned, the king 
sprang to his feet, and stepped to the 
window, wishing to conceal his emo- 
tion from Barbarina. Suddenly he felt 
his shoulder lightly touched, and, turn- 
ing, he saw Barbarina before him, more 
proud, more beautiful, more queenly 


128 


BERLIN AND SANS-SGUCI; OR, 


than he had ever seen her ; energy and 
high resolve spoke in her face and in 
her flashing eyes. 

“Sire,” she said, in a full, mellow 
voice, which slightly trembled from 
strong emotion — “sire,” she repeated, 
trying to veil her agitation by outward 
calm, “I have sworn in this hour to 
speak the truth ; I will fulfil my vow. 
I will speak the truth, though you may 
scorn and despise me. I will die of 
your contempt as one dies of a quick 
and deadly poison ; but it is better so 
to die than to live as I am living. 
You shall know me better, sire. You 
have charged me with falsehood and 
hypocrisy ; thank God, I can cast off 
that humiliating reproach 1 I will 
speak the truth, though it bows my 
head with shame, and casts me at your 
feet. If I could die there, I would 
count myself most blessed. The truth, 
sire, the truth ! listen to it. It is true 
I hated you ; you humbled my pride. 
You changed me, the queen of grace 
and beauty, the queen of the world, 
into a poor, hired dancer ; with your 
rude soldiers and police you compelled 
me to fulfil a contract against which my 
soul revolted. I cursed you. You sep- 
arated me violently from the man I 
loved, who adored me, and offered me 
a splended and glorious future. It is 
true I prayed to God for vengeance, but 
He would not hear my prayer ; He pun- 
ished me for my mad folly, and tunied 
the dagger I wildly aimed at you, 
against my own breast. Sire, the hate 
to which I swore, to which I clung as 
the shipwrecked mariner clings to the 
plank which may save him from de- 
struction, failed me in the hour of need, 
and I sank, sank down. A day came 
in which the prayer of rage and re- 
venge on my lips was changed, in spite 
of myself, into blessings, and I found, 
with ct)nsternation and horror, that 
there was indeed but one step between 
wild hatred and passionate love, and 


this fatal step lies over an abyss. I 
cannot tell you, sire, how much I have 
suffered — how vainly I have struggled. 
I have hated, I have cursed myself be- 
cause I could no longer hate and curse 
you. The day you left for Silesia, you 
said, ‘ I think ever of thee.’ Oh I sire, 
you know not what fatal poison you 
poured into my ears, with Vhat rapture 
and enchantment these words filled my 
heart. My life was a dream ; I stood 
under a golden canopy, drunk with joy 
and blessed with heavenly peace. I saw 
these words, ‘ I think ever of thee,’ not 
only in my heart, but in every flower, 
on every leaf, and written by the sim 
in the heavens, and in the stars. I 
dreamed of them as one dreams of 
fairy palaces and heavenly melodies. 
In tlie songs of sweet birds, in the plau- 
dits and bravos with which the world 
greeted me, I heard only these celestial 
words, ‘I think ever of thee.’ I lived 
upon them during your absence, I 
wrote them with my glances upon your 
empty chair in the theatre, I fixed my 
eyes upon it, and for love of you I 
danced to it. One night I saw in this 
chair, not only my golden starry words, 
I saw two stars from heaven ; I was not 
prepared — their glance was fatal. No, 
sire, that was no miserable comedy, no 
actor’s work. I sank unconscious, and 
from that hour I know one does not 
die from rapture, but sinks insensible. 
I wept the whole night, God knows 
whether from shame or bliss, I cannot 
tell. The next day — yes — then I was 
false and deceitful. I stuck my stiletto 
in my foot, to deceive the world; only 
God might know that the Barbarina 
fainted at the sight of the king — 
fainted because she felt that she no 
longer hated, but worshipped him.” 

She rushed to the door, but Freder- 
ick sprang after her ; he drew her back, 
mildly but silently ; his eyes were radi- 
ant with joy. 

“Bemain,” said he; “I command 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


129 


you — I, not the king.” He placed his 
lips to her ear and whispered two 
words ; her soft cheeks were crimson. 

At this moment there was a knock 
upon the door, portiere was thrown 
back, and the wan, suffering face of 
Fredersdorf was seen. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ your majesty com- 
manded me to summon Baron Swartz ; 
he is here, and waits for your orders.” 

“ Let him enter,” said the king ; then 
smiling upon Barbarina, he said, “ He 
comes just in time ; we must sign our 
contract, Swartz shall act as our priest.” 

He advanced to meet the intendant, 
and asked for the contract between 
Barbarina and himself. He read it 
carefully, and said, “There are only a 
few things to alter.” He stepped to 
his desk and added a few words to the 
contract. 

“ Signora,” said he, turning backward, 
“ will you come here for a moment ? ” 

Barbarina, embarrassed and blushing, 
drew near. In the back part of the 
room stood Baron Swartz, watching 
the king and Barbarina with a sly 
smile; near him stood Fredersdorf, 
whose pale and melancholy face was 
brought out in strong relief by the 
dark portUre. 

“ Read this,” said the king to Bar- 
barina, pointing to the words he had 
just written. “ Have you read ? ” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

Frederick raised his head, and, slight- 
ly turning, his glowing glance rested 
upon Barbarina, who, ashamed and 
confused, cast her eyes to the ground. 

“ Will you sign this ? ” 

“I will, sire,” said she, almost in- 
audibly. 

“ You bind yourself to remain here 
for three years, and not to marry dur- 
ing that time ? ” * 

* By this contract, Barbarina received an income 
of seven thousand thalers and five months’ liberty 
during each year ; but she was bound not to marry 
during this term of three years. — SonNKiDER. 

9 


“I do, sire.” 

“Take the pen and sign our con- 
tract. — Come forward, Swartz, and witr 
ness this document. — Fredersdorf, is 
your seal at hand ? ” 

The contract was ready. 

“ You will say, ‘ This is a sad con- 
tract,’ ” said the king, turning to Fre- 
dersdorf. 

“ Yes, sad indeed. The king deals 
as cruelly with the Barbarina as he has 
done with his poor secretary. This 
cold* king does not believe in mar- 
riage.” 

“No, no! Fredersdorf, I will prove 
to you that you are mistaken. I have 
been told that you are ill because I will 
not allow you to marry. Now, then, 
Fredersdorf, I will not be hard-heart- 
ed. I have to-day made an innocent 
sacrifice to my hatred of matrimony. 
The signora has bound herself not to 
marry for three years. For her sake, I 
will be gracious to you : go and marry 
the woman you love, and when the 
priest has made you one, you shall take 
your wife to Paris for the honeymoon, 
at my cost.” 

Fredersdorf seized the hand of the 
king, kissed it, and covered it with 
his tears. Barbarina gazed at the 
handsome, glowing face of Frederick 
with admiration. She understood him 
fully ; she felt that he was happy, and 
wished all around him to partake of hk 

joy- 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE TRAia*OB. 

Babon yon Pollnitz was ill at ease ; 
for three days he had sought relief dil- 
igently, but had no alleviation. He 
found himself in the antediluvian con- 
dition of our great forefather Adam, 
while he loitered away his time in Para- 


130 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


disc. Like Adam, Pollnitz had no gold. 
Our good baron found this by no means 
a happy state, and his heart was full 
of discontent and apprehension; he felt 
that he was, indeed, unblessed. Wliat 
would become of him if the king 
should not be merciful, should not take 
pity upon his necessities, which he had 
to-day made known to him in a most 
touching and eloquent letter. Up to 
this time he had been waiting in vain 
for an answer. What should he do if 
the king should be hard-hearted and 
cruel ? But no, that was impossible ; 
he must consider it a sacred duty to 
take care of the old and faithful ser- 
vant of his house, who had been the 
favored companion of two of Prussia’s 
kings. Pollnitz considered that he be- 
longed to the royal family ; he was an 
adopted member ; they could not think 
slighthigly of him, nor set him aside. 

He had exhausted his means, he had 
borrowed from Jew and Christiail ; he 
had, by his gay narratives and powers 
of persuasion, drawn large sums of gold 
from the rich burghers; all his friends 
held his dishonored drafts; even his 
own servant had allowed himself to be 
made a fool of, and had loaned him the 
savings of many years; and this sum 
scarcely sufficed to maintain the noble, 
dissipated, and great-hearted cavalier a 
few weeks. 

Alas ! what sacfifices had he not al- 
ready made to this insane passion for 
spending money ; what humiliation had 
he not suffered — and all in vain ! In 
vain had he changed his religion three 
times ; he had condescended so far as 
to pay court to a merchant’s daughter ! 
he had even wished to wed the daugh- 
ter of a tailor, and she had rejected 
him. 

And yet,” said he, as he thought 
over his past life, “everything might 
have gone well, but for this formidable 
stratagem of the king ; this harsh pro- 
hibition and penalty as to relieving my 


necessities which has been trumpeted 
through the streets — that ruined me ; 
that gave me fearful trouble and tor- 
ment. That was refined cruelty, for 
which I wdll one day revenge myself, 
unless Frederick makes amends. Hal 
there comes a royal messenger. He 
stops at my door. God be thanked ! 
The king answers my letter ; that is to 
say, the king sends me money.” 

Pollnitz could scarcely restrain him- 
self from rushing out to receive the mes- 
senger ; his dignity, perhaps, w'ould not 
have sufficed to hold him back, but the 
thought of the considerable douceur he 
would be expected to pay moderated 
his impatience. At last his servant 
came and handed him a letter. 

“ I hope,” said the baron, gravely, “I 
hope you rewarded the king’s messen- 
ger handsomely ? ” 

“ No, sir, I gave hihi nothing.” 

“ Nothing ! ” cried he angrily. “And 
you dare to say this to my face ! you d(j 
not tremble lest I dismiss you instantly 
from my service ? you, and such as you 
are, cast shame upon our race ! I, a 
baron of the realm, the grand master of 
ceremonies, allow a royal messenger 
who brings me a letter to go from my 
door unrewarded ! Ass, if you had no 
money, why did you not come to me ? 
why did you not call upon me for sev- 
eral ducats ? ” 

“ If your grace will give me the money, 
I will run after the messenger. I know 
where to find him; he has gone to Gen- 
eral Rothenberg’s.” 

“ Leave the room, scoundrel, and 
spare me your folly ! ” 

Pollnitz raised his arm to strike, but 
the lackey fled and left him alone with 
his golden dreams of the future. 

He hastily broke the seal and opened 
the letter. “Not from the king, but 
from Fredersdorf, ” he murmured im 
patiently. As he read, his brow grew 
darker, and his lips breathed words of 
cursing and scojeu 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


131 


‘‘ Refused ! ” said lie passionately, as 
he read to the end, and cast the letter 
angrily to the floor. “ Refused ! The 
king has no money for me I The king 
needs all his gold for war, which is now 
about to be declared ; and, if I wish to 
convince myself that this is true, I must 
go to-night, at eleven o’clock, to the mid- 
dle door of the castle, and there I will 
see that the king has no money. A 
curious proposition, indeed 1 I would 
rather go to discover that he had 
money, than that he had it not. If he 
had it, I would find a means to supply 
myself. At all events, I will go. A 
curious rendezvous indeed — a midnight 
assignation between a bankrupt baron 
and an empty purse ! A tragedy 
might grow out of it. But if Frederick 
has really no money, I must seek else- 
where. I will make a last attempt — I 
V ill go to Trenck.” 

The trusty baron made his toilet and 
hastened to Trenck’s apartments. The 
young ofiicer had lately taken a beau- 
tiful suite of rooms. He had his recep- 
tion-rooms adorned with costly furni- 
ture and rare works of art. He had an 
antechamber, in which two richly- 
liveried servants waited to receive his 
orders. He had a stable and four splen- 
did horses of the Arabian breed, and 
two orderlies to attend to them ! From 
what quarter did Trenck obtain the 
money for all this livery ? This was an 
open question with which the comrades 
of the young lieutenant were exercised ; 
it gave them much cause for thought, 
j,nd some of them were not satisfied 
with thinking; these thoughts took 
form, some of their words reached the 
ears of Trenck, and must have beep 
considered by him very objectionable. 
He challenged the speaker to fight 
with the sword, and disabled him ef- 
fectually from speaking afterward.* 
Trenck was at dinner, and, contrary to 


custom, alone; he received i^ollnitz 
most graciously, and the baron took a 
seat willingly at the table. 

“ I did not come to dine with you 
but to complain of you,” said Pollnitz, 
cutting up the grouse with great adroit- 
ness and putting the best part upon his 
plate. 

“ You come to complain of me ? ” re- 
peated Trenck, a little embarrassed. 
“I have given you no cause for dis- 
pleasure, dear friend.” 

“ Yes, you have given me good cause, 
even while I am your best friend ! Why 
have you withdrawn your confidence 
from me ? Why do I no longer accom- 
pany you on that most romantic mid- 
night moonlight jDath to virtue ? Why 
am I no longer watchman and duenna 
when you and your lady call upon the 
moon and stars to witness your love ? 
Why am I set aside ? ” 

“ I^can only say to all this that I go 
no more upon the balcony.” 

“ That is to say — ” 

“That is to say that my stars^ are 
quenched and my sun has set in the 
clouds. I am, even as you are, set 
aside.” 

Pollnitz gazed at Trenck with so 
sharp and cunning an eye that the 
young man was confused and looked 
down. The baron laughed merrily. 

“ Dear Trenck,” said he, “ a lie shows 
in your face like a spot on the smooth 
skin of a rosy apple. You are too young 
to understand lying, and I am too old 
to be deceived by it. Another point : 
will you make me believe that this 
luxury which surrounds you is main- 
tained with your lieutenant’s pay ? ” 

“ You forget that my father has left 
me his property of Sherlock, and that 
I have rented it for eight hundred 
thalers ! ” 

“I am too good an accountant not 
to know that this sum would scarcely 
suffice for your horses and servant.” 

“Well, perhaps you are right; foi 


♦ Frederick von Trenck’s Memoires. 


VS2 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


tbe rest I must thank my gracious king. 
During the course of this year he has 
presented me with three hundred Fred- 
ericks d’or; and now you know the 
source of my revenue, and will not 
think so meanly of me as to suppose 
that — ” 

“ That your great love has any thing 
to do with earthly riches or advance- 
ment. I do not believe that I brought 
in such a charge against you, even as 
little do I believe that you have been 
given up! Ah, dear friend, I alone 
have cause of complaint; I alone am 
set aside, and why am I thus treated ? 
Have I not been discreet, diligent in 
your service, and ready at all times ? ” 

“ Certainly. I can only repeat to you 
that all is at an end. Our beautiful 
dream has faded like the morning 
cloud and the early dew.” 

“You are in earnest?” 

“ In solemn earnest.” 

“ Well, then, I will also speak* ear- 
nestly. I will relate to you something 
which you do not appear to know. A 
gardener boy who had risen earlier than 
usual to protect some rare flowers in 
the garden of Monbijou saw two figures 
upon the balcony, and heard their light 
whispers. The boy made known his ■ 
discovery to the principal gardener, and 
he communicated the facts to the cham- 
berlain of the queen-mother. It was 
resolved to watch the balcony. The 
virtuous and suspicious queen immedi- 
ately concluded that Mademoiselle von 
Marwitz had arranged a rendezvous 
upon the balcony, and she was sternly 
resolved to dismiss the lady at once if 
any proof could be obtained against her. 
Happily, the queen made known these 
facts to the princess Amelia, and I can 
readily conceive that the balcony re-, 
mains now unoccupied.” 

“ Yes, I understand that.” 

“You can also understand that this 
event was regarded as a warning of fate, 
and great caution and forethought were 


exercised. Not only was the balcony 
given up, but the old friend and confi- 
dant who had played the part of com- 
panion and carrier-pigeon was banished 
and dismissed wholly from service.” 

“ You may go further still,” said Fred- 
erick von Trenck. “ You have not 
stated the w^hole case. This fortunate 
providence was a convincing proof of 
the danger of an engagement which 
might never hope to be crowned with 
success, never exist except under the 
shadows of silence and gloom, with 
bleeding hearts and tearful eyes ; this 
dream of love w^as given up at once, fear- 
ing that at no distant day both honor and 
liberty might be lost in its pursuit. They 
separated ! An eternal farewell wan 
faltered ! ” 

“ That is to say, you would now de- 
ceive your confidant and former aid, 
in order to place yciurself more securely 
— and some day, perhaps, when suspi- 
cion is aroused, you can call him as a 
witness to prove that all intercourse was 
long ago given up ; he must know it, 
being the confidant from the beginning. 
This was a well-conceived plot, but you 
only seem to forget that Pollnitz was not 
the man to be deceived. He has had too 
much experience, and has studied the 
hearts of men, and especially of women, 
too diligently. A woman who is en- 
joying her first love and believes in its 
holy power, convinces herself that it 
can achieve wonders and overcome all 
obstacles. She does not sacrifice her 
loye to other duties or to danger, not 
even if she is a common woman, far less 
if she is a princess. Princess Amelia* 
has not given up her young and hand- 
some lover ; she clings to him with a 
frenzied constancy, which, I confess to 
you, if I had the honor and glory of 
being her suitor, would fill me with 
apprehension and regret. No, no, the 
princess is just now in a paroxysm of 
youthful passion, and would rather die 
than resign her love, and she is fantas- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


133 


tic enough to believe in the possibility 
of a legitimate marriage I Poor thing, 
she expects to mould the world to her 
wishes, and arms herself, I suppose, 
with hair-pins 1 Princess Amelia was 
forced to give up her interviews up- 
on the balcony, but she sought other 
means to gratify her passion. Tliis 
was simple and easy to do. The maid 
of honor was taken into her confidence. 
Marwitz swore to guard the secret 
faithfully till death ; a plan was then 
arranged with her which was truly well 
conceived. Lieutenant von Trenck 
must be spoken of as the suitor of Mad- 
emoiselle von Marwitz ; he must act at 
the court-balls fetes as the tender, 
sighing, and eager lover of the maid 
of honor; he must at last make a 
formal declaration, and receive permis- 
sion to visit her in her rooms. This is 
now his daily habit, and the good city 
of Berlin and the short-sighted, silly 
court are completely deceived, and look 
upon Frederick von Trenck as the hap- 
py bridegroom of Marwitz ; and no one 
guesses that when the young oflicer is 
with the maid of honor, the Princess 
Amelia is also present, and changes the 
r61e with Marwitz.” 

“ I see it is in vain,” said Trenck, sigh- 
ing ; “ you know all : but if you have 
any real friendship for me, you will tell 
me who betrayed us.” 

Pollnitz laughed aloud. “You be- 
trayed yourself, my friend ; or, if you 
prefer it, my worldly wisdom and cun- 
ning betrayed you. My young and in- 
nocent friend, a man like Pollnitz, is 
not easily deceived ; his eyes are sharp 
enough to pierce the veil of the most 
charming little intrigue, and probe it 
to the bottom ! I know the Princess 
Amelia; I have known her too long, 
not to know that she would not so 
quickly, and without a struggle, sacri- 
fice her love ; and further, when I saw at 
the last court-ball with what a long 
ind dreary face you stood behind the 


chair of the poor Marwitz, and with what 
calm and smiling content the princess 
watched the couple amoureuse^ look you, 
Trenck, then I knew and understood 
all.” 

“Well, then, as you understand all, 
I make no further attempt to deceive 
you. Yes, God be praised ! the princess 
loves me still. It is indeed the princess 
whom I meet in the apartment of the 
maid of honor ; to Marwitz are the let- 
ters directed which my servant carries 
every morning to the palace, and from 
the Princess Amelia do I receive my 
answers. Yes, God be thanked I Ame- 
lia loves me, and one day she will be 
mine in the eyes of the whole world, 
even as she is now mine in the eyes of 
God and the angels ; one day — ” 

“ Stop, stop ! ” cried Pollnitz, inter- 
rupting him ; “ that last sentence must 
be explained before you rush on with 
your dithyrambics. You have declared 
that the princess is yours in the sight of 
God : what does that mean ? ” 

“That means,” said Trenck, “that 
God, who looks into our hearts, knows 
the eternity and boundlessness of our 
love; that means that, under God’s 
heaven, and calling upon His holy 
name, we have sworn never to forget 
our love and our faith, and never to 
form any other alliance.” 

“ So nothing more than that — ^no se- 
cret marriage? Are you never alone 
with the princess ? ” 

“No, never! I have given her my 
word of honor never even to ask it, and 
I will keep my oath. And, after all, 
the good Marwitz disturbs us not ; she 
gets as far from us as possible ; she seems 
to see us not, and we speak in such low 
tones, that she does not hear a word we 
utter.” 

“ Ah ! so the Marwitz does not dis- 
turb you ? ” cried Pollnitz, with a cyni- 
cal laugh. “ 0 sancta simplicitas ! and 
this is an ofiicer of the life-guard 1 Tbe 
world is going to destruction, or it is 


i34 


BERLIN .iND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


becoming innocent and pure as Para- 
dise. It is time for me to die ; I no 
xonger understand this pitiful world.” 

“I do not understand you, and I 
will not understand you,” said Trenck, 
gravely. “ You laugh at me, and call 
me a silly boy, and I allow it. I know 
we cannot understand each other in 
such matters ; you cannot conceive 
what strength, what self-denial, what 
energy I exert to make myself worthy 
of the pure, modest, and exalted love 
which Amelia has consecrated to me. 
You cannot comprehend how often my 
good and evil genius struggle for the 
mastery, how often I pray to God to 
keep me from temptation. No, I have 
sworn that this love shall wave pure and 
unblemished, like a glorious banner over 
my whole life ; come death rather than 
dishonor I And now, friend, explain 
your meaning : why all these pilots and 
counterplots ? what is your object ? ” 

“ Nothing more than to warn you to 
prudence. I do not believe all the 
world is deceived by your comedy 
with Marwitz. The king, who ap- 
pears to see nothing, sees all. He has 
his spies everywhere, and knows all 
that happens in his family. Be care- 
ful, be ever on your guard.” 

“I thank you for your warning,” 
said Trenck, pressing the hand of the 
master of ceremonies. “We must soon 
separate; you know that in a few 
weeks we go to Silesia. The king is 
silently preparing for war.” 

“ I know it, and I pity you.” 

“ Pity me ! Ah, you do not under- 
stand me. I long for my first battle as 
a lover does for his first sweet kiss. 
The battle-field is for me a consecrated 
garden, where my laurels and myrtles 
grow. I shall pluck them and weave 
wreaths for my bride — wedding- 
wreaths. Pollnitz, on the other side, 
l;)eyond the bloody battle-ground, lies 
my title of prince, and Amelia’s bridal- 
wreath.” 


“ Dreamer, fantastic, hopeless dream- 
er I ” cried Pollnitz, laughing. “ Well, 
God grant that you do not embrace 
death on the battle-field, or on the 
other side find a prison, to either of 
which you have a better claim than to 
a prince’s title. Make use, therefore, 
of your time, and enjoy these charm- 
ing interviews. Is one arranged for 
this evening ? ” 

“ No, butv to-morrow. The reigning 
queen gives a baU to-morrow. Imme- 
diately before the ball I am to meet the 
princess. Oh, my friend, to-morrow 
evening at five think of me I I shall 
be the happiest and most enviable of 
mortals. I shall be with my beloved ! ” 

“ Alas ! how strange is life, and how 
little do the fates of men resemble I 
To-morrow, at the hour when you will 
be so unspeakably happy, I shall be 
walking in a thorny, a cursed path ; I 
shall be on ray way to the usurer.” 

“To the usurer? That is indeed a 
sad alternative for a cavalier like the 
Baron von Pollnitz.” 

“ But that is still better than im- 
prisonment for debt, and I have only 
the choice between these two, unless you 
dearest friend, will take pity upon me 
and lend me a hundred louis d’ors.” 

Frederick Trenck said nothing. He 
stepped to his desk. The eyes of the 
baron glittered with joy as he saw 
Trenck take out a pocket-book, in 
which he knew by pleasant experience 
that the young officer sometimes kept 
gold. His joy was of short duration. 
No gold was seen. Trenck took out a 
small, modest, unsealed paper and 
handed it to him. 

“ Look at this draft,” said he. “ Had 
you come yesterday I could have ac- 
commodated you joyfully. To-day it 
is impossible. I have this morning 
lent my colonel two hundred ducats, 
and my purse is empty.” 

“ Well, you must soon fill it,” said 
Pollnitz, with a coarse laugh. “ To-mor 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


135 


TOW at five you will enjoy your rendez- 
vous, and you will not only speak of 
God, and love, and the stars, but also a 
little of earthly things — of pomp and 
gold, and— Farewell ! ” 

With a gay laugh Pollnitz took leave, 
but he no sooner found himself alone 
upon the street than his face grew 
black and his eye was full of malice. 

“ He has no gold for me, but I have 
his secret, and I will know how to 
squeeze some gold out of that,” mur- 
mured Pollnitz. “Truly I think this 
secret of Trenck’s is worth some thou- 
sand thalers, and the king must find 
the means to pay for it. But stop I 
The hour of my interesting rendezvous 
draws near. I am curious to know 
how I am to be convinced at eleven 
o’clock, and in the middle of the 
street, that the king has no gold. I 
will be punctual, but I have still time 
to visit a few fnends, and seek if possi- 
ble to win a few louis d’ors at faro.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SIL VER-W ARE . 

It was a dark, still night. As the 
clock struck ten the night might really 
be said to begin in Berlin. The streets 
were not lighted except by accidental 
rays from the windows and the car- 
riage-lamps, and the glare of torches 
carried by the servants who accompa- 
nied their masters to places of amuse- 
ment. By eleven o’clock the streets 
were deserted. Pollnitz was therefore 
sure to meet no one on his way to the 
castle. He directed his steps to that 
door which opened upon the River 
Spree, as Fredersdorf had advised him. 

Silence reigned in the palace. The 
sentinel stepped slowly backward and 
forward in the courtyard, and in the 


distance was heard the baying of two 
hounds, entertaining each other with 
their melancholy music. The master 
of ceremonies began to be impatient; 
he thought that the impertinent private 
secretary had been indulging in some 
practical joke or mystification at his 
expense ; but as he drew near to the 
Spree, he heard the light stroke of oars 
in the water. Pollnitz hastened for- 
ward, and his eyes, accustomed to the 
darkness, discovered a skiff drawn up 
near the Elector’s Bridge. 

“This is the point! here we must 
wait,” 'whispered a manly voice. 

“I think we will not have to wait 
long,” said another. “ I see lights in 
the windows.” 

The side of the castle next the Spree 
was now suddenly lighted; first the 
upper story, then the lower, and a pale 
light was now seen in the vestibule. 

“Truly, I have not been deceived; 
something is going on,” said Pollnitz, 
hastening forward. 

As he entered the court, a curious 
train was seen descending the steps. In 
front were too servants with torches ; 
they were followed by twelve heyduclcsy 
their shoulders weighed down with 
dishes, cans, cups, plates, whose silver 
surface, illumined by the golden glare 
of the torches, seemed to dance and 
glimmer along the wall and steps like 
“■v^ll o’ the wisps.” Two servants 
with towels brought up the rear, and 
behind these the pale, sad face of Fre- 
dersdorf was seen. 

“You are punctual,” said he to Poll- 
nitz ; “ you wish to convince yourself 
that the king has no gold ? ” 

“Certainly! though this conviction 
will deprive me of my last hope, and 
one does not adojjt such a course eager- 
ly.” 

“ I think you will be fully convinced. 
Come, let us follow the lieyduclcsy 

He took the arm of the baron, and 
they soon reached the border of th^ 


136 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Spree. The skiff, which had been ly- 
ing so dark and still, was now lighted 
by the torches of the servants, who 
ranged themselves on each side ; it was 
brilliantly lighted, and great activity 
prevailed. The twelve heyducks^ bend- 
ing under their heavy burden, entered 
the skiff, and piled up the silver-ware, 
then sprang again ashore. 

“We are going to the treasure-room, 
will you follow us ? ” said Fredersdorf. 

“ Certainly ; if not, you may perhaps 
expect to leave me here as sentinel.” 

“ That is not at all necessary ; there 
are some soldiers with loaded muskets 
in the skiff. Come.” 

Silently and hastily they all mounted 
the steps and reached at last the large 
room where the royal silver had been 
kept j the door was open, but guarded 
by sentinels, and Melchoir, who had 
had the silver in charge, now walked 
before the door with a disturbed and 
sad visage. 

“ May I enter, Melchoir ? ” said P611- 
nitz to his old acquaintance, greeting 
him with a friendly smile. 

“ There is no necessity to ask,” said 
Melchoir, sadly. “ My kingdom is at 
an end, as you see, when the silver is 
gone ; there is no necessity for a stew- 
ard, and the old Melchoir will be set 
aside, with aU those who remain of the 
good old times of the ever-blessed Fred- 
erick Wilham ! ” % 

Pollnitz entered the room with Fre- 
dersdorf, and his eyes wandered over 
the rich treasures spread out before him, 
and which the heyducks were now 
packing in large sacks. 

“Oh I if these plates and dishes 
could speak and converse with me, 
what curious things we would have to 
confide to each other ! ” said Pollnitz, 
twirling one of the plates between his 
fingers. “How often have I dined 
from your rich abundance I Under the 
first pomp-and-splendor-loving Freder- 
ick, you furnished me with gala din- 


ners ; under the parsimonious Frederick 
William, with solid family dinners! 
How often have I seen my smiling face 
reflected in your polished surface ! how 
often has this silver fork conveyed the 
rarest morsels to my lips! I declare 
to you, Fredersdorf, I think a dinner- 
plate fulfils a noble mission ; within its 
narrow bound lies the bone and sinew, 
as also the best enjoyment of life. But 
tell me, for God’s sake, how can you 
bear that these rascals should handle 
the king’s silver so roughly? Only 
look, now, at that heyduck ; he has com- 
pletely doubled up one of those beauti- 
ful salad-bowls, in order to force it into 
the mouth of the sack.” 

“What signifies, dear baron? That 
said salad-bowl will never again be 
used for salad ; henceforth it is only sil- 
ver.” 

“ You speak in riddles, and I do not 
understand you. Well, well, those fel- 
lows have already filled their twelve 
sacks, and this room is now as empty and 
forlorn as the heart of an old bachelor. 
Now tell me what you are going to do 
with all these treasures ? ” 

“ Can you not guess ? ” 

“ I think the king, who now lives in 
Potsdam, needs his silver service, and 
as he does not wish to make a new 
purchase, he sends to Berlin for this. 
Am I right ? ” 

“You shall soon know. Let us fol- 
low the heyducks^ the room is empty. 
Adieu, Melchoir, your duties will be 
light hereafter ; you need not fear the 
robbers. Come, baron.” 

They soon reached the skiff, and 
found that the twelve sacks had 'been 
placed beside the huge pile of dishes, 
plates, etc. 

“Alas! ” said Fredersdorf, gloomily, 
“ all this might have been avoided if 
I had already reached the goal I am 
aiming at ; if J had fathomed the great 
mystery which God has suspended over 
mankind, upon whose sharp angles and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


137 


edges thousands of learned and wise 
raen have dashed their brains and de- 
stroyed their life’s happiness I My God ! 
I have accomplished so much, so little 
remains to be done I let me only find a 
sufficiently hardened substance, and the 
work is done. I shall have laid bare 
God’s great mystery — I shall make 
gold!” 

“ Do you think ever of this, Freders- 
dorf?” 

“ I think ever of this, and shall think 
only of this as long as I live. This 
thought swallows up all other thoughts ; 
it has destroyed my love, my rest, my 
sleep, my earthly happiness ! But wait, 
Pollnitz, only wait ; one day I shall lift 
the philosopher’s stone, and make gold. 
On that day you will love me dearly, 
Baron Pollnitz. On that day I will 
not be obliged to prove to you, as I 
have just done, that the king has no 
money.” ' 

“I have seen no proofs yet,” said 
Pollnitz. 

“ You shall have it now, baron,” said 
Fredersdorf, springing into the skiffi 
“ Will you not go with us ? Forward, 
forward at once I ” 

“ But what is your destination ? ” 

“ Come nearer, that I may whisper in 
your ear.” 

Pollnitz bowed his head. 

“We are going to the mint,” whis- 
pered Fredersdorfi “All this beauti- 
ful silver will be melted. The king 
will give no more dinners, he will give 
battle. The king changes his dishes 
and plates into good thalers to feed his 
army. And now, are you not con- 
vinced that the king has no money to 
pay your debts ? ” 

“ I am convinced.” 

“Then farewell. Take the rudder, 
boys, and go forward; enter the arm 
of the Spree which flows by the mint, 
and there anchor. The mint is our 
goal.” 

“The mint is the goal,” murmured 


Pollnitz, with a grim look, gazing after 
the skiff, which moved slowly over the 
water, and which, lighted by the torch- 
es, shone brilliantly in the midst of 
the surrounding darkness. The golden 
light, playing upon the rich liveries of 
the heyducks and the tower of silver in 
their midst, formed a scene of wonder 
and enchantment. 

Pollnitz watched them until the 
torches seemed like little stars in the 
distance. “There goes all the pomp 
and glory of the world, the joys of 
peace and luxurious rest. The silver 
will be melted, iron and steel will take 
its place. Yes, the iron age begins. 
Alas ! it begins also for me — why can- 
‘ not I go into the mint, and be melted 
down with these plates and dishes ? ” 


CHAPTER xym. 

THE PinST FLASH OF LIGHTNING. 

During this night Pollnitz slept but 
little; when, however, he rose fi'om 
his couch the next morning, his brow 
was clear and his countenance gayer 
than it had been for a long time ; he 
had made his plans, and was convinced 
that he would succeed. 

“ I will earn a hundred ducats,” said 
he, smilingly to himself, as in a superb 
toilet he left his dwelling, “ yes, a hun- 
dred ducats, and I will revenge myself 
upon the king for that trumpeting and 
outcry. This shall be a blessed and 
beautiful morning.” 

He walked first to the apartment 
of Colonel Jaschinsky, and announced 
himself as coming upon the most im- 
portant business. The colonel hastened 
to meet him, ready to be of service, and 
full of curiosity. 

• “ Lead me to a room where we are 
absolutely certain not to be ol>«erv(!d oi 
listened to,” said Pollnitz. 


138 


BERLIN AND SANS-80UCI; OR, 


They entered the colonel’s cabinet. 

“ Here, baron, we are secure.” 

“Without cii-cumlocution, then, sir 
count, you know the law which forbids 
officers to make debts ? ” 

“I know it,” said Jaschinsky, turn- 
ing pale, “and I believe that Baron 
Pdllnitz is well content not to belong 
to the officers.” 

“Perhaps you, sir count, may also 
cease to belong to them ? ” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” said 
Jaschinsky, anxiously. 

“I mean simply that Colonel Jas- 
chinsky belongs to those officers who 
are forbidden to make debts, but that 
he disregards the law.” 

“You came here, as it appears, to 
threaten me ? ” 

“ No, principally to warn you; you 
know that the king is particularly 
severe against his body-guard. You 
are the colonel of this splendid regi- 
ment, and should, without doubt, set 
the other officers a good example. I 
doubt if the king would consider that 
you did your duty, if he knew that 
you not only made debts, but borrowed 
money from the officers of your own 
regiment.” 

“Take care what you are about to 
do, Baron von Pollnitz I ” said Jas- 
chinsky, threateningly. 

Pollnitz said, smilingly : “ It appears 
that you are menacing me — that is 
wholly unnecessary. Listen quietly to 
wljat I have to say. I have come to 
arrange a little matter of business with 
you. Day before yesterday you bor- 
rowed two hundred ducats from Bar- 
on Trenck. Give me one hundred of 
them, and I give you my word of honor 
not to expose you — deny me, and I 
give you my word of honor I will go 
instantly to the king, and relate the 
whole history. You know, count, you 
would be instantly cashiered.” 

“I do not know that his majesty 
would grant a ready belief to the state- 


ment of Baron Pollnitz, and you have 
no proof to confirm it.” 

“ I have proof. You gave your note 
for the money. I think that would be 
convincing testimony.” 

The count was pale and agitated. 
“ If I give you a hundred ducats, you 
promise on your word of honor not to 
expose me to the king ? ” 

“I give you my word of honor; 
more than that, I promise you to de- 
fend you, if any one shall accuse you 
to the king.” 

Jaschinsky did not reply ; he stepped 
to his desk and took out two rolls of 
ducats. “ Baron,” said he, “ here is 
half of the money I borrowed from 
Trenck ; before I hand it to you I have 
one request to make.” 

“ Well, speak.” 

“ How did you learn that I borrowed 
this money ? ” 

“ I saw your note which you gave to 
Trenck.” 

“Ah I he showed it to you,” cried 
Jaschinsky, with such an expression of 
hate, scorn, and revenge, that even Poll- 
nitz was moved by it. 

He took the gold and let it glide slow- 
ly into his pocket. “ I owe you a hun- 
dred ducats ; I cannot promise you to re- 
turn them ; but I can promise you that 
Trenck will never produce your draft, 
and I will show you how to revenge 
yourself upon the handsome officer.” 

“ If you assist me in that, I will pre- 
sent you with my best horse.” 

“ You shall be revenged,” said Poll 
nitz, solemnly. “You can send the 
horse to my stable; Frederick von 
Trenck will soon cease to be dangerous 
to any one; he is a lost man! — And 
now to the king,” said Pollnitz, as he 
left the colonel’s quarters, “ Yes, to 
the king; I must thank him for the 
confidence he showed me last night.” 

The king was making his prepara- 
tions-for war with the most profound 
secrecy ; he worked only at night, and 


FREDERICK' THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


139 


^ave up his entire time seemingly to 
pleasures and amusernents. He was 
daily occupied with concerts, balls, 
operas, and ballets; he had just re- 
turned from seeing the rehearsal of a 
new opera, in which Barbarina danced ; 
he was gay and gracious. 

He received his master of ceremonies 
jestingly, and asked him if he came to 
announce that he had become a Jew. 
“ You have tried every other religion at 
least twice ; I know that you have had 
of late much to do with the ‘chosen 
people ; ’ I suppose you are now full of 
religious zeal, and wish to turn Is- 
raelite. It would, perhaps, be a wise 
operation. The Jews have plenty of 
gold, and they would surely aid with 
all their strength their new and distin- 
guished brother. Speak, then, make 
known your purpose.” 

“ I came to thank your majesty for 
the supper you graciously accorded me 
last night.” 

“ A supper I what do you mean ? ” 

“ Your majesty, through your private 
secretary, invited me to table, with all 
your splendid silver-ware. Truly the 
meal was indigestible and lies like a 
stone upon my stomach ; but, I say with 
the good soldiers, after the lash, ‘I 
tUank your majesty for gracious punish- 
ment.’ ” 

“ You are an intolerable fool ; but 
mark me, not a word of what you have 
seen I I wished to prove to you that I 
had no money, and to be freed from 
your everlasting complaints and peti- 
tions. I have therefore allowed you to 
see that my silver has gone to the mint. 
It is to be hoped that you will now 
compose yourself, and seek no more 
gold from me. Do not ask gold of 
kings, but of Jews. Kings are poor, the 
poorest people of the state, for they 
have no personal property.” * 

“ Oh, that the whole world could hear 


the exalted and high-hearted words of 
my king I ” cried Pollnitz, with well- 
acted enthusiasm. “Thrice blessed. is 
that nation which has such a ruler ! ” 

The king looked at him searchingly. 
“You flatter me ; you want something, 
of course.” 

“ No, sire, I swear I come with the 
purest intentions.” 

“ Intentions ? You have, then, inten- 
tions ? ” 

“ Yes, sire, but now that I stand here 
face to face with you, I feel that my 
courage fails, and I cannot speak what 
I intended.” 

“Now truly,” said the king, laugh- 
ing, “ the ch'cumstances must indeed be 
dangerous which deprive Baron Poll- 
nitz of the power of speech.” 

“Words, your majesty, are important 
things. Once a few words saved me 
from death; it may be that a few 
words, spoken this day to your majesty, 
may bring me into disfavor, and that 
would be worse than death.” 

“ What were the words which saved 
you from death ? ” 

“These, sire: Va-t-en^ noble gue^- 
Tier ” 

“ This took place in France ? ” 

“ In Paris, sire. I was dining in a 
small hotel in the village of Etampes, 
near Paris. A very elegant cavalier sat 
next me, and from time to time, as if 
accidentally, addressed me in a reflned 
and winning way ; he informed himself 
as to my intentions and circumstances. 
I was an inexperienced youth, and 
the cavalier was adroit m questioning. 
This was at the time of the IHississippi 
speculation of the great flnancier Law 
I had gained that day, in the Rue Quin- 
quempois^ the sum of four hundred 
thousand francs. I had this money 
with me, and after dinner I jDroposed 
to go to Versailles. I was not without 
apprehension, the streets were unsafe, 
and Cartouche with his whole band of 
robbers had for some time taken p^s 


♦ The king’s own words. 


140 


BERLIN AND SAIsS-SOUCI; OR, 


Bession of the environs of Paris, and 
made them the theatre of his daring 
deeds.” 

“So you received your new friend 
trustingly?” said the king) laughing 
heartily. 

“ Yes, sire, and we had just agreed as 
to the hour of our departure, when a 
little maiden appeared under the win- 
dow of our dining-room and sang in a 
loud, clear voice, ‘ Va-t-en^ nolle guer- 
rier!'* The strange cavalier rose and 
stepped to the window to give her a 
few sous, then went out — and I saw 
him no more.” 

“You conclude from this that the 
words of the song saved your life ? you 
think the man with whom you were 
eating was a poisoner ? ” 

“ I thought nothing, sire, and forgot 
the adventure. A year after, I was 
standing in the street as Cartouche was 
being led to execution. All Paris was 
abroad to see the famous brigand. I 
had a good place, the procession passed 
immediately by me ; and look you, I 
recognized, in the poor sinner now be- 
ing led to execution, the elegant gentle- 
man of the cabaret at Etampesl He 
knew me also and stood still for a mo- 
ment. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I dined with 
you a year ago. The words of an old 
song gave me notice to leave the cabaret 
immediately. They announced to me 
that the -pursuers were on my heels ; your 
star was in the ascendant) stranger ; had 
I accompanied you to Versailles, you 
would have lost your gold and your 
life.’ Your majesty will now understand 
that these words, ‘ Va-t-en^ nolle guer- 
rier^ saved my life.” 

“ I confess it, and I am now most 
curious to hear the words which you 
fear will bring my displeasure upon 
you.” 

“Sire, I have been for more than 
forty years a faithful servant of your 
exalted house. Will you not admit 
this?” 


“ Faithful ? ” repeated Frederick ; 
“ you were faithful to us when it was 
to your advantage: you deserted us 
when you thought it to your interest ft 
do so. I reproached you with this in 
former times, but now that I know the 
world better, I forgive you. Go on, 
then, with your pathetic appeal.” 

“ Your majesty has often commanded 
me to make known to you every thing 
which the good people say of your 
royal family, and when any one dared 
to whisper a slander against you or 
yours, to inform you of it at once.” 

“ Does any one dare to do that ? ” said 
the king, with an expression of anguish 
upon his noble face. 

“ Yes, sire.” 

The king breathed a heavy sigh, and 
walked hastily up and down ; then pla- 
cing himself before the window, and 
turning his back on Pollnitz, he said, 
“ Go on.” 

“ Sire, it is lightly whispered that the 
young Lieutenant Trenck has dared to 
love a lady who is so far above him 
in her bright radiance and royal birth, 
that he should not dare to lift his eyes 
to her face except in holy reverence.” 

“ I have been told that he was the 
lover of Mademoiselle von Marwitz,” 
said the king. 

“ The world and the good Berliners 
believe that, but the initiated know that 
this pretended love is only a veil thrown 
by the bold youth over a highly traitor- 
ous passion.” 

Pollnitz was silent ; he waited for the 
king to speak, and watched him with a 
malignant smile. Frederick still stood 
with his face to the window, and saw 
nothing of this. 

“ Shall I go on ? ” said Pollnitz at last. 

“ I command you to do so,” said the 
king. 

Pollnitz drew nearer. “Sire,” said 
he, half aloud, “ allow me to say what 
no one knows but myself. Baron Trenck 
visits Mademoiselle von Marwitz every 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


141 


clay, but a tliird person is ever present 
at these interviews.” 

“ And this third person is — ” 

“ The Princess Amelia ! ” 

The king turned hastily, and the 
glance which he fixed upon Pollnitz 
was so fiashing, so threatening, that 
even the bold and insolent master of 
ceremonies trembled. “Are you con- 
vinced of the truth of what you have 
stated ? ” said he, harshly. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ if you wish to con- 
vince yourself, it is only necessary to 
go this evening betw^een five and six 
o’clock, unannounced, into the rooms 
of the Princess Amelia. You will then 
see that I have spoken truth.” 

Frederick did not reply ; he stepped 
again to the window, and looked si- 
lently into the street. Once more he 
turned to Pollnitz, and his face was 
clear and smiling, 

“Pollnitz, you are an old fox, but 
you have laid your foundation badly, 
and your whole plot is poorly conceived. 
Look you I I understand this intrigue 
perfectly. You hate poor Trenck ; I 
have long seen that. You hate him 
because I honor and promote him, and 
you courtiers always regard those as 
your enemies who stand higher in favor 
than yourself. Trenck deserves his 
good fortune, in spite of his youth ; he 
is a learned and accomplished officer, 
and a most amiable and elegant gentle- 
man. You cannot forgive him for this, 
and therefore you accuse him. This 
time you shall not succeed. I tell you 
I don’t believe one word of this silly 
scandal. I will forget what you have 
dared to say ; but look to it, that you 
also forget. Woe to you if you do not 
forget ; woe to you if your lips ever again 
utter this folly to me or to any other 
person I I hold you wholly responsible. 
In your own mad, malicious brain is 
this fairy tale conceived; it will be 
your fault if it goes farther, and is ever 
sjjoken of Conform yourself to this, 


sir, and retreat in time. I repeat to you, 
I hold you responsible. Now go, with- 
out a word, and send me my adjutant 
— it is high time for parade.” 

“Flashed in the pan, completely 
fiashed,” said Pollnitz to himself, as 
with a courtly bow and a smiling lip 
he took leave of the king. “I had 
hoped at least for a small reward, if it 
was only to see that I had made him 
angry. Alas I this man is invulnerable ; 
all my files wear away on him.” 

Could he have seen what an expres- 
sion of care and anguish overshadowed 
the king’s face when he was alone— 
could he have heard the king’s sighs 
and the broken words* of sorrow and 
despair which he uttered, the wicked 
heart of the master of ceremonies would 
have been filled with gladness. But 
Frederick indulged himself in this 
weakness but a short time ; he drew 
his royal mantle over his aching heart, 
he cast the veil of sadness from his 
eyes, and armed them with the might 
of majesty. 

“ This rendezvous shall not take place ; 
this romantic adventure shall come to 
an end. I will it I ” said he, with an 
energy which only those can feel whose 
will is law, and from whose words 
there is no appeal. 

Frederick took his hat and entered 
the vestibule, where his staff awaited to 
accompany him to the parade. The 
king greeted them all sternly, and pass- 
ing by them rapidly, he descended the 
steps. 

“ The king is very ungracious,” 
whispered the officers amongst each 
other. “ Woe to him upon whom his 
anger falls to-day I ” 

A s orm-cloud did indeed rest upon 
the brow of the king ; his eye looked 
fierce and dangerous. The regiment 
stood in line, the king drew up in iront ; 
suddenly he paused, his face grew 
black — his eye had found an object for 
destruction. 


142 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Lieutenant Trenck,” said he, in a 
loud and threatening tone, “ you have 
this moment arrived, you are again too 
late. I demand of my officem that they 
shall be punctual in my service. More 
than once have I shown you considera- 
tion, and you seem to be incurable. I 
will now try the power of severity. — 
Colonel Jaschinsky, Lieutenant Trenck 
is in arrest, till you hear further from 
me ; take his sword from him, and 
transport him to Potsdam.” 

The king passed on ; the cloud had 
discharged itself ; his brow was clear, 
and he conversed cordially with his 
generals. He did not give one glance 
to the poor young officer, who, pale and 
sj)eechless, handed his sword to his 
malicious colonel, looked with anguish 
inexpressible toward the castle of Mon- 
bijou, and followed the two officers 
whose duty it was to conduct him to 
Potsdam. 

That afternoon Mademoiselle von 
Marwitz waited in vain for her lover ; 
that afternoon the Princess Amelia 
shed her first tears; and for the first 
time, entered the ballroom, by the side 
of her royal mother, with dejected 
mien and weary eyes. The glare of 
light, the sound of music, the laugh 
and jest of the gay crowd, filled her 
oppressed heart with indescribable 
woe. She longed to utter one mad cry 
and rush away, far away from all 
this pomp and splendor ; to take refuge 
in her dark and lonely room ; to weep, 
to pray, and thus exhaust her sorrow 
and her fears. 

Perhaps the king read something of 
this fierce emotion in the face of the 
onneess. He drew near to her, and 
raking her hand kindly, he led her 
away from her mother. “My sister,” 
he said, in a low voice, but in a tone 
which made the heart of the prin- 
cess tremble, — "my sister, banish the 
cloud from your brow, and call the 
smiles to your young, fresh lips. It ill 


becomes a princess to be seen at a fete 
with a sad visage; melancholy, this 
evening, will be particularly unseemly. 
Be on your guard ; you must not decline 
a single dance ; I wish this as your 
brother, I command it as your king. 
Conform yourself to this. Do you un- 
derstand fully all that I have said to 
you, and all that I have not said ? ” 

“I understand all, your majesty,” 
whispered Amelia, with the greatest 
difficulty keeping back the tears which, 
“like a proud river, peering o’er its 
bounds,” filled her eyes to overflowing. 

Princess Amelia danced the whole 
evening, she appeared gay and happy ; 
but it did not escape the watchful eye 
of the Baron Pollnitz that her smile 
was forced and her gayety assumed; 
that her eye wandered with an expres- 
sion of terror toward the king, who was 
ever observing her. Suddenly all was 
changed, and she became radiant with 
the fire of youth and happiness. Made- 
moiselle von Marwitz, while the princess 
stood near her in the Frangaise, had 
whispered: “Compose yourself, your 
royal highness, there is no danger. He 
has been arrested for some small mili- 
tary offence, that is all I ” Here was 
indeed peace and comfort. Amelia 
had been tortured by the most agoniz- 
ing fears, and this news was like a mes- 
senger of peace and love. A military 
offence — that was a small affair. A 
few days of light confinement, and he 
would return ; she would see him again ; 
and those blessed interviews, those glo- 
rious hours of rapture, would be re- 
newed. 

The princess had deceived herself. 
Several days elapsed, and Trenck did 
not return, and she knew nothing more 
than that he was in Potsdam under 
arrest. Eight days had passed on 
leaden wings, and still he came not. 
This severe punishment for a small of- 
fence began to be resented by Trenck’a 
comrades; they did not dare to 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


143 


niurmur, but their countenances were 
clouded. 

“ Colonel Jascliinsky,” said the king, 
on the ninth morning, “ go to Trenck 
* and counsel him to ask for my forgive- 
ness ; say to him, that you believe I will 
forgive him, if he asks for pardon. You 
shall not say this officially, only as a 
friend. Remark well what he shall 
answer, and report it to me strictly.” 

The colonel returned in an hour, 
with a well-pleased smile. 

“ Well, will he ask for forgiveness ? ” 
said the king. 

“ No, your majesty ; he asserts that for 
a small fault he has been too harshly 
punished, and he will not bow so low 
as to plead against an injustice.” 

“ Let him remain in arrest,” said Fred- 
erick, dismissing Jaschinsky. 

The king was alone ; he walked up 
and down with his arms folded, as 
was his custom, when engaged in deep 
thought. “ A head of iron, a heart of 
fire 1 ” murmured he ; “ both so young, 
so proud, so fond, and all this I must 
destroy. I must pluck every leaf from 
this fair blossom. Sad mission I Why 
must I cease to be a man, because I am 
a king ? ” 

Eight days again went by — eight 
days of fHes^ concerts, balls. The 
princess dared not absent herself ; she 
appeared nightly in costly toilet, with 
glowing cheeks, and her lovely hair 
adorned with flowers, but her cheeks 
were rouged^ and her sad smile accord- 
ed but little with her flowers. 

The king had carried on diligently 
but secretly his preparations for war, 
under the shadow of these luxurious 
festivities. Now all was ready; he 
could lay aside his mask and his em- 
broidered dress, and assume his uniform. 
The ballroom was closed, the music sil- 
enced, the silver melted into thalers. 
Tiie king left Berlin and joined his gen- 
erals at Potsdam. On the day of his 
arrival he commissioned his adjutant. 


General von Borck, to release Trenck 
from arrest, and send him to Berlin 
with a letter to the queen-mother ; he 
was to have leave of absence till the 
next day. 

“ I will see, now, if they understood 
me,” said Frederick to himself. “I 
have given them a hard lesson ; if they 
do not profit by it, they are incurable, 
and force me to extremity.” 

Alas ! they had not understood this 
hard lesson ; they were not wise, not 
prudent ; they would not see the 
sharp sword suspended over their 
heads : their arms were madly thrown 
around each other, and they did not 
grasp this only anchor of safety which 
the fond brother, and not the stem 
king, had extended to them. They 
were lost ! they must go down to de- 
struction ! 

The next morning, during the parade, 
Trenck drew near the king. He had 
just returned from Berlin; his cheeks 
were glowing from his rapid ride, and 
in his eyes there was still a shimmer of 
that happiness with which the presence 
of his beloved had inspired him. 

“ Your majesty, I announce myself,” 
said he, in a fresh and gay voice. 

The king said nothing. He looked 
at the handsome, healthy, and radiant- 
youth with a glance of profound sym- 
pathy and regret. 

Frederick von Trenck saw nothmg 
of this. “ Does your majesty command 
me to join my regiment at Berlin ? ” 
said he, in the most unembarrassed 
manner. 

And now the king’s eyes flashed 
with rage. “ From whence come you ? ” 
said he, sternly. 

“ From Berlin, sire.” 

“ Where were you before you were 
sent to Berlin ? ” 

“ In arrest, sire.” 

“Go, then, to your old place— that 
is to say, in arrest I ” 

Frederick von Trenck remained m 


144 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


arrest until every preparation was 
completed. The army was ready to 
marcli. The king assembled his officers, 
and announced to them that they 'Were 
bound once more to Silesia to bloody 
battle, and, with God’s help, to glorious 
victory.!! On that day Frederick von 
Trenck was released from arrest. The 
king received him with a gracious 
sm»ile, and commanded him to remain 
near him. a Trenck’s comrades envied 
him because of the royal favor ; because 
of the friendly smiles and gracious 
words which, more than once during 
the day, the king directed to him. No 
one understood how Trenck could re- 
main sad and silent under all these evi- 
dences of. royal favor; no one under- 
stood how thisi gallant young officer 
could enter upon this campaign with 
bowed head and heavy brow ; he should 


have sat upon his horse proud and 
erect — not dreaming, not lost in melan 
choly musing. 

No one but the king could ‘compre- 
hend this; his sympathetic S9UI was 
touched by every emotion of his young 
officer, and he had pity for every pang 
he inflicted. All this vast crowd of 
men had taken leave of those they 
loved and cherished. Trenck alone 
had been denied this solace. They had 
all received a love-greeting, a blessing, 
and a last fond kiss — a last tear to en- 
courage them in battle, perhaps in 
death. Trenck had no kiss, no bless- 
ing, no farewell. He had said farewell 
to fortune, to love, and hope; and even 
now, though marching to battle, per- 
haps to victory, he had no future. 
Tears were flowing for him, and tears 
would be his only inheritance. 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE ACTORS IN HALLE. 

His excellency, Gotshilf Augustus 
Franke, president of the university at 
Halle, bore unmistakable marks of 
anger and excitement upon his usually 
calm countenance, as, seated at his 
study-table, he glanced from time to 
time at a paper spread out before him. 

The entrance of two of his friends 
and colleagues seemed scarcely to in- 
terrupt his disagreeable train of 
thought, as he bade them good-morn- 
ing, and thanked them for coming to 
him so promptly. 

'“I have requested your presence, my 
friends,” he continued, “ to inform you 
of the receipt of the answer to the pe- 
tition which we presented to the Gen- 
eral Directory.” 

“ Ah, then,” cried Professor Bierman, 
“ our troubles are at an end I ” 

“Not so,” said Professor Franke, 
gloomily ; “ the wishes of the servants 
of the Lord do not always meet with 
the approbation of kings. King Fred- 
erick the Second has refused our peti- 
tion which was presented to him by 
the General Directory.” 

“ Refused it ? ” exclaimed the two 
professors. 

“Yes, refused it; he declares that he 


will not allow the actors to be expelled 
from Halle, until it can be satisfactorily 
proved that they have occasioned pub- 
lic disturbances in our midst.” 

“This is unheard-of injustice,” ex- 
claimed Professor Bierman. 

“ It is a new proof of the king’s utter 
godlessness,” said Professor Heinrich. 
“ He has already gone so far as to de- 
clare that these actors shall receive 
Christian burial.” 

“ Astounding ! ” cried the president. 
“This is a sacrilege, which will as- 
suredly meet a just punishment. But,” 
he continued after a pause, glancing 
anxiously around, “let us not forget 
that we are speaking of our king.” 

“ He seems to forget that even kings 
are but the servants of the Lord. His 
acts show a determination to destroy 
the church and its supporters.” 

“ Your remark is, I fear, too true,” 
answered Professor Franke; “but the 
object of our meeting was not to dis- 
cuss the king, but to discover, if possi- 
ble, some means of extricating ourselves 
from the disagreeable position in which 
we have been placed by the unexpected 
refusal of our petition. We were so 
confident of a different answer to our 
just demand, and have expressed this 
confidence so publicly, that, when the 
result is known, we shall be ridiculed 
by both citizens and students.” 

While the worthy professors were 


10 


146 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


still deep in their discussion, they were 
interru2)ted by the entrance of a ser- 
vant, who announced that there was a 
gentleman at the door, who called him- 
self Eckhof, and who desired to be ad- 
mitted to President Franke. 

“Eckhof!” exclaimed all- three, and 
the two friends looked mistrustfully at 
Franke. 

“Eckhof! Do you receive Eck- 
hof? ” 

“ Does this actor dare to cross your 
threshold?” 

“ It appears so,” cried Franke, an- 
grily. “ He has the boldness to force 
himself into my presence. — Let him 
enter ; we will then hear how he justi- 
fies this intrusion.” 

As Eckhof entered the room, the 
three professors remained seated, as if 
awaiting the approach of a criminal. 

Apparently unmoved by this want of 
cx)urtesy, Eckhof advanced to the presi- 
dent, and, after making a respectful 
bow, offered him his hand. 

Franke, ignoring this movement, 
asked, without changing his position, 
to what singular accident he might at- 
tribute the honor of this visit. 

Eckhof appeared grieved and aston- 
ished at the reception, but replied, “ I 
came, your excellency, to ask a favor. 
My friends have determined to give me 
a benefit to-night, and we have selected 
Voltaire’s wonderful tragedy, ‘ Britanni- 
cus,’ for our performance. The tickets 
are all sold, two hundred of them to 
students. There is, however, one thing 
wanting to make the evening all I 
would wish, and that is the presence of 
your excellency and some of the pro- 
fessors at the representation. Therefore 
I am here, and have taken the liberty 
of bringing these tickets, which I beg 
you will accept for the use of yourself 
and your brother professors,” and, bow- 
ng once more, he placed the tickets 
upon the talfie before which he was 
standing. 


“ Are you so lost, sir, to all sense of 
propriety,” cried Franke, “as to be- 
lieve that I, the president of the uni- 
versity, a professor of theology, and a 
doctor of philosophy, would enter your 
unholy, God - forsaken theatre ? No, 
sir, even in this degenerate age, we 
have not fallen so low, that the men of 
God are to be found in such places.” 

“ These are* very hard and unchris- 
tian words, your excellency. Professor 
and Doctor Franke, — words which no 
Christian, no man of learning, no gen- 
tleman should emjfioy. But I, although 
a poor actor, bearing no distinguished 
title, will only remember wbat is be- 
coming for a Christian, and will say, in 
the words of our Lord, ‘ Father, forgive 
them, they not know what they do.’ ” 

“ Those holy words become a blas- 
phemy on your lips,” said Professor 
Heinrich, solemnly. 

“ And still I repeat them : ‘ Father, 
forgive them, they know not what they 
do.’ Do you not know that, in judg- 
ing me, you condemn yourselves ? I 
came into your jDresence, hoping to 
reconcile the difficulties and misun- 
derstanding which I heard had been oc- 
casioned by the theatre between the 
professors and the students; but you 
have treated me with scorn and de- 
clined my assistance, and nothing 
remains for me but to bid you farewell, 
most learned and worthy men.” 

He bowed ceremoniously, and passed 
out, without again glancing at the 
indignant professors, and joined Joseph 
Fredersdorf, who awaited him below. 

“Well, did they accept your invita- 
tion ? ” 

“ No, my friend, all happened as you 
predicted: they refused it with scorn 
and indignation.” 

“ Now you will agree with me that 
we can hope to do nothing in Halle.” 

“ Yes, you are right, I fear, Joseph ; 
but let us dismiss so painful a subject. 
We will now go to our rehearsal, and 


147 


FREDERICK THE GREA.T AND HIS FRIENDS. 


we must perform our tragedy with 
such care and ■ in such a manner that 
the thunders of applause which we re- 
ceive will reach the ears of our ene- 
mies.” 

The three professors were still in the 
room of the president, in earnest con- 
sultation. 

“ So this miserable Eckhof is to have 
what he calls a benefit to-night ? ” said 
-he president 

“ Two hundred students will be pres- 
ent,” groaned Professor Heinrich. 

“ And our lecture-halls will be emp- 
ty.” 

‘‘We must exert our energies and 
put a stop to these proceedings; it is 
scandalous that our students have for- 
saken their studies to run after these 
actors.” 

“ Truly something must be done, for 
not only our fame but our purses are at 
stake.” 

“ This evil cannot continue ; we must 
take prompt measures to root it out,” 
said the president. “The General Di- 
rectory decided that the actors should 
not be expelled from Halle, unless it 
could be proved that they had been 
the occasion of some public difficulty. 
It is therefore necessary that such a 
difficulty should arise. According to 
Eckhof ’s account, there will be two 
hundred students at the theatre to- 
night. There are still, however, nearly 
one hundred who will not be present at 
his performance. Among these there 
must be some brave, determined, de- 
vout young men, who, in the name of 
God, of science, and of their teachers, 
would willingly enter the lists against 
these actors, and create a disturbance. 
We must employ some of these young 
men to visit the theatre to-night, and 
to groan and hiss when the other stu- 
dents applaud. This will be all-suffi- 
cient to raise a riot amongst these hot- 
olooded young men. After that, our 
course is plain : we have but to send in 


our account of the affaijr to the General 
Directory, and there will be no danger 
of a second refusal to our petition.” 

“ An excellent idea ! ” 

“ I am afraid, however, it will be 
difficult to find any students who will 
put their lives in such jeopardy.” 

“We must seek them among those to 
whose advantage it is to stand well 
with the president.” 

“There are some who receive a 
yearly stipend through me, and others 
who live only for science, and never 
visit the theatre. I name, for example, 
the industrious young student Lupinus. 
I shall speak to him, and I am sure he 
will not refuse to assist us ; he is small 
and not very strong, it is true, but he 
stands well with the students, and will 
carry others with him. I know five 
others upon whom I can count, and 
that is enough for our purpose. I will 
give them these tickets which Eckhof 
left here. He desired that we should 
make use of them, and we will do so, 
but to serve our own purpose, and not 
his.” 

Having arrived at this happy conclu- 
sion, the three professors separated. 


CHAPTER H. 

THE STUDENT LUPINUS. 

Young Lupinus sat quiet and alone, 
as was usual with him, in his room, be- 
fore his writing-table, which was cov- 
ered with books and folios. He was 
thinner and paler than when we first 
met him in Berlin. His deeply-sunken 
eyes were encircled with those dark 
rings which are usually the outward 
sign of mental suffering. His bloodless 
lips were firmly pressed together, and 
the small hand, upon which his pale 
brow rested, was transparently thin and 
white. 


148 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Lupiiius was Working, or appeared to 
be so. Before him lay one of those ven- 
erable folios which excite the reverence 
of the learned. The eyes of the young 
man rested, it is true, upon the open 
page, but so long, and so uninterrupt- 
edly, that it was evident his thoughts 
were elsewhere. 

The professors would, no doubt, have 
been rejoiced had they seen him bent 
thus earnestly and attentively over this 
volume. If, however, they had seen 
what really claimed his attention, they 
would have been seized with horror. 
Upon his open book lay a playbill, the 
bill for that evening, and upon this 
“ thing of horror ” rested the eyes of 
the young student. 

“ No, no,” he said, after a long pause, 
“ I will not go. I will not be overcome 
by my heart, after the fierce struggle 
of these two long, fearful months. I 
will not, I dare not see Eckhof again ; 
I should be lost — undone. Am I not 
lost even now ? Do I not see ever be- 
fore me those great, burning eyes ; do 
I ever cease to hear his soft, melodious 
voice, which seems to sing a requiem 
over my dead happiness ? I have striv- 
en uselessly against my fate — my life 
is blighted. I will strive no longer, 
but I will die honorably, as I have 
lived. I only pray to God that in my 
last hour I may not curse my father 
with my dying lips. He has sinned 
heavily against me ; he has sacrificed 
my life to his will. May God forgive 
him ! Now,” continued Lupinus, 
“ enough of complaints. My resolution is 
taken ; I will not go to the theatre, for 
I dare not see Eckhof again.” 

He suddenly seized the playbill, and 
pressed the spot where Eckhof ’s name 
stood again and again to his lips, then 
core the paper into many pieces, and 
threw them behind him. 

“So long as I live, I must struggle- — 
I vdW battle bravely. My heart shall 
die, my soul awake and comfort me.” 


Again he bent his head over the 
great tome, but this time a light knock 
at his door interrupted him, and 
the immediate entrance of Professor 
Franke filled him with amazement. 

“My visit seems to astonish you,” 
said the professor, in the most friendly 
tone. “ You think it singular that the 
president of the university should seek 
out one of the students. Perhaps it 
would be so in an ordinary case ; but 
for you, Lupinus, who are the most 
learned and honorable young man in 
our midst, we cannot do too much to 
show our respect and esteem.” 

“This is an honor which almost 
shames me,” said Lupinus, blushing; 
“ an honor of which, I fear, I am un- 
worthy.” 

“ I desire to give you a still greater 
proof of my esteem,” continued the 
professor. “ I wish to make you my 
confidant, and inform you of an in- 
trigue which, insignificant as it appears, 
will be followed by important results.” 

With ready words, Franke proceeded 
to explain to Lupinus his own views 
with regard to the actors; what he 
considered their wretched influence 
over the students, and also the ill-ad- 
vised decision of the General Directory. 
He then informed Lupinus of his plan 
for creating a disturbance in the the- 
atre, and requested his assistance in 
carrying it out. 

Lupmus listened with horror to this 
explanation and request, but he con- 
trolled himself, and quietly received 
the ticket which the president handed 
him. He listened silently to the fur- 
ther details, and Franke understood 
his silence as a respectful assent. 

When the president had at length 
taken leave, and Lupinus was again 
alone, he seized the ticket, threw it on 
the ground, and trampled it under foot, 
thus visiting upon the inoffensive ticket 
the scorn he had not dared exhibit tc 
the president 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


149 


‘I — I am to be the instrument of 
miserable plot!” he cried i)assion- 
ately. “Because I lead a lonely and 
joyless life, I am selected to execute 
this infamy. Ah, how little do they 
know me I how slight a knowledge of 
the human heart have these learned 
professors 1 Eckhof in danger, and I 
remain silent ? Eckhof threatened, and 
I not warn him ? That were a treach- 
ery against myself, a crime against art 
and my own poor heart. If I remain 
silent, I become an accomplice in this 
vile conspiracy.” At this thought, he 
took his hat and hurried from the 
room. 

When he reached the door of Eck- 
hof ’s lodging, he hesitated. A pro- 
found pallor succeeded a burning glow 
upon his countenance, and he mur- 
mured to himself : “ No, no ; I have not 
the strength to see him to - day. I 
should die if his eyes rested upon me. 
I will go to Fredersdorf.” 

Joseph Fredersdorf was at home, and 
received Lupinus with astonished de- 
light. 

“ The holy one trusts himself in the 
den of the wicked,” he said, with a 
bright smile. “ This is an unheard-of 
event, which doubtless indicates some- 
thing important.” 

“ You are laughing at me, but you 
are right. I am here for a purpose; 
nothing unimportant would have in- 
duced me to come to you after the un- 
grateful manner in which I declined 
your friendly advances. But I am sure 
you will forgive the intrusion when you 
become aware of the motive which has 
led me to you.” 

With hurried words and frequent in- 
terruptions from Fredersdorf, Lupinus 
informed his friend of the president’s 
visit, and its object. 

“ This is a regular conspiracy,” said 
Joseph, as Lupinus finished. “If it 
succeed, the punishment of the actors 
will be the result.” 


“ It must not succeed — we must pre- 
vent that. The first thing to be done 
is to gain over the other students to 
whom the president has intrusted this 
plot. We must either do that or pre- 
vent them from entering the theatre.'* 

“ But if we can do neither ? ” 

“ Then we must allow what we can- 
not prevent, but we must seek to avert 
the evil consequences. We will ad- 
dress ourselves to the king, and inform 
him who has occasioned this disturb- 
ance, and why it was done.” 

“ The king is just, and happily it is 
not difiicult to see him, especially for 
me, as my brother is his private secre- 
tary. We must be active, and the vic- 
'tory will be ours. And now, my dear 
friend, for you must allow mo to call 
you so from this day, let us go to my 
master, Eckhof. He must thank you 
himself for this kind warning. Come 
to Eckhof.” 

“ No I ” said Lupinus, “ it is a matter 
of no importance to Eckhof, who has 
given the information. There is much 
to be done to-day. I will seek to gain 
over the students ; you must hasten to 
Eckhof.” 

“ And will you not accompany me ? ” 

“ No, my friend, not to-day. Let us 
await the events of this evening. Per- 
haps I shall ask you to present me to 
him to-morrow.” 

“ Ah, that would be a real triumph 
for me 1 ” 

“ Let us first take care that this plot 
fails, and the actors are not driven 
from Halle.” 

“ When we have accomplished this, 
will you promise to walk arm-in-arm 
with me three times through the mar- 
ket-place ? ” 

“ Not only three times, but as often 
as you will.” 

“ Now I feel the strength of Samson, 
and the craft of Delilah. With this re- 
ward before me, I will vanquish all 
enemies.” 


150 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCIi OR, 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE. 

So dense was the crowd which 
filled the streets in the neighborhood of 
the theatre on the evening of Eckhof ’s 
benefit, that it appeared as if the en- 
tire population of the city of Halle 
must be unanimous in pushing to do 
honor to this wonderful artiste. 

Eckhof owed this triumph to the 
students; he had been their darling 
from the time of his first appearance 
among them, and now he had become 
the favorite of the entire city, with the 
exception of the professors. 

Had the theatre been three times its 
actual size, it could scarcely have ac- 
commodated all who had made applica- 
tions for tickets. The ‘part&rre was 
given up almost entirely to the students, 
upon whose countenances was plainly 
seen their deep interest in the evening’s 
entertainment. 

Here and there among them a few 
earnest faces and darkly-fiashing eyes 
might be seen, but they seemed to ar- 
rest no eye but that of Lupinus. He 
had passed every countenance in re- 
view, and had instantly recognized by 
their expression those students who had 
entered into the plot of the president. 
He had failed in his effort to discover 
them before the opening of the theatre, 
and was, therefore, unable to prevent 
their attendance. 

Professor Franke had informed these 
students that they might count upon 
the assistance of Lupinus, and one of 
them had just whispered to him: 
“There will be a fierce struggle, and I 
fear we shall be worsted, as our num- 
Der is so small. Did you bring your 
.•apier ? ” 

Before Lupinus could answer, he was 
separated from his questioner by a 
crowd of students pushing their way 


forward. It seemed as if these new ar- 
rivals had not come to the theatre for 
mere amusement. They glanced threat- 
eningly around them, as if seeking a 
concealed enemy. In passing Lupinus 
they greeted him with a few low-spoken 
words, or a waiTu pressure of the hand. 

These students were the special 
friends of Joseph Fredersdorf. To 
them he had confided the danger which 
threatened the actors this evening, and 
had demanded their aid in maintaining 
peace and quiet. They scattered about 
amongst the crowd of students, and 
whispered to their friends and acquaint- 
ances: “No disturbance this evening. 
We must be quiet, whatever occurs.” 

At length this fluttering, whispering 
crowd were silenced by the ringing of 
the bell, which announced the rising 
of the curtain. 

The piece began, and never had Eck- 
hof displayed such fire, such enthusi- 
asm ; the students had never exhibited 
such rapt and earnest attention. Their 
excitement was shown by their flashing 
eyes and glowing cheeks, and the low 
murmurs of delight which arose occa- 
sionally from this dark mass. But at 
length a moment arrived when it be- 
came impossible to suppress the expres- 
sion of their delight, and, forgetting all 
resolve to the contrary, they called 
aloud, amid thunders of applause, for 
their favorite Eckhof, who had just left 
the stage. 

“ A disturbance is now unavoidable,” 
said Lupinus to himself, “ but Eckhof 
deserves that we should forget all such 
miserable considerations. To die for 
him were to be indeed blessed.” 

As Eckhof appeared upon the stage, 
in answer to the repeated calls upon 
his name, Lupinus gazed upon him 
with a beaming countenance, and 
joined the others in their cries of de- 
light. 

The unalloyed triumph of Eckhof 
endured but for one moment, for sud 


151 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


denly, high above the shouts of ap- 
plause, arose a piercing, derisive whistle, 
succeeded by hisses and groans. 

As if by magic, the aspect of the 
parterre was changed. Every student 
looked wrathfully at his neighbor, as 
if determined to discover and punish 
the rash offender who dared run coun- 
ter to the general approbation. A few 
students were endeavoring to calm the 
rising storm; but renewed hisses and 
groans made this impossible, and one 
voice was heard high above the others: 
‘‘ You hissed, sir ; I forbid it ! ” 

“ And I forbid you to applaud,” was 
the answer. “ So long as you applaud, 
I will hiss. Accommodate yourself to 
that.” 

A universal cry of wrath arose as \f 
from one voice. The struggle was ine\ • 
itable, as Lupinus ha« 1 foreseen ; the joar- 
terre of the theatre was converted into 
a battle-ground, and a fierce combat be- 
gan among these young, hot-blooded 
students. The manager ordered the 
lights to be extinguished, and the po- 
lice to be called in, but for a long time 
their efforts were ineffectual in subduing 
the contest. 

We will leave the theatre with Lupi- 
nus, who, as soon as he could extricate 
himself from the battling crowd, hur- 
ried through the streets, toward the 
lodging of Fredersdorf. 

He found a post-carriage before the 
door, and Fredersdorf, dressed for a 
journey, was just leaving the house. 
As he was stepping into the carriage, 
Lupinus placed his hand upon his 
shoulder, and said, “ Where are you 
going, Fredersdorf?” 

“ To Berlin, to the king.” 

“ The king is not in Berlin ; he is in 
Silesia, with the army.” 

“ I received letters from my brother 
to-day. The king has gone to Berlin 
for a few days, and my brother is with 
him. I will have no difiiculty in ob- 
iaining an audience. I shall give the 


king a correct version of this affair. 
He will perceive that this disturbance 
was occasioned by the professors, and 
he will not allow us to be driven from 
Halle. Farewell, my friend; in four 
days I return, and you shall hear the 
result of my journey.” 

“ I intend to accompany you.” 

“ You intend to accompany me ? ” 

“ Yes; perhaps you will need a wit- 
ness; I must be with you. I thought 
you would have counted on me.” 

“ How could I suppose that Lupinus, 
the learned student, who will receive 
his diploma at the end of a few weeks, 
would tear himself from the arms of 
his beloved Science, to go with a come- 
dian before the king, and bear witness 
for the hated and despised actors ? ” 

“ Ah, Fredersdorf,” said Lupinus ; 
“ if you consider Science my beloved, 
I fear you will soon have occasion to 
call me a faithless lover.” 

“ What can you mean ? How I you 
also — ” 

“ Let us be off, my friend. We will 
discuss that in the carriage.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE FKIENDS. 

Four days after the unfortunate oc- 
cm-rences in the theatre, Fredersdorf 
and his friend Lupinus returned from 
their secret journey, the object of 
which was unknown even to Eckhof. 
No sooner had they alighted from their 
travelling-carriage, than they proceed- 
ed arm-in-arm to Eckhof’s lodging. 
They found him at home and alone, 
and Fredersdorf saw from his pale 
countenance and lustreless eyes that faia 
sensitive, easily-excited nature had been 
deeply wounded by the late events. 

I bring you a new pupil, my mas 
ter,” said Fredersdorf, drawing Lupi 


152 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


aus forward, who stood deeply blushing 
before Eckhof. 

Eckhof smiled sadly. “A pupil who 
desires that I should lead him through 
all the classes and degrees of the school 
of suffering and humiliation ? ” 

“ A young student, Eckhof, who up . 
to this time has been the pride and de- 
light of the university; who, however, 
now wishes to relinquish this honor, 
and become one of your followers. In 
one word, this is Lupinus, who desires 
to waive his right to the prospective 
dignity of the title of doctor of medi- 
cine, and to become your pupil, and 
eventually an actor.” 

“You are kind and tender-hearted 
as ever, Joseph,” said Eckhof, gently. 
“ You know that I bear a wound in my 
heart, and you seek to heal it with the 
balm of your friendship, and this kind 
jest.” 

“ This is no jest, but a reality. Tru- 
ly, you resemble a pair of lovers, who 
have not the courage to believe in their 
own happiness. Eckhof will not be- 
lieve that the learned student Lupinus 
wishes to become his follower and pu- 
pil, and Lupinus stands there like a 
young girl who has received a declara- 
tion and does not dare say yes. Speak, 
Lupinus, and tell this doubter that you 
have come voluntarily ; that I have not 
pressed you into the service as Frederick 
William impressed soldiers. Truly, I 
had trouble enough in divining from 
your broken words and repressed sighs, 
your blushes, and your deep admiration 
for Eckhof, this secret which lay in 
your bosom. But now that it has been 
discovered, take courage, my friend, 
Bnd raise the veil which conceals your 
lesii’es.” 

Lupinus remained speechless, only 
die heaving of his breast betrayed his 
excitement. Eckhof had compassion 
on the evident embarrassment of the 
young student, and approaching him 
laid his hand gently on his shoulder. 


Lupinus trembled and grew pale under 
Eckhof’s gentle, sympathetic glance. 

“Do you wish really to become an 
actor ? ” questioned Eckhof. 

“Yes,” he replied, in a low voice, “ I 
have long wished it, I have struggled 
with this wish, and thought I had over 
come it ; but the struggle has been in 
vain ; in vain have I buried myself in 
books and studies. I will keep up this 
internal strife no longer, but will follow 
the inclinations of my heart, which 
lead me to you. In this new life I shall 
be happy and contented; and this I 
can only hope to be, in giving my life 
to poetry and art.” 

“ Ah, he speaks and thinks as I did,” 
said Eckhof to himself; then turning to 
Lupinus, he said : “You wish to be an 
actor ; that means, you desire a life of 
shame and humiliation. No o e shall 
become an actor if I can prevent it. 
Do you know, young man, that, to be 
an actor, means to have the whole 
world, and perhaps even God, arrayed 
against you ? ” 

“ You are unjust, Eckhof,” cried 
Fredersdorf, — “unjust to yourself and 
to the world. You scorn your own tri- 
umph, and those who prepared that 
triumph for you.” 

“ You are right so far, my friend,” re- 
plied Eckhof sadly. “ But is it not al- 
so true that we are persecuted and driv- 
en forth ? Has it^ not been proved that 
for an actor there is no law, no justice ? ” 

“ Wlio knows,” said Fredersdorf, smi- 
ling, “ that we may not still triumph 
over these miserable conspirators ? ” 

“ Are you aware that the theatre has 
been closed, and our representations 
forbidden until the decision of the Gen- 
eral Assembly, with regard to the late 
disturbance in the theatre, shall be 
known ? ” 

“ The General Assembly will order 
tte theatre to be opened, and our rep- 
resentations to recommence.” 

Eckhof heard this with a cutting, de 


153 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


risive laugh, “ Dear friend, such an 
order would render justice to the scorn- 
ed and oppressed on earth ! ” 

“ And they will receive justice ; but 
it must be sought in the right place.” 
“ Where is that place ? ” 

“ Where the king is.” 

“ Ah ! the king ! That may be true 
in your case, because your brother is his 
private secretary, but it is not true for 
me — not true for the German actor.” 

“ Eckliof, you are again unjust. The 
king is too noble, too free from preju- 
dice, to be deceived by the dust with 
which these learned^ professors have 
sought to blind him. The king knows 
that they occasioned the late disturb- 
ance in the theatre.” 

“ Who has told you that ? ” 

“ The king himself.” 

“ You have seen the king ? ” 

“ I have. I hope you will allow now, 
that it is not a good thing for me only 
that my brother is private secretary to 
the king. I have seen his majesty, and 
I informed him of this wretched intrigue 
of the professors. He might not have 
put entire faith in the accounts of the 
actor, Joseph Fredersdorf, but I was 
accompanied by a responsible witness, 
who confirmed my words.” 

“Who was this witness ? ” 

“This is he,” said Joseph, drawing 
Lupinus forward. 

“ Ah ! ” said Eckhof, “ and I was mur- 
muring and complaining against fate — 
I, whose friends have shown their love 
by deeds as well as by words — friends 
who worked for me whilst I sat with 
folded hands bewailing my bad fortune. 
Forgive me, Joseph; forgive me, my 
young friend ; come to my- arms, my 
comrades, my brothers, and say that you 
will forget my anger and injustice.” 

He opened his arms, and Joseph 
threw himself upon his breast. 

“And you, my friend,” said Eckhof, 
turning to Lupinus, who stood pale and 
motionless before him. 


Joseph drew them together and ex- 
claimed : “Was I not right ? You are 
like two lovers ; Lupinus acts the part 
of the coy maiden to the life. I do not 
believe, Eckhof, that you will ever have 
a wife who will love you more entirely, 
more tenderly, than our young doctor 
does.” 

Lupinus, now folded in the arms of 
Eckhof, trembled and grew pale at 
these words from Joseph. 

“ Love me, love me, my dear young 
friend,” said Eckhof, softly. “ Friend- 
ship is the purest, the holiest gift of 
God. It is the love of the souls. Be 
faithful to me, Lupinus, as I shall be to 
you.” 

“ I will be faithful so long as I live, 
faithful beyond the grave,” whispered 
Lupinus. 

“ You whispering, dreaming lovers, 
are forgetting me,” said Joseph, laugh- 
ing. “ You must not forget, Eckhof, 
that the future of our friend is awaiting 
your decision. Shall he give up his 
studies as I did, and become an actor 'i 
It is only proper to tell you that the 
cases are not quite parallel, for I was a 
very lazy student, and he is most indus- 
trious. I was considered a good-for- 
nothing, and Lupinus is a miracle of 
knowdedge and learning. Shall he 
abandon this position and follow 
you ? ” 

“ He must not, indeed,” said Eckhof. 

“ You will not receive me ? ” said Lu- 
pinus, sadly. 

“ Not at present, dear friend ; I wish 
to be reasonable and careful, and per- 
haps a little egotistical. If you should 
leave the university at present, you give 
the professors a new weapon against 
me, and it would be said that I had 
employed arts to seduce you from the 
paths of science. And, further, we do 
not know if you have a talent for our 
profession; that must first be proved. 
Remain for the present true to your 
studies; at the end of a year, during 


i54 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


which time you shall pass your noviti- 
ate, we will decide this question.” 

“ It shall be as you say,” said Lupi- 
nus, earnestly. I will first gain my 
diploma, and then you shall decide my 
future, you and no other.” 

“ So be it,” said Joseph, “ and now 
let us drink to your future success, Lu- 
pinus, in a glass of champagne, and to 
the confusion of the professors, who 
are awaiting with such proud confi- 
dence the decision of the General As- 
sembly.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE OKDER OP THE KESTG. 

Joseph Fredersdorp was quite right 
in saying that the professors awaited 
the decision of the General Assembly 
with proud confidence. It did not 
occur to them that it might be un- 
favorable to their wishes, A public 
disturbance had arisen between the 
students, occasioned by a performance 
in the theatre ; this was a sufficient 
cause for the banishment of the actors. 
An account of the riot had been already 
forwarded by the Senate of the Uni ver- 
ity to the General Assembly, and the 
worthy gentlemen who composed this 
body did not doubt the fulfilment of 
their request, that the actors should be 
removed from Halle. 

» President Franke received with the 
utmost composure the official dispatch, 
containing the decision of the General 
Assembly, and called an immediate 
meeting of the Senate for its perusal. 
Whilst awaiting the opening of the 
meeting, Professor Heinrich was express- 
ing to his friend. Professor Bierman, 
his impatience to know the contents of 
the dispatch. 

“ I am not at all impatient,” replied 
Bierman. “I am convinced the deci- 
sion will be perfectly satisfactory to us ; 


in fact, that it commands the departure 
of these actors from our city.” 

“ Have you no doubts ? Do you not 
fear that the king, in his hatred for the 
theologians, and his admiration for 
these comedians, may decide in their 
favor rather than ours ? ” 

“ Dear friend, such a doubt would be 
unworthy the dignity of our position. 
The king, seeing that the matter has 
gone so far, must decide in our favor. 
And here is our worthy president. Look 
at his proud and cheerful aspect, and 
judge whether the document he holds in 
his hand can be unfavorable.’^ 

“ He does, indeed, seem contented,” 
answered Professor Heinrich, as he and 
his friend moved forward to meet the 
president. 

With great solemnity the senators 
proceeded to take their seats in the 
arm-chairs which encircled a large table 
standing in the centre of the room. 

After a moment’s silence the president 
addressed them : “ Worthy friends and 
colleagues, I have to announce to you 
that the hour has at length arrived 
which is to end all the doubts and cares 
that have oppressed our hearts for many 
months. We have had a bitter strug- 
gle; we have striven to preserve the 
honor of our university and the well- 
being of the youth committed to our 
care. The men who work with such 
noble motives must eventually tri- 
umph.” 

“ The decision is, then, in our favor,” 
^ked Professor Heinrich, no longer 
able to subdue his impatient curiosity. 
“ Your excellency has already read the 
dispatch of the General Assemlijly, and 
are acquainted with its contents ? ” 

“I have not read it, and I do not 
know its contents. But I rely upon 
our worthy cause, and the king’s sense 
of justice. These comedians were the 
occasion of a public disturbance — it is, 
therefore, proper that they should be 
punished. As justice is on our side I 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


165 


caunot doubt the result. I have not 
read this dispatch, for I considered it 
more in accordance with the dignity 
of this body that the seal should be 
broken in your presence, and I now beg 
that you. Professor Bierman, as the sec- 
retary of the Senate, will read to us 
this dispatch from the General Assem- 
bly." 

As Bierman broke the seal, all eyes 
were turned on him, and in this mo- 
ment of expectation the professors were 
aware that their hearts beat louder and 
more rapidly. Suddenly Professor Bier- 
man uttered a cry, a cry of horror, 
which awakened an echo in every 
breast. 

“Proceed," commanded the presi- 
dent, with stony composure. 

“I cannot," murmured Bierman, as 
he sank back powerless in his chair. 

“ Then I will read it myself,” cried 
Professor Heinrich, forgetting all other 
considerations in his determination to 
satisfy his curiosity. 

“ I will read it,” he repeated, as he 
took the paper from the trembling 
hands of his friend. 

“ Read,” said the president, in a low 
voice. 

Professor Heinrich then proceeded 
to read aloud the following dispatch 
sent by the General Assembly to the 
Senate of the University at Halle : 

“We find it most unworthy that you, 
in your complaint against the come- 
dians now in Halle, should endeavor 
to cast on them the blame of the late 
disturbance in the theatre. We are 
well aware of the cause of this disturb- 
ance, and now declare that the actors 
shall not be banished from Halle.” 

A fearful pause followed this read- 
ing. The president perceived that 
Heinrich was still looking at the paper 
he held. 

“ Is that all ? Have you finished the 
dispatch ? ” 

“ No, your excellency ; there is a note 


on the margin, in the writing of the 
king.” 

“ Read it aloud.” 

“ Your excellency, the king has made 
use of some expressions that I canuot 
bring my lips to utter.” 

“The king is our master; we must 
hear what he has to say in all humil- 
ity.” 

“You command me, then, to pro- 
ceed ? ” 

“ I command it." 

“ ‘ This pack of theologians have 
caused the whole difficulty. The actors 
shall continue to play, and Mr. Franke, 
or whatever else the scamp calls himself, 
shall make public reparation, by visit- 
ing the theatre ; and I must receive 
information from the actors themselves , 
that he has done so.’ ” 

A murmur of horror succeeded the 
reading of this order. Only President 
Franke maintained his erect position, 
and continued looking straight before 
him at Professor Heinrich, who had just 
dropped the fatal paper. 

“ Is that all ? ” asked the p 'esident. 

“ It is, your excellency.’ ’ 

He bowed gravely, and, rising- from 
his chair, glanced slowly from one face 
to another. The senators cast down 
their eyes before this glance, not from 
fear or shame, but from terror at the 
fearful expression of the president’s 
countenance. 

“ If that is all, it is time for me to 
go,” he said solemnly, as he pushed his 
chair back, and slowly and stiffiy walk- 
ed forward, like an automaton which 
had been set in motion by machinery. 

“This has affected his brain. He 
will have a paralytic stroke,” murmured 
the senators to one another. 

The president did not hear them, 
nor did he seem to know what he 
wished. He was now standing mo- 
tionless a few steps from the table. 

The professors were terrified at this 
spectacle, and only Hemrich had the 


156 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


coui’age to advance to his side and ask 
— “ Where do you wish to go, my dear 
friend ? ” 

“I wish to obey the command of the 
king — I am going to the theatre,” he 
replied, with a cry of despair, and then 
fell fainting into the arms of his friend. 

Professor Bierman instantly summon- 
ed assistance, and the insensible form of 
the president was borne from the room, 
and a messenger sent for a physician. 

When the professors had become 
somewhat composed, Bierman announ- 
ced to them that he had a proposition 
to make which he hoped would meet 
with their approval. 

“ You doubtless agree with me, my 
friends, in saying that this cruel sen- 
tence of the king must be carried out. 
Our friend the president would not 
suffer alone in its fulfilment — the honor 
of the university would receive an ir- 
reparable wound. We must employ 
every effort to alter this decision. It is, 
in my opinion, fortunate that our worthy 
friend has sunk for the time beneath this 
blow. His illness relieves him from the 
necessity of an immediate appearance 
in the theatre ; and, whether ill or not, 
he must remain in his bed until the 
king can be induced to alter his sen- 
tence. We will prepare a petition and 
send it immediately to the king.” 

The proposal of Bierman met with 
entire approval ; and the petition was 
prepared, signed by all the professors, 
and sent to Berlin by one of their num- 
ber. The king, however, declined to re- 
ceive him, and his only answer was 
that in eight days the Senate would 
be made acquainted with his final de- 
cision. 

The professors convinced themselves 
that there was comfort in Uiis answer. 
The king evidently did not intend to 
insist on the execution of the first sen- 
tence, or he would simply have ordered 
its fulfilment. 

The professors were hopeful, and no \ 


longer opposed the nightly visits of 
the students to the theatre. A few of 
them determined to visit the theatre 
themselves, and see this Eckhof who 
had caused them so much sorrow and 
trouble. The students were delighted 
at this concession, and considered the 
professors the most enlightened and un- 
prejudiced of the whole body. To show 
their appreciation of this, they attended 
their lectures on the following day. 

This unexpected result made the 
other professors falter in their deter- 
mination. Their temporal good de- 
pended very much on the attendance of 
the students upon their lectures. They 
found that they must consent to listen 
to Eckhof and his companions, if they 
would be heard themselves; and, at 
length, they determined to make peace 
with the students and actors, and to 
visit the theatre. 

Peace was now proclaimed, and Eck- 
hof, whose noble and tender heart was 
filled with joy and gratitude, played 
“ Britannicus ” with such power and 
feeling that he even won applause from 
the professors. 

President Franke was still confined to 
his room. The terror of a forced visit 
to the theatre, which would be known 
as an expiation for his fault, made 
his nights sleepless and his days most 
wretched. 

At length, however, the answer to the 
petition arrived, and, to his great relief, 
he found himself condemned to pay. a 
fine of twenty thalers to the almshouse 
of Halle ; and no further mention was 
made of his visit to the theatre. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE BATT7<E OF SOHR. 

Deep silence reigned in the encamp- 
5 ment which the Prussians had estal- 


157 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


islied near the village of S ^hr. The 
brave soldiers, wearied with their long 
march, were sleeping quietly, although 
they knew that the Austrian army, 
which far outnumbered their own, was 
hastening toward them, and would at- 
tack them wdthin a few hours. This 
knowledge did not alarm them, they 
had not so soon forgotten their signal 
victory over Karl von Lothringen, with 
his Austrians, Bavarians, *and Saxons, 
at Hohenfriedberg. They did not fear 
a defeat at Sohr, although the grand- 
duke was now the leader of forty thou- 
sand men, and Frederick’s army had 
been so diminished by the forces he 
had sent to Saxony and Silesia, that it 
consisted of scarcely twenty thousand 
men. The Prussian soldiers relied con- 
fidently upon the good fortune and the 
strategic talent of their king ; they 
could sleep quietly, for Frederick 
watched beside them. 

The watch-fires had died out, the 
lights in the tents of the officers were 
extinguished. Now and then might 
be heard the measured tread of a sen- 
tinel, or the loud breathing of some 
soldier dreaming perhaps of his distant 
home or forsaken bride. No other 
sounds broke upon the night air. The 
Prussian army slept. Alas 1 how many 
of them were now dreaming their last 
earthly dream ; how many on the mor- 
row would lie with gaping wounds 
upon a bloody battle-ground, with 
staring glassy eyes turned upward, and 
no one near to wipe the death-drops 
from their brows ! Tliey know not, 
they care not, they are lost in sleep. 
There can be no pressing danger, for 
the king is in their midst — the light 
has been extinguished in his tent also. 
He sleeps with his army. 

It is midnight, the hour of wander- 
ing spiiits. Is that a spirit which has 
just left so noiselessly the tent of the 
idng, and has so quickly vanished in 
Lhe tent of the adjutant, which adjoins 


that of the king ? No, not vanished, 
for it has already reappeared ; but there 
are now three of these shadowy beings 
quietly approaching the white tents of 
the officers, disappearing for an instant 
into each tent, then reappearing, and 
continuing their course. 

Where they have been may now be 
heard a low whispering and moving. 
Soon another dark figure is visible ; it 
moves cautiously forward toward the 
soldiers’ tents in which it disappears, 
and from these may be heard the same 
low whispering, and like a murmuring 
brook this babbling glides through the 
entire camp, always following the first 
three shadows who have gone noise- 
lessly and with the rapidity of the wind 
through the camp. 

Why have these three shadows driven 
sleep from the encampment ? why have 
they ordered the horses to be prepared ? 
No one has been told to mount, 
no “Forward!” has been thundered 
through the camp; and but for the 
dark figures which may now be seen on 
all sides, the silence is so profound that 
one might almost think the camp still 
buried in sleep. 

The Austrians, who can only view 
the camp from a distance, think, no 
doubt, their enemy still sleeps. 

The silence of the camp is at last 
broken by a sound like the heavy roll 
of thunder ; and if the moon were now 
to break through the clouds, it would 
gleam upon eight field-pieces which are 
being carefully drawn behind a little 
elevation in the ground, which lies op- 
posite the defile occupied by the Aus- 
trians. 

Once again all is silent, and tne no- 
rizon begins to clear ; a few rosy clouds 
fly across the heavens, the veil of night 
is raised, the stars pale as the morning 
arrays herself with hues of purple and 
gold. 

It is morning. Let us look again at 
the camp of the Prussian soldiers. Are 


158 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCl ; OR, 


they sleeping 1 No, no ; all are awake ; 
all prepared for action, but all silent 
and motionless as if bound by a charm. 

And here is the enchanter who has 
awakened all these thousands to life, 
and still binds them to silence. His 
countenance is bright and clear, his 
glance seems to pierce the hill which 
divides him from the enemy, and to 
divine the moment of their attack. 
There is the ruler, whose will is law to 
dll these thousands of men, whose word 
js now to lead them to death, to a 
/nameful defeat, or to a glorious vic- 
tory. There is the king. He knows 
that within a few moments the Aus- 
trians will attack his army, but he does 
not tremble. 

The Austrians expect to surprise a 
sleeping foe ; but the king, who is the 
father of his people, has himself, with 
his two adjutants, Trenck and Stand- 
nitz, awakened them from their slum- 
bers ; it was he who directed the pla- 
cing of cannon at the point upon 
which the Austrian cavalry is certain to 
make their descent upon the sleeping 
camp. 

The king was right. Do you not 
hear the heavy tramp of cavalry, the 
thunder ol tnose cannon ? 

The Austiians are pressing through 
the narrow defiie; this is the thunder of 
their cannon, witu which they thought 
to awaken the Prussians. 

Now the king raises bis sword ; the 
sign is given. The Austrian cavalry 
may advance, for the Prussians are now 
in motion ; now rushing forward, press- 
ing toward the defile, before which 
their enemy are quietly forming their 
line of battle, although scarcely fearing 
a conflict, for are the Prussians not 
sleeping? They expected a bloodless 
victory. 

But the Prussians are awake; it is 
they who attack the surprised Aus- 
trians. They have already driven the 
cavalry back into the nirrow defile. 


The thunders of their cannon aie now 
heard, and they bear the ajipalling news 
to the Austrians that the Prussians are 
not sleeping. 

Karl von Lothringen, you should 
have known tbe Prussians better. Did 
not they out-manceuvre you two short 
months since ? Did not Frederick 
make a pretence of retreating, in order 
to draw you on out of your favorable 
position, and then attack you, and win, 
in a few short morning hours, a glori- 
ous victory ? Karl von Lothringen, you 
should have remembered Hohenfried- 
berg. You should not have imagined 
that the Prussians slept while the Aus- 
trians stood before them in battle ar- 
ray. The Prussians are indeed awake. 
Listen to their joyous shouts, look at 
their flashing swords ! 

Karl von Lothringen, where are your 
troops which were intended to attack 
the enemy in the rear? Where is 
Trenck with his pandours ? where 
General Nadasti, with his well-disci- 
plined regiments ? If your hope is in 
these, then despair, and thrust your 
sword in its sheath. 

The Prussians have deserted their 
camp; the enemy is before them; in 
their pursuit they have left all behind 
them ; they thought not of earthly pos- 
sessions, but of honor and victory. 
Every thing was left in the camp. 
The king’s entire camp-furniture, and 
even the army treasure. 

Karl von Lothringen, hope nothing 
from Trenck and his pandours ; nothing 
from Nadasti and his regiments. Thej 
have obeyed your commands ; thej 
have pressed into the enemy’s camp; 
they are taking prizes, plundering 
greedily. What care they for the bat- 
tle which thunders and roars before 
them ? the cannon-balls do not reach 
them; they can enrich themselves in 
the camp of the Prussians whilst these 
are gaining a glorious victory. 

The battle is not yet decided. “II 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


159 


Trenck and Nadasti attack our rear,” 
said the king, “ we are lost.” 

At this moment an adjutant an- 
nounced to him that Trenck and Na- 
dasti were plundering the Prussian 
camp. 

The king’s countenance beamed with 
delight. “ Let them plunder,” he said, 
joyfully, “ whilst they are so occupied 
they will not interfere with our im- 
portant work. Whilst they plunder, 
we will conquer.” 

Yes, the battle is decided ; while the 
Austrians plundered, the Prussians con- 
quered. Karl von Lothringen, over- 
come with grief and shame, is retreat- 
ing- with his disorganized troops. 

The Prussians have gained the day, 
)ut it was a fearful victory, a murder- 
ous battle between brothers, German 
against German, brother against brother. 

The Duke Albrecht, of Brunswick, 
has fallen by the side of the king ; his 
brother Ludwig lies covered with 
wounds in the Austrian camp. 

Poor Queen Elizabeth Christine, your 
husband has conquered, but you have 
both paid dearly for the victory. The 
king has lost his tent, his camp-furni- 
ture, and eighty thousand ducats, and 
the baggage of the entire army. You 
have lost one brother, and the other 
lies covered with bloody wounds. The 
king has gained the battle. His is the 
fame and honor. Yon, poor queen, you 
have only a new grief. Yours are the 
tears and the pain. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AFTER THE BATTLE. 

The Prussians were resting from 
their labors, not in comfortable tents or 
on soft cushions, but on the hard ground, 
with no protection against sun and 
wind, and not too distant from the ] 


battle-field to hear the heart-rending 
cries and groans of their dying com- 
rades. But even these cries and groans 
were to the triumphant Prussians the 
sign of their glorious victory, and 
awoke in those who had escaped un- 
scathed through this terrible fire a feel- 
ing of deep gratitude. 

After these fearful hours of excite- 
ment followed a general lassitude, a 
positive physical necessity for rest. 
But, alas ! there was something which 
drove slfeep from their eyelids, and in- 
creased the weariness of their bodies. 
This was hunger. The pandours had 
thoroughly plundered the Prussian 
camp ; they had taken not only the 
baggage of the poor soldiers, but all 
their provisions. 

The Prussians, who had obtained so 
glorious a triumph in the morning, 
were now looking forward to a day of 
fasting, while the Austrians, in spite of 
their defeat, were consoling themselves 
with the provisions which they had 
taken from the Prussians. Happy was 
he who had a piece of bread in his knap- 
sack, or whose tent had been overlooked 
or forgotten by the plunderers ; but few 
had been so fortunate, and these in the 
egotism of hunger refused to share their 
precious treasure, even with their dear- 
est friend. 

King Frederick was not among the 
fortunate. The victory was his, but his 
laurel-wreath could not be transformed 
into bread. He had said in vain to his 
generals and adjutants, “ We will dine.” 
There was nothing to set before the king 

When General Rothenberg broughi 
this disagreeable news to the king, he 
said, laughing gayly : “ Let us imagine 
ourselves to be Catholics, my friends, 
for the present, and it will be quite in 
order that we should fast on the day of 
a glorious victory. I will be quite con- 
tented with a piece of bread, and I sup- 
pose that can be found somewhere for 
the King of Prussia ” 


160 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


But General Eotlienberg’s order to 
the royal cook to satisfy the simple de- 
mand of his master was in vain. The 
cook had nothing, neither meat, fruit, 
nor bread. 

“ I will not return empty-handed to 
the king,” said Kothenberg, with tears 
in his eyes. “ I would sooner part with 
my last ducat to the first soldier I meet 
who has a piece of bread.” 

The general then passed, with inquis- 
itive glances, through the groups of 
soldiers who were talking over the 
events of the last few hours. At last 
he perceived a soldier who was not 
talking, but was ogling a piece of bread 
which he seemed preparing to devour. 
With a hasty spring the general was at 
his side, his hand upon the bread. 

“ I will give you two ducats for this 
piece of bread, my friend.” 

“ Two ducats! what should I do 
with two ducats ? ” he asked, with a 
scornful laugh. “ I cannot eat your 
ducats, general, and my bread is more 
precious to me than a handful of 
ducats.” 

“ If you will not give it for gold, 
then give it for love,” cried the general. 
“ For love of your king who is hungry, 
and has nothing to satisfy his crav- 
ing.” 

The countenance of the soldier, 
which had been so smiling, became 
earnest, and he murmured thought- 
fully to himself, “ The king has no 
bread ! ” 

“ The king is hungry,” repeated Ko- 
thenberg, almost imploringly. 

“ The king is hungry,” murmured 
the soldier, sadly, as he glanced at the 
bread in his hand. Then, with quiet 
determination, he cut the loaf in two 
pieces, and handing one to the general, 
he said, “ I will give you half of my 
bread, that is really all I can do for the 
'■dng. Take it, general, the matter is 
settled. I will give no more.” 

“ I desire no more,” cried Rothen- 


berg, as he hurried off with the bread 
to the newly-erected tent of the king. 

The soldier looked smilingly after 
him, but suddenly his countenance be- 
came overcast, he was seized with a 
fearful idea — suppose the general had 
deceived him, and the bread was not 
for the king ? He must know, he must 
convince himself that the statement 
was true. He followed the general rap- 
idly, and soon overtook him, Rothen- 
berg perceived him, and understood 
instantly why he had followed him. 
Smilingly he entered the presence of 
the king. 

“ My king, I am here, and bring what 
you demanded, a piece of bread.” 

“ Ah, that means renewed strength,” 
said the king, as he received the bread 
and commenced eating it with evident 
satisfaction. “How did you procure 
this bread for me, my friend ? ” 

“ Sire, I obtained it of a soldier, who 
refused to sell it, but who gladly gave 
it to me when he heard it was for the 
king. Afterward he conceived a doubt 
that I had deceived him, and that I 
had obtained his treasure for my own 
gratification. He followed me, and I 
wager he is standing without, longing 
to know if the king is really eating his 
bread.” 

“ I will gratify his desire,” said Fred- 
erick, smiling, as he raised the curtain 
of the tent, and stood in the opening. 

There stood the soldier, staring at 
the tent, but he trembled when he per- 
ceived the king. Frederick nodded to 
him most kindly, and jw'oceeded to cut 
the bread which he held in his hand. 

“I thank you for your bread,” he 
said ; “ my friend, you must ask some 
favor of me. Think what you would 
wish.” 

“ Oh ! I need not think,” the soldier 
cried joyfully. “If I may wish for 
something, it shall be the position of 
magistrate in my native land in Prus- 
sia.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


161 


“ When peace is declared, your wish 
shall be gratified,” said the king to the 
delighted soldier, and then, bowing 
graciously, Frederick reentered the tent. 

“Now my friend, my Pylades, we 
will allow ourselves an hour of rest, of 
recreation ; I think we have earned it. 
Come and read aloud to me.” 

“ What shall I read to your majes- 
ty ? ” asked Rothenberg, evidently em- 
barrassed. 

“ You may read from Horace.” 

“ Your majesty does not know — ” 
said Rothenberg, hesitatingly. 

“ What do I not know ? ” 

“ That the pandours have carried off 
your camp library.” 

“ What 1 my books too ? ” demanded 
the king, and a cloud darkened his 
brow. “What can the pandours and 
Croats do with my poor books ? Could 
they not content themselves with my 
treasure and my silver-ware? Must 
they take what is so worthless to them, 
and so precious to me ? ” 

Then, with bent brows, his hands 
crossed behind him, he paced back and 
forth in the narrow tent. Suddenly 
arresting his steps, he glanced around 
the tent, as if in search of something. 
“ Biche is not here,” he said quietly ; 
“ bring Biche to me, my friend.” 

But General Rothenberg did not 
move. 

“ Well ! ” exclaimed the king. 

“ Sire, they have taken Biche with 
them also.” 

“ Biche also, my faithful friend, my 
pet ! ” cried the king, with much emo- 
tion, as he again began his walk. At 
length, approaching the general, he 
placed both hands upon his shoulder 
and looked tenderly into his eyes. “ I 
have my friend,” he said gently, “ why 
should I be troubled about my books 
or my dog ? I will send to Berlin and 
have the books replaced, and I will 
ransom Biche. They cannot refuse to 
restore the faithful animal to me.” 

11 


There was an expression of such anx- 
iety on the king’s features, that Roth- 
enberg was much moved. 

“ I do not doubt, sire,” he said, “ that 
your favorite will be returned to you. 
Your majesty may well trust to that 
Providence which has vouchsafed you 
so glorious a victory.” 

The king replied, smiling : “ I will 
tell you a secret, my friend. I deserved 
to be overcome in this battle, for I had 
weakened my army too much by de- 
tachments. Nothing but the skill of 
my generals, and the bravery of my 
troops, saved me from a defeat. Some- 
thing is also due to the avarice of the 
pandours and Croats ; a branch of our 
laurel-wreath belongs justly to Nadasti 
and Trenck. It is most fortunate that 
the courier who brought those last dis- 
patches from Berlin, did not arrive 
during the battle. He would certainly 
have been captured by the pandours, 
and my dispatches lost. My friend, do 
you not see how Providence marks out 
for me the path of duty ? A king dare 
not waste a moment in dreams or idle 
pleasures. I wished to live an hour for 
myself, when I should have been read- 
ing these dispatches. We will go to 
work ; here is the key of the dispatch- 
bag ; open it and take out the letters.” 

The king then seated himself before 
the common deal table which stood in 
the centre of the tent, and assorted the 
papers which Rothenberg handed to 
him. 

“ We will read first the letters from 
our friends,” said the king, placing the 
dispatches and papers on one side. 
“ Here are letters from D’Argens, aud 
from Knobelsdorf, but none from Hu- 
han, or Jordan, or Kaiserling. What 
does that mean ? I fear that all is not 
right. Ah, here is a letter for you, my 
friend, in the handwriting of Duhan. 
He writes to you, and not to me. 
Read, Rothenberg, and tell me its con 
tents.” 


162 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


The king then opened one of his own 
letters, but it was evident that it did 
not occupy his attention. He raised 
his eyes every few seconds to look at 
the general, who had become very pale 
on first opening his letter, and whose 
countenance now bore an expression of 
pain. Frederick could no longer en- 
dure this silence. He arose hastily, 
and approached Rothenberg. 

“ My friend,” he said, “ Duhan has 
written something to you that he 
would not write to me — something 
most painful. I see by your counte- 
nance.” 

“ Your majesty is right ; my letters 
contain most distressing intelligence.” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured the king, as he 
turned from Rothenberg, “ I fear I have 
not the strength to support this coming 
trial.” After a pause, he continued : 
“Now, my friend, tell me, are my 
mother and sisters well ? ” 

“Sire, the entire royal family are 
well.” 

“ Your intelligence, then, relates to 
my friends. Two of them are ill — yes, 
Dwo. How is Jordan? You do not 
tnswer — you weep. How is Jordan ?,” 

“ Sire, Jordan is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” cried the king, as he sank 
powerless upon his chair and covered 
lia face with his hands. “ Dead ! my 
oest, my dearest friend is dead ? ” 

“ His death was as bright and peace- 
ful as his life,” replied Rothenberg. 

His last word was a farewell to your 
majesty, his last act was to wiite to his 
is^ing. Here is the letter, sire.” 

The king silently received the letter 
from Rothenberg. Two great tears 
k*an slowly down his cheeks, and, falling 
m the letter, obliterated some words of 
:he address. “Jordan’s hand wrote 
ihese words for the last time; this idle 
:itle ‘his majesty’ — and my tears have 
washed it away. Jordan ! Jordan ! I 
am no longer a Idng, but a poor, weak 
man who mourns for his lost friend.” 


He pressed the paper passionately tc 
his lips ; then placed it in his bosom, 
and turned once more to Rothenberg. 

“ Tell me the rest, my friend ; I am 
resigned to all things now.” 

“ Did you not say, sire, that you had 
left two friends ill in Berlin ? ” 

“ Jordan and Kaiserling. You do 
not mean that Kaiserling also — oh, no, 
no! that is impossible! Jordan is 
dead, and I knew that he must die; 
but Kaiserling will recover — I feel, 1 
know it.” 

“Your majesty,” said Rothenberg, 
“ if I were a pious priest, I would say 
Kaiserling has recovered, for his soul 
has returned to God.” 

“ Kaiserling dead also ! Rothenberg, 
how could you find the courage to tell 
me this? Two friends lost in a mo- 
ment of time.” The king said nothing 
more. His head sank upon his breast, 
and he wept bitterly. After a time he 
raised his head, and said, as if to him- 
self : “ My two friends 1 They were 
my family — now I am orphaned. Sor- 
row will make a desert of my heart, 
and men will call me cold and heart- 
less. They will not know that my 
heart is a graveyard, wherein my friends 
lie buried.” 

The tears ran slowly down his cheeks 
as he uttered this death-wail. So deep 
was the grief depicted on the counte- 
nance of the king, that Rothenberg 
could no longer restrain himself. He 
rushed to the king, and sinking on his 
knees beside him, seized his hands and 
covered them with tears and kisses. 

“ Oh, my king, my hero 1 cease to 
mourn, if you do not wish to see me die 
of grief.” 

The king smiled mournfully, as he 
replied : “ If one could die of grief, j. 
would not have survived this hour.” 

“What would the world think couUl 
they see this great conqueror forget- 
ting his triumphs and indulging suet 
grief? ” 


163 


FREDERICK TIJE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ Ah, my friend, you desire to console 
me with the remembrance of this vic- 
tory I I rejoice that I have preserved 
my land from a cruel misfortune, and 
that my troops are crowned with glory. 
But my personal vanity finds no food 
in this victory. The welfare and the 
happiness of my people alone lie on my 
heart — I think not of my own fleeting 
fame.” 

“ The fame of my king is not fleeting. 
It will live in future years,” cried the 
general. 

The king shrugged his shoulders al- 
most contemptuously. “ Only death 
stamps fame upon kings’ lives. For 
the present, I am content to fulfil my 
duties to the best of my ability. To be 
a true king, a monarch must be willing 
to resign all personal happiness. As for 
me, Rothenberg, on this day, when I, 
as king, am peculiarly fortunate, my 
heart is wrung by the loss of two dear 
friends. The man must pay for the 
happiness of the king. But,” said the 
king, after a pause, “ this is the dealing 
of the Almighty; I must submit si- 
lently. Would that my heart were si- 
lent 1 I will tell you something, my 
friend. I fear that I was unjust to Mac- 
chiavelli. He was right — only a man 
with a heart of iron can be a king, for 
he alone could think entirely of his 
people.” 

“ How suffering and full of grief must 
my king be to speak thus ! You have 
lost two dear friends, sire. I also mourn 
their loss, but am suffering fi-om a still 
deeper grief. I have lost the love of 
my king. I have lost faith in the 
friendship of my Frederick,” said Ro- 
thenberg, sighing deeply. 

“My Rothenberg,” said the king, 
with his deep, tender voice, “ look at 
me, and tell me what men call you, 
when they speak of you and me ? ” 

“ I hope they call me your majesty’s 
most faithful servant.” 

“ No, they call you my favorite, and 


what they say is true. Vox populi 
wx Dei, Come to my heart, my favor- 
ite.” 

“ Ah ! my king, my prince, my 
friend,” cried Rothenberg, enthusiasti- 
cally, as he threw himself into the arms 
of the king. 

They stood long thus, heart pressed 
to heart ; and who that had seen them, 
the king and the hero, the conquerors 
of the day, would have imagined that 
their tears were not the tears of happi- 
ness and triumph, but of suffering and 
love ? 

“ And now,” said Frederick, after a 
pause, “ let me again be king. I must 
return to my duties.” 

He seated himself at the table, and 
Rothenberg, after taking from the dis- 
patch-bag a number of documents bear- 
ing the state seal, handed the king a 
daintily perfumed, rose-colored note. 
The king would not receive it, although 
a light blush mounted to his brow, and 
his eyes beamed more brightly. 

“ Lay that on one side,” he said, “ 1 
cannot read it ; the notes of the Mise- 
rere are still sounding in my heart, and 
this operatic air would but create a 
discord. We will proceed to read the 
dispatches.” 


CHAPTER Vm. 

A LETTER PREGNANT WITH FATE. 

The king was not the only person, 
in the encampment at Sohr, to whom 
the courier brought letters from Berlin ; 
the colonel of every regiment had re- 
ceived a securely-locked post-bag con- 
taining the letters for the officers and 
soldiers of his regiment, which it was 
his duty to deliver. To avoid errors in 
the distribution, every post-bag was 
accompanied by a list, sent from the 
war department, on which each person 


164 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOJJCI; OR, 


to ■whom a letter was addressed must 
write a receipt. 

Colonel von Jaschinsky was there- 
fore compelled to deliver to Lieutenant 
von Trenck both the letters which 
were addressed to him. The colonel 
looked at one of these letters with a 
most malicious expression ; he was not 
at all curious concerning its contents, 
for he was well acquainted with them, 
and knew that as soon as Trenck re- 
ceived it, it would become a sword, 
whose deadly point would be directed 
to the breast of the young man. 

He knew the letter, for he had seen 
it before, but he had not delivered it ; 
he had fraudulently withheld it from 
Trenck, in order to send it to Berlin, to 
his friend Pollnitz, and to ask him if he 
did not think it well suited to accom- 
plish their purpose of making Lieuten- 
ant von Trenck harmless, by bringing 
about his utter destruction. Pollnitz 
had not answered up to this time, but 
to-day Colonel von Jaschinsky had re- 
ceived a letter from him, in which he 
said ; “ It is now time to allow the letter 
of the pandour to work. I carried the 
letter to the post, and I imagine that I 
played the part of a Job’s messenger to 
this impertinent young officer, who al- 
lows himself to believe that his colonel 
owes him two hundred ducats. If you 
have ever really been his debtor, he will 
certainly be yours from to-day, for to 
you he will owe free quarters in one of 
the Prussian forts, and I hope for no 
short time. When you inform the 
king of this letter from the pandour, 
you can also say that Lieutenant von 
Trenck received a second letter from 
Berlin, and that you believe it to be 
from a lady. Perhaps the king will 
demand this letter, which I am posi- 
tive Trenck will receive, for I mailed 
it myself, and it is equally certain 
that he will not destroy it, for lovers 
do not destroy the letters of the be- 
loved.” 


No, lovers never destroy the letters 
of the beloved. What would have 
induced Frederick von Trenck to de- 
stroy this paper, on which her hand 
had rested, her eyes had looked upon, 
her breath touched, and on which her 
love, her vows, her longing, and her 
faith, were depicted ? No, he would 
not have exchanged it for all the treas- 
ures of the world — this holy, this pre- 
cious paper, which said to him that 
the Princess Amelia had not forgotten 
him, that she was determined to wait 
with patience, and love, and faith, until 
her hero returned, covk*ed with glory, 
with a laurel- wreath on his brow, 
which would be brighter and more 
beautiful than the crown of a king. 

As Trenck read these lines he wept 
with shame and humiliation. Two 
battles had been already won, and his 
name had remained dark and un- 
known ; two battles, and none of those 
heroic deeds which his beloved expect- 
ed from him with such certainty, had 
come in his path. He had performed 
his duty as a brave soldier, but he had 
not accomplished such an heroic act as 
that of Krauel, in the past year, which 
had raised the common soldier to the 
title of Baron Khauel von Ziskaberg, 
and had given to the unknown peasant 
a name whose fame would extend over 
centuries. He had not astonished the 
whole world with a daring, unheard- 
of undertaking, such as that of Zie- 
then, who had passed with his hussars, 
unknown, through the Austrian camp. 
He had been nothing but a brave sol- 
dier — he had done nothing more than 
many thousands. He felt the strength 
and the courage to tear the very stars 
from heaven, that he might bind them 
as a diadem upon the brow of his be- 
loved ; to battle with the Titans, and 
plunge them into the abyss ; to bear 
upon his shoulders the whole world, 
as Atlas did; he felt in himself the 
power, the daring, the will, and the 


165 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


ability of a hero. But the opportunity 
failed him. 

The deeds which he longed to ac- 
complish did not lie in his path. And 
thus, in spite of two victorious battles 
in which he had fought ; in spite of 
the evident good-will of the king, he 
had remained what he was, the un- 
known and undistinguished Lieutenant 
von Trenck. With a trembling heart 
he demanded of himself if the Prin- 
cess Amelia would continue to love 
him if he returned to her as he had de- 
parted ; if her proud, pure heart could 
stand that severest of all tests, the dis- 
covery that she had bestowed her love 
upon an ordinary, undistinguished 
man. 

“ No, no ! ” he cried, “ I have not the 
courage to return thus to her. If I 
cannot distinguish myself, I can die. 
In the next battle I will conquer fame 
or death. And if I fall, she will weep 
for me. That would be a far happier fate 
than living to be forgot ten or despised 
by her.” 

He pressed Amelia’s letter to his lips, 
then placed it in his bosom, and opened 
the second letter. Whilst he read, an 
expression of astonishment appeared 
on his features, and a smile, half gay, 
half scornful, played upon his full, 
jfresh lips. Soon, however, his features 
grew earnest, and a dark shadow 
clouded his youthful brow. 

“ If I had enemies, they could de- 
stroy me with this letter,” he said, in a 
low voice. “It could, wdld and silly 
as it is, be made to represent me as a 
traitor. Perhaps i^ is a pitfall which 
lias been prepared for me. Is it possi- 
ble that the "liuthorities should have 
allowed this letter, coming evidently 
from inimical Austria, to pass unread 
through their hands ? I will go imme- 
diately to my colonel and show him 
this letter,” said Trenck. “He can 
then inform the king of it if he think 
it necessary. Concealment might be 


more dangerous for me than an open 
acknowledgment.” 

And placing this second letter also 
in his bosom, Trenck proceeded to the 
tent of Colonel von Jaschinsky, who 
Welcomed him with unusual warmth. 

“ Colonel,” said Trenck, “ do you re- 
member the singular letter which I re- 
ceived six months since from my cousin, 
Baron von Trenck, colonel of the pan- 
dours ? ” 

“ Ah, you mean that letter in which 
he invites you to come to Austria, and 
promised, should you do so, to make 
you his sole heir ? ” * 

“ Yes, that is the letter I mean. I 
informed you of it at the time, and 
asked your advice.” 

“ What advice did I give you ? ” 

“ That I should reply kindly and 
gratefully to my cousin ; that I should 
not appear indifferent or ungrateful for 
a proposal by which I might become a 
millionnaire. You advised me to de- 
cline going to Austria, but only to de- 
cline so long as there was war between 
Prussia and Austria.” 

“ Well, I think the advice was good, 
and that you may still follow it.” 

“ You advised me also to write to 
my cousin to send me some of those 
beautiful Hungarian horses, and prom- 
ised to forward my letter through 
Baron von Bossart, the Saxon ambassa- 
dor ; but on the condition that when I 
received the Hungarian horses, I should 
present one of them to you.” 

“ That was only a jest — a jest which 
binds you to nothing, and of which 
you have no proofs.” 

“II” asked Trenck, astonished ; 
“ what proof do I need that I promised 
you a Hungarian horse? What do I 
want with proofs ? ” 

Count Jaschinsky looked embarrassed 
before the open, trusting expression of 
the young officer. His singular remark 
would have betrayed him to a more 
suspicious, a more worldly-wise man. 


166 


BERLIN AND S.iNS-SOUCI; OR, 


who would have perceived from it the 
possibility of some danger, from which 
Jaschinsky was seeking to extricate 
himself. 

“ I did not mean,” said the count, 
laughing, “ that you needed a proof ; I 
only wished to say that I had no proof 
that you had promised me a Hungarian 
horse, and that you need not feel 
obliged to give me one.” 

“ Yes, colonel, your request and my 
promise occurred before witnesses. 
Lieutenant von Stadnitz and Ensign 
von Wagnitz were present; and if that 
had not been the case, I should con- 
sider my word binding. But at present 
I have no Hungarian horses, only an an- 
swer from my singular cousin, the con- 
tents of which I wish to impart to you.” 

‘^‘Ah, the colonel of the pandours 
has answered you ? ” asked Jaschinsky, 
with well-dissembled astonishment. 

“ Yes, he has answered me, and has 
■written me the most singular letter 
that one can imagine. Only listen to 
it.” 

And Frederick von Trenck hastily 
pulled out the letter which he had put 
in his bosom. Entirely occupied with* 
this subject, and thinking of nothing 
else, he opened the letter and read : 

“From yours, dated Berlin, Febru- 
ary 12th, I ascertain that you desire 
some Hungarian horses on which to 
meet my hussars and pandours. I 
learned with much pleasure, in the last 
campaign, that the Prussian Trenck 
was a brave soldier ; as a proof of my 
consideration, I returned to you at that 
time the horses which my men had 
captured from you. If you desire to 
ride Hungarian horses, you must take 
mine from me on the field, or come to 
your cousin, who will receive you with 
open arms as his son and friend, and 
accord you every wish of your heart.” 

Had Trenck looked less attentively 
at his letter, while reading, he would 
have perceived that Jaschinsky was 


paying but slight attention (he was 
looking attentively on the floor) ; he 
quietly approached Trenck, and placed 
his foot upon something which he evi- 
dently wished to conceal. He then 
stood still, and as Trenck finished 
reading he broke into a loud laugh, in 
which the young officer joined him. 

“ Your cousin is a droll man,” said 
the count, “ and under the conditions 
which he offers you, I will still accept 
your Hungarian horse. Perhaps you 
will soon find an opportunity to give 
it to me, for I believe we are about to 
attack Hungary, and you can yourself 
procure the horses. But now, my 
young friend, excuse me ; I must go to 
the king to give my report. You know 
he will endure no neglect of duty. 
After the war council I will see you 
again.” 

Trenck took leave, a little surprised 
at the sudden dismissal. The colonel 
did not accompany him, as usual. He 
remained standing in the middle of the 
tent until he was alone ; then stooping 
down, he drew from under his foot the 
daintily folded letter that he had con- 
cealed while Trenck was present. 

Count Jaschinsky had seen what 
had escaped Trenck. He saw that 
Trenck, in taking out the letter from 
his cousin, had let fall another paper, 
and while Trenck was readmg, he had 
managed to conceal it with his foot. 
Now he hastily seized this paper, and 
opened it. A most wicked expression 
of joy overspread his countenance 
whilst he read, and then he said, tri- 
umphantly : “ No w^he is lost. It is not 
necessary to tell the king that Trenck 
has received a letter fron#a lady ; I will 
take him the letter itself, and that will 
condemn Trenck more surely tliau any 
conspiracy with his cousin. Away to 
the king ! ” 

But, as he had already withdrawn 
the curtain of his tent, he remained mo- 
tionless, and appeared deep in thought 


) 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


167 


Then he allowed the curtain to fall, and 
returned within. 

“ I think I was on the point of com- 
initting a great folly. This letter 
would of course accomplish the de- 
struction of my hated creditor, but I 
doubt exceedingly if I would escape 
unharmed if I handed this ominous 
writing to the king. He would never 
forgive me for having discovered this 
atfair, which he, of course, wishes to 
conceal from the whole world. The 
knowledge of such a secret would be 
most dangerous, and I prefer to have 
nothing to do with it. How can I man- 
age to let this letter reach the king, 
without allowing him to know that I 
am acquainted with its contents ? Ah, 
I have it I ” he cried, after a long pause, 
“ the means are sure, and not at all 
dangerous for me.” 

With rapid steps he left his tent, and 
proceeded to that of the king, from 
whom he prayed an audience. 

“ Ah I I wager that you come to 
complain of some one,” said the king, 
as Jaschinsky entered. “There is a 
wicked light in your eye. Am I not 
fight? one of your officers has com- 
mitted some folly.” 

“ I leave the decision entirely to your 
majesty,” said Jaschinsky, humbly. 
“Your majesty commanded me to 
watch carefully over my officers, espe- 
cially the Lieutenant von Trenck.” 

“Your complaint is again of Trenck, 
then?” asked the king, frowningly. 
“ I will tell you before we begin, unless 
it is something important I do not wish 
to hear it ; gossip is disagreeable to me. 
I am well pleased with Trenck : he is a 
brave and zealous officer, and I think 
he does not neglect his duties. Con- 
sider, therefore, colonel, unless it is a 
grave fault of which you have to com- 
plain, I advise you to remain silent.” 

“ I hope your majesty will allow me 
to proceed.” 

“ Speak,” said the king, as he turned 


his back on the colonel, and appeared 
to occupy himself with the books on hia 
table. 

“ Lieutenant von Trenck received a 
letter by the post to-day which points, 
in my opinion, to an utterly unlavvful 
proceeding.” 

The king turned hastily and looked 
so angrily at the colonel that he invol- 
untarily withdrew a step. “ It is for- 
tunate that I did not hand him that 
letter,” thought Jaschinsky ; “ in his 
anger the king would have destroyed 
me.” 

“ From whom is this letter ? ” de- 
manded the king. 

“ Sire, it is from Baron von Trenck, 
the colonel of the pandours.” 

T^e king appeared relieved, as he 
replied, with a smile : “ This pandour 
is a cousin of our lieutenant.” 

“ But, he is in the enemy’s camp ; 
and I do not think it proper for a 
Prussian officer to request one in the 
Austrian service to send him a present 
of horses, or for the Austrian to invite 
the Prussian to join him.” 

“Is this in the letter?” asked the 
king, in a threatening tone ; and when 
Jaschinsky answered in the affirma- 
tive, he said: “Give me the letter; I 
must convince myself with my own eyes 
that this is so.” 

“ I have not the letter, but if your 
majesty desire, I will demand it from 
Lieutenant von Trenck.” 

“ And if he has burnt the letter ? ” 

“ Then I am willing to take an oath 
that what I have related was in the 
letter. I read it myself, for the lieu- 
tenant showed it to me.” 

“ Bring me the letter.” 

Jaschinsky went, and the king re- 
mained alone and thoughtful in his 
tent. “ If he were a traitor, he would 
surely not have shown the letter to 
Jaschinsky,” said the king, softly; “ no, 
his brow is as clear, his glance as open 
as formerly. Trenck is no traitor — nr 


168 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


traitor to his country — I fear only a 
traitor to his own happiness. Well, 
perhaps he has come to his reason ; I 
have warned him repeatedly, and per- 
haps he has at length understood me. 
— Where is the letter ? ” he asked, as 
Colonel Jaschinsky reentered. 

“ Sire, here it is. At least, I think 
that is it. I did not take time to glance 
at the paper, in my haste to return to 
your maiesty.” 

“Was he willing to give the let- 
ter ? ” 

“He said nothing, but drew it in- 
stantly from his bosom, and I brought 
it to your majesty without glancing at 
it.” 

The king looked searchingly into the 
countenance of the colonel. Jaschin- 
sky’s repeated assurances that he had 
not looked at the letter surprised the 
king, and led him to suspect some hid- 
den motive. He received the letter, 
and opened it slowly and carefully. He 
again turned his piercing glance ujion 
the countenance of Jaschinsky; he now 
perceived the rose-colored letter, which 
lay in the folds of that one from Colo- 
nel Trenck, and he immediately under- 
stood the words of the count. This little 
letter was really the kernel of the whole 
matter, and Jaschinsky preferred to 
know nothing of it. 

“Wait outside until I call you. I 
wish to read this letter carefully,” said 
the king, with perfect composure ; but 
when Jaschinsky had disappeared, he 
hastily unfolded the paper, and, throw- 
ing Trenck’s letter on the table, he 
took the other, and looking carefully 
at it, he said softly, “ It is her writing 
— yes, it is her writing, and all my 
trouble has been in vain. They would 
not understand me. They are lost ! ” 

And sighing deeply, the king turned 
again to the letter. “ Poor, miserable 
children, why should I not make them 
happy ? is it impossible to forget pre- 
judice for once, and to allow these two 


beings to be happy in their own way ? 
So strange a thing is the heart of a wo- 
man, that she prefers an orange-wreath 
to a crown ! Why should I force this 
young girl to be a princess, when she 
only desires to be a w^oman ? Shall I 
allow them to fly away into some wil- 
derness, and there create a paradise ? 
But how soon would the serpent creep 
into this paradise! how soon would 
satiety, and ennui^ and repentance, de- 
stroy their elysium 1 No, the daugh- 
ters of the Hohenzollems must not 
stoop for happiness; I cannot change 
it. Fate condemns them, not I. They 
are condemned, but the sword which is 
suspended above them must fall only 
upon his head. His is the guilt, for he 
is the man. His stake was immense, 
and he has lost all.” 

The king then took the letter of Colo- 
nel Trenck, and read it attentively. 
“This letter bears all-suflScient testi- 
mony against him ; it is the iron mask 
which I will raise before his crime, that 
the world may not discover it. I would 
laugh at this letter were it not for the 
other, which condemns him. This will 
answer as an excuse for his punish- 
ment.” 

The king arose from his seat, and 
placing the letter of the princess in his 
bosom, and folding the other, he walk- 
ed hastily to the opening of the tent 
and called Jaschinsky. 

“ Colonel,” he said, and his counte- 
nance was troubled but determined, 
“ you were right. Lieutenant von 
Trenck is a great criminal, for this let- 
ter contains undeniable proof of his 
traitorous^ connection with the enemy. 
If I ordered him before a court-mar- 
tial, he would be condemned to death. 
As his crime may have grown out of 
carelessness and thoughtlessness, I will 
be merciful, and try if a few years’ im- 
prisonment will not work a cure. You 
can inform him of his punishment, 
when you retmm his cousin’s letter tc 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


109 


aim. You did not open this letter 
when you brought it to me ? ” 

The eye of the king rested with a 
threatening expression upon the colo- 
nel as he asked this question. 

“No, your majesty, — I did not open 
it,’’ replied the colonel. 

“ You did well,” said the king, “ for 
a wasp had crept within it, which 
might have given you a deadly wound. 
Go now, and take this letter to Trenck, 
and take his sword from him. He is 
under arrest, and must be sent at once 
to the fortress at Glatz.” 

“ Must it be quietly done ? ” asked 
Jaschinsky, scarcely able to conceal his 
delight. 

“No, on the contrary, I wish the 
whole army, the whole world to know 
why I have punished Trenck. You 
can say to every one that Trenck is a 
traitor, who has carried on an unlaw- 
ful correspondence with his cousin in 
Austria, and has conspired with the 
enemy. His arrest must be public, and 
he must be sent to Glatz, guarded by 
fifty hussars. Go now and attend to 
this business. — He is lost,” said the 
king* solemnly, when he was once more 
alone. “Trenck is condemned, and 
Amelia must struggle with her grief. 
Poor Amelia ! ” 

The generals were waiting outside, 
among them the favorite of the king. 
General Rothenberg. They had been 
summoned to a council by the king, 
and were awaiting his orders to enter 
the tent. 

But the king did not call them, per- 
haps he had forgotten them. He walked 
slowly up and down in his tent, ap- 
parently lost in thought. Suddenly 
he stood motionless and listened. He 
heard the tramp of many horses, and he 
knew what it meant. He approached 
die opening of the tent, and drew back 
the curtain sufficiently to see without 
being seen. • 

The noise of the horses’ hoofs came 


nearer and nearer. The first hussars 
have passed the king’s tent, and two 
more, and again two, and again, and 
again; and there in their midst, a 
pale young man, with a distracted 
countenance, with staring eyes, and 
colorless lips, which appear never to 
have known how to laugh, a young 
officer, without sword or epaulettes. Is 
this Trenck, the beautiful, the young, 
the light-hearted Trenck, the beloved 
of a princess, the darling of all the la- 
dies, the envied favorite of the king ? 
He has passed the tent of the king; 
behind him are his servants with his 
horses and his baggage; and then 
again hussars, who close the procession, 
the burial procession of Trenck’s hap- 
piness and freedom. 

The king seemed deeply moved as he 
stepped back from the curtain. “Now,” 
he said solemnly, “I have committed 
my first act of injustice ; for I have 
judged this man in my own conscience, 
without bringing him before a court- 
martial. Should the world condemn 
me for this, I can at least say that it 
is my only fault of the kind.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE KETUKN TO BERLm. 

Peace was proclaimed. Tliis poor 
land, bleeding from a thousand wounds, 
might now rest, in order to gather 
strength for new victories. The hus- 
band of Maria Theresa had been 
crowned as emperor, and the condi- 
tions of peace had been signed at 
Dresden, by both Austrians and Prus- 
sians. The king and his army returned 
victorious to their native land. Berlin 
had assumed her most joyous appear 
ance, to welcome her king; even Na- 
ture had done her utmost to enliven 
the scene. The freshly fallen snow 


BERLIN AND SANSSOUCI; OR, 


no 

wliicli covered tlie streets and roofs of 
the houses, glittered in the December 
smishine as if strewn with diamonds. 
But none felt to-day that the air was 
cold or the wind piercing ; happiness 
created summer in their hearts, and 
they felt not that it was winter. On 
every side the windows were open, and 
beautiful women were awaiting the 
appearance of their adored sovereign 
with as much curiosity and impatience 
as the common people in the streets, 
who were longing to greet their hero- 
king. 

At length the happy hour came. At 
length the roar of cannon, the ringing 
of bells, the shouts of the crowxl, which 
filled every avenue leading- to the pal- 
ace, announced that the king had re- 
turned to his capital, which, in the last 
few days, he had saved by a happy 
manoeuvre from being attacked by the 
Austrians and Saxons. The people 
greeted their king with shouts ; the la- 
dies in the windows waved their hand- 
kerchiefs, and threw fragrant flowers 
into the open carriage in which Fred- 
erick and his brothers sat. 

As they passed before the gymna- 
sium, the scholars commenced a solemn 
song, which was at the same time a 
hymn, and a prayer for their king, 
their hero, and their father. “ Vimt, 
vidat Fredericus! Eexvivat^ Augustus, 
Magnus, Felix Pater Patrioi ! sang the 
scholars. But suddenly rising above 
the voices of the singers, and the shouts 
of the people, a voice was heard, cry- 
ing aloud, “ Vivat Frederick the Great I ” 

The people who had listened silently 
to the Latin because they did not un- 
derstand it, joined as with one impulse 
in this cry, the shout arose as from one 
throat, “ Yivat Frederick the Great ! ” 
And this cry spread like wildfire 
through all the streets, over all the pub- 
lic squares; it resounded from every 
window, and even from the tops of the 
houses. To-day Berlin had rebaptized 


her king. She gave him now a new 
name, the name which he will be^j^ 
through all ages, the name of Frederick 
the Great. 

The king flushed deeply as he heard 
this cry. -His heart, which had been 
sad and gloomy, seemed warmed as by 
a ray of sunlight, ximbition throbbed 
within his breast, and aw^akened him 
from his melancholy thoughts. No,. 
Frederick had now no time to think of 
the dead ; no time to mourn secretly 
over the loved, the faithful friends 
whom he would no longer find in Ber- 
lin. The king must overcome the 
feelings of the friend. His people are 
here to greet him, to \velcome his re- 
turn, to bestow upon him an immortal 
name. The king has no right to 
withdraw himself from their love ; he 
must meet it with his whole soul, his 
whole heart. 

Convincing himself that this was ne- 
cessary, Frederick lifted his head, a 
bright color mounted to his cheeks, 
and his eyes flashed as he bowed gra- 
ciously to his people. Now he is truly 
Frederick the Great, for he has con- 
quered his own heart, and he* has 
poured upon the open wound of his 
private sorrows the balm of his people’s 
love. 

Now the carriage of the king has 
reached the palace gate. Frederick 
raises his hat once more, and bows 
smilingly to the people, whose cries of 
“ Vivat Frederick the Great ” still fill 
the air. When for a moment there is 
silence, a single, clear, commanding 
voice is heard, “Long live Frederick 
the Great ! ” 

The king turns hastily ; he has rec- 
ognized the voice of his mother. She 
is standing on the threshold of the pal- 
ace, surrounded by the princesses of 
the royal family. Her eyes are more 
brilliant than the diamonds which 
glitter in her l^air, and more precious 
than the costly pearls upon her bosom 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


171 


are the drops which fall from her eyes, 
tears of pride and happiness, shed in 
this moment of triumph. Again she 
repeats the cry taught her by the peo- 
ple, “ Long live Frederick the Great I ” 

The king knew the first tone of that 
dear voice, and, springing from the 
carriage, hurried forward and threw 
himself into his mother’s extended 
arms, and laid his head upon her 
breast, as he had done when a child, 
and wept hot tears, which no one saw, 
which his mother alone felt upon her 
bosom. 

Near them stood Elizabeth Christine, 
the consort of the king, and in the 
depths of her heart she repeated the 
cry of the people, and she gazed pray- 
erfully toward heaven, as she petitioned 
for the long and happy life of her 
adored husband. But Frederick did 
not see her; he gave his arm to his 
mother, and they entered the palace, 
followed by his wife and his sisters and 
brothers. 

“ Frederick the Great ! ” This cry 
still resounds through the streets, and 
the windows of the palace tremble with 
the ringing of this proud name. The 
sound enters the saloons before him ; it 
opens wide the doors of the White Sa- 
loon, and when the king enters, the 
pictures and statues of the Hohenzol- 
lerns appear to become animate, the 
dead eyes flash, the stiffened lips smile, 
and the motionless heads seem to bow, 
for Frederick’s new name has called 
his ancestors from their graves — this 
name, which only one other Hohenzol- 
lern had borne before him — this name, 
which is as rare a blossom on the gen- 
ealogical trees of the proudest royal 
families as the blossom of the aloe. 
The king greets his ancestors with a 
happy smile, for he feels that he is no 
unworthy successor. He has forgotten 
his grief and his pain ; he has overcome 
them. In this hour he is only the king 
and hero. 


But as the shadows of mght approach, 
and Berlin is Irilliant with illumina- 
tions, Frederick lays aside his majesty, 
and becomes once more the loving man, 
the friend. He is sitting by the death- 
bed of his friend and preceptor, Duhan. 
The joyous shouts of the people are 
still heard without, but the king heeds 
them not ; he hears only the heavy 
breathing of his finend, and speaks to 
him gentle words of love and consola- 
tion. 

At length he leaves his friend, and 
now a new light springs into his eyes. 
He is no longer a king, no longer a 
mourning friend, he is only a young 
man. He is going to spend an hour 
with his friend General Rothenberg, 
and forget his royalty for a while. 

Rothenberg seems to have forgotten 
it also, for he does not come to welcome 
his kingly guest. He does not receive 
him on the threshold. No one re- 
ceives him, but the hall and stairway 
are brilliantly lighted; and, as he as- 
cends, a door opens, and a woman ap- 
pears, beautiful as an angel, with eyes 
beaming like stars, with lips glowing 
as crimson roses. Is it an angel or a 
woman ? Her voice is as the music of 
the spheres to the king, when she 
whispers her welcome to him, and he, 
at least, thinks he beholds an angel 
when he sees Barbarina. 


CHAPTER X 
job’s post. 

Berlin snouted, huzzaed, sang, 
danced, declaimed, illuminated for 
three entire days in honor of the con- 
quered peace, and the return of her 
great king. Every one but the young 
Princess Amelia seemed contented, 
happy, joyous. She took no part in 
the glad trininph of her family, and 


BERLIN AIsD SANS-SOUCI, JR, 


172 

the loud hosannas of the people found 
no echo in her hreast. With heavy 
heart and misty eyes she walked slowly 
backward and forward in her boudoir. 
For three days she had borne this ttr- 
rible torture, this anguish of uncer- 
tainty. Her soul was moved with 
fearful anticipation, but she was forced 
to appear gay. 

For three days, with trembling 
heart and lips, she had been compelled 
to appear at the theatre, the masquer- 
ades, the balls, and ceremonious dinners 
of the court. She felt that the stem 
eye of the king was ever searchingly 
and angrily fixed upon her. Several 
times completely overcome and ex- 
hausted by her efforts to seem gay 
and careless, she sought to withdraw 
unobserved to her room, but her ever- 
watchful brother intercepted her, and 
led her back to her place by her royal 
mother. He chatted and jested merri- 
ly, but his expression was dark and 
threatening. Once she had4not the 
power to respond with smiles. She 
fixed her pleading, tearful eyes upon 
the king. He bowed down to her, and 
said harshly: “I command you to ap- 
pear gay. A princess has not the 
right to weep when her people are 
happy.” 

To-day the court festivities closed. 
At last Amelia dared hope for some 
hours of solitude and undisturbed 
thought. To-day she could weep and 
allow her pale lips to express the wild 
grief of her heart. In her loneliness 
she dared give utterance to the cry of 
anguish rending her bosom. 

Where was he ? where was Trenck ? 
Why had he not returned? Why had 
she no news, no love-token, no message 
from him? She had carefully exam- 
ined the list of killed and wounded. 
He had not fallen in battle. He was 
not fatally wounded. He had not re- 
turned with the army, or she would 
have seen him. Where was he, then ? 


Was he ill, or had he forgotten her, or 
did he blush to return without his 
laurels? Had he been taken by the 
Austrians? Was her beloved suffering 
in a loathsome prison, while she was 
laughing, jesting, and adorning herself 
in costly array?* While she thus 
thought and spoke, burning tears 
blinded her eyes, and sighs and sobs 
choked her utterance. 

“If he is dead,” said she, firmly, 
“ then I will also die. If he is in prison, 
I w’ill set him at liberty. If he does 
not come because he has not been pro- 
moted and fears I no longer love him, 
I will seek him out, I w^ill swear that I 
love him, that I desire only his love, 
that I will fly with him to some lonely, 
quiet valley. I will lay aside my rank, 
my royalty, forget my birth, abandon 
all joyously, that I may belong to him, 
be his fond and dear-loved wife.” 

And now a light sound was heard at 
the door, and she recognized the voice 
of her maid asking admittance. 

“ Ah ! ” said Amelia, “ if the good 
Marwitz were here, I should not have 
to endure this torture, but my brother 
has unconsciously robbed me of this 
consolation. He has sent my friend 
and confidante home, and forced upon 
me a strange and stupid woman whom 
I hate.” 

And now a gentle voice pleaded more 
earnestly for admittance. 

“ I must indeed open the door,” said 
the princess, unwillingly drawing back 
the bolt. “Enter, Mademoiselle von 
Haak,” said Amelia, turning her back 
in order to conceal her red and swollen 
eyes. 

Mademoiselle von Haak gave a soft, 
sad glance at the young princess, and 
in a low voice asked for pardon for 
her unwelcome appearance. 

“Without doubt your reason for 
coming will justify you,” said the prin- 
cess. “ I pray you, therefore, to make 
it known quickly I wish to be alone.” 


FREDERICK TIIE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


173 


“ Alas ! your royal highness is harsh 
Tsrith me,” whispered the young girl. 
“ I was forced upon you. I know it ; 
you hate me because I have taken the 
place of Mademoiselle von Marwitz. I 
sissure you I was not to blame in this. 
It was only after the written and per- 
emptory command of his majesty the 
king that my mother consented to my 
appearance at court.” 

“ Have you come, mademoiselle, sim- 
ply to tell me this ? ” 

“ No, your royal highness ; I come to 
say that I love you. Ever since I had 
the honor of knowing you, I have 
loved you. In the loneliness which 
surrounds me here, my heart gives it- 
self up wholly to you. Oh, do not 
spurn me from you ! Tell me why you 
are sad ; let me bear a part of your 
sorrow. Princess, I offer you the heart 
of a true friend, of a sister — will you 
cast me off? ” 

The young girl threw herself upon 
lier knees before the princess, and her 
cheeks were bathed in tears. Amelia 
raised and embraced her. 

“ Oh ! ” said she, “ I see that God 
has not utterly forsaken me. He sends 
me aid and comfort in my necessity. 
Will you be, indeed, my friend ? ” 

“Yes, a friend in whcm you can 
trust fully, to whom you can speak 
freely,” said Mademoiselle von Haak. 

“ Who knows but that may be more 
dangerous for you than for me ? ” 
sighed Amelia. “There are fearful 
secrets, the mere knowledge of which 
brings destruction.” 

“ But if I already know the secret of 
your royal highness ? — if I understand 
the reason of your grief during these 
last few days ? ” 

“Well, then, tell me what you 
know.” 

The maiden bo'wed down low to the 
ear of her mistress. “ Your eyes seek 
in vain for him whom you love. You 
suffer, for you know not where he is.” 


“ Yes, you are right,” cried Amelia. 
“ I suffer the anguish of uncertainty. If 
I do not soon learn where he is, I shall 
die in despair.” 

“ Shall I tell you, princess ? ” 

Amelia turned pale and trembled. 
“You will not say that he is in his 
grave ? ” said she, breathlessly. 

“ No, your highness, he lives and is 
well.” 

“ He lives, is well, and comes not ? ” 

“ He cannot come — ^he is a prisoner.” 

“ A prisoner I God be thanked it is 
no worse I The king will obtain his 
liberation. My brother cares for his 
young officers — he will not leave him 
in the hands of the Austrians. Oh I I 
thank you — I thank you. You are in- 
deed a messenger of glad tidings. And 
now the king will be pleased with me. 
I can be merry, and laugh, and jest 
with him.” 

Mademoiselle von Haak bowed her 
head sadly, and sighed. “ He is not in 
an Austrian prison,” she said, in low 
tones. 

“Not in an Austrian prison?” re- 
peated Amelia, astonished, “where is 
he, then ? My God I why do you not 
speak ? Where is Trenck ? Who has 
captured him ? Speak I I die with 
impatience and anxiety.” 

“ In God’s name, princess, listen to 
me calmly, and above all things speak 
softly. I am sure you are surrounded 
by spies. If we are heard, we are 
lost!” 

“ Ho you wish me to die ? ” mur- 
mured the princess, sinking exhausted 
upon the divan. “ Where is Trenck ? ” 

“He is in the fortress of Glatz,’’ 
whispered Von Haak. 

“Ah I in a Prussian fortress ; sent 
there by the king ? He has committed 
some small fault in discipline, as once 
before, and as this is the second of- 
fence, the king punishes him more 
severely. That is all! I thank you; 
you have restored my peace of mind.” 


114 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


“ I fear, princess, that you are mis- 
taken. It is said that Baron von 
Trenck has been arrested for high- 
treason.” 

The princess became deadly pale, 
and almost fainted. She overcame 
this weakness, however, quickly, and 
said smilingly : “ He will then soon be 
free, for all must know that he is inno- 
cent.” 

“ God grant it may be proved 1 ” said 
Mademoiselle von Haak. “ This is no 
time to shrink or be silent. You have 
a great, strong heart, and you love him. 
You must know all 1 Listen, therefore, 
princess. I also love ; I also look to the 
future with hope ! My love is calm, for 
it is without danger ; it has my moth- 
er’s consent and blessing. Our only 
hope is, that my lover may be promo- 
ted, and that the king will give his 
consent to our marriage. We are both 
poor, and rely only upon the favor of 
the king. He is now lieutenant, and is 
on duty in the garrison of Glatz.” 

“ In Glatz I and you say that Trenck 
is a prisoner in Glatz ? ” 

“ Yes, I received letters yesterday 
from Schnell. He belongs to the offi- 
cers who have guard over Trenck. He 
writes that he feels the profoundest 
pity for this young man, and that he 
will joyfully aid him in every way. 
He asks me if I know no one who has 
the courage to plead with the king in 
behalf of this unhappy youth.” 

“ My God ! my God ! give me 
strength to hear all, and yet control 
myself 1 ” murmured Amelia. “ Do 
you know the nature of his punish- 
ment ? ” said she, quietly. 

“ No one knows positively the dura- 
tion of his punishment; but the com- 
mandant of the fort told the officers 
that Trenck would be a prisoner 
for many years.” 

The princess uttered one wild cry, 
then pressed both hands upon her lips 
and forced herself to silence. 


“ What is the charge against him ? ” 
she said, after a long pause. 

High - treason. A treasonable cor- 
respondence has been discovered be- 
tween him and his cousin the pan- 
dour.” 

The princess shrugged her shoulders 
contemptuously. “ He will soon justi- 
fy himself, in view of this pitiful 
charge 1 His judges will acknowledge 
his innocence, and set him at liberty. 
But why is he not already free ? Why 
has he been condemned ? Who were his 
judges ? Did you not say to me that he 
was condemned ? ” 

“ My lover wrote me that Baron 
Trenck had written to the king and 
asked for a court-martial and trial.” 

“ This proves his innocence ; he does 
not fear a trial I What was the king’s 
answer ? ” 

“ He ordered the commandant to place 
Trenck in closer confinement, and to 
forward no more letters from him 
And now, princess, you must act 
promptly; use all your power and in- 
fluence, if you would save him I ” 

“ I have no influence, I have no 
power ! ” cried Amelia, with streaming 
eyes. “ Oh ! you do not know my 
brother ; his heart is of stone. No one 
can move him — neither his mother, his 
sisters, nor his wife ; his purpose is un- 
changeable, and what he says is fixed. 
But I will show him that I am his sis- 
ter ; that the hot blood of the Hohen- 
zollerns flows also in my veins. I will 
seek him boldly ; I will avow that I 
love Trenck; I will demand that he 
give Trenck liberty, or give me death ! 
I will demand — ” 

The door was hastily opened, and a 
servant said, breathlessly, “ The king 
is coming ! ” 

“ No, he is already here,” said the 
king, who now stood upon the thresh- 
old of the door. “ He comes to beg 
his little sister to accompany him to the 
court-yard and see the reind'^er and the 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


175 


Laplanders, sent to us by the crown 
princess of Sweden.” 

The king advanced to his sister, and 
held out both his hands. But Amelia 
did not appear to see this. She made a 
profound and ceremonious bow, and 
murmured a few cold words of greet- 
ing. The king frowned, and looked 
at her angrily. He saw that she had 
been weeping, and his ex]wes3ion was 
harsh and stern. 

“ Come, princess ! ” said he, imperi- 
ously. 

But Amelia had now overcome her 
terror and her confusion. She was 
resolved to act, and know the worst. 

“ Will your majesty grant me an au- 
dience ? I have something important, 
most important to myself, to say. I 
would speak more to the heart of my 
brother than to the ear of my king. I 
pray your majesty to allow me to speak 
with you alone.” 

The king’s eyes were fixed upon her 
with a dark and threatening expres- 
sion, but she did not look down or 
tremble; she met his glance firmly, 
even daringly, and Frederick hesitated. 
“ She will speak the whole truth to 
me,” thought the king, “ and I shall be 
forced to act with severity against her. 
I cannot do this; I am not brave 
enough to battle with a maiden’s heart.” 

“ Sister,” said he aloud, “ if you 
have indeed something to say to your 
brother, and not to the king, 1 counsel 
you not to speak now. I have so 
much to do and hear as a king, I have 
no time to act another part. Is what 
you have to say to me truly important ? 
Does it relate to a rare jewel, or a cost- 
ly robe? — to some debt, which your 
pin-pioney does not suffice to meet ? — in 
short, to any one of those great matters 
which completely fill the heart of a 
young maiden ? If so, I advise you to 
confide in our mother. If she makes 
your wishes known to me, you are sure 
to receive no denial. It is decidedly 


better for a young girl to turn to her 
mother with her little wishes and mys- 
teries. If they are innocent, her 
mother will ever promote them; if 
they are guilty, a mother’s anger will 
be more restrained and milder than a 
brother’s ever can be.” 

“ You will not even listen to me, 
my brother?” said the princess, sob- 
bing violently. 

The king threw a quick glance back- 
ward toward the door opening into the 
corridor, where the cavaliers and maids 
of honor were assembled, and looking 
curiously into the room of the princess. 

“ No ! I will not listen to you,” said 
he, in a low tone ; “ but you shall listen 
to me ! You shall not act a drama at 
my court ; you shall not give the world 
a cause for scandal ; you shall not ex- 
hibit yourself with red and swollen eyes ; 
that might be misinterpreted. It might 
be said that the sister of the king did 
not rejoice at the return of her brother; 
that she was not patriot enough to feel 
happy at Prussia’s release from the bur- 
dens of war, not patriot enough to de- 
spise and forget the enemies of her 
country ! I command you to be gay, 
to conceal your childish gTief. A prin- 
cess dare not weep, or, if she does, it 
must be under the shadow of night, 
when God only is with her. This is 
my counsel and reproof, and I beg you 
to lay it to your heart. I will not com- 
mand you to accompany me, your eyes 
are red with weeping. Kemain, then, 
in your room, and that the time may 
not pass heavily, I hand you this letter, 
which I have received for you.” 

He drew a sealed letter from his 
bosom, handed it to Amelia, and left 
the room. 

“ Let us go,” said he, nodding to his 
courtiers ; “ the princess is unwell, and 
cannot accompany us.” 

Mademoiselle von Haak hastened 
again to the boudc'ir. “Has youi 
royal highness spoken to the king ? 


176 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


She shook her head silently, and with 
trembling hands tore open the letter 
given her by the king. Breathlessly 
she fixed her eyes upon the writing, ut- 
tered one wild shriek, and fell insensi- 
ble upon the fioor. This was the last 
letter she had written to Trenck, and 
upon the margin the king had writ- 
ten this one word, “ Read.” The king 
then knew all ; he had read the letter ; 
he knew of her engagement to Trenck, 
knew how she loved him, and he had 
no mercy. For this was he condemned. 
He had given her this letter to prove 
to her that she had nothing to hope ; 
that Trenck was punished, not for high- 
treason against the state, but because 
he was the lover of the princess. 

Amelia understood all. With flash- 
ing eyes, with glowing cheeks, she ex- 
claimed : “ I will set him at liberty ; he 
suffers because he loves me ; for my sake 
he languishes in a lonely prison. I will 
free him if it cost me my heart’s blood, 
drop by drop ! Now, King Frederick, 
you shall sec that I am indeed your sis- 
ter ; that I have a will even like your 
own. My life belongs to my beloved ; if 
I cannot share it with him, I will offer 
it up to him — I swear this; may God 
condemn me if I break my oath ! 
Trenck shall be free 1 that is the mis- 
sion of my life. Now, friend, come to 
my help ; all that I am and have I offer 
up. I have gold, I have diamonds, I 
have an estate given me by my father. 
I will sell all to liberate him ; we will, 
if necessary, bribe the whole garrison. 
But now, before all other things, I 
must write to him.” 

“ I promise he shall receive your let- 
ter,” said Mademoiselle von Haak ; “ I 
will send it to Lieutenant Schnell. I 
will enclose it to my mother ; no one 
here must know that 1 correspond with 
an officer at the fortress of Glatz.” 

“ No one dare know that, till the day 
of Trenck's liberation,” said Amelia, 
with a radiant smile. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE UNDECEIVED. 

Since the day Joseph Fredersdorf in* 
troduced Lupinus to Eckhof, an affec- 
tionate intercourse had grown up be- 
tween them. They were very happy in 
each other, and Fredersdorf asserted that 
there was more of love than friendship 
in their hearts, that Lupinus was not 
the friend but the bride of Eckhof 1 In 
fact, Lupinus had but little of the un- 
embarrassed, frank, free manner of a 
young man. He was modest and re- 
served, never sought Eckhof ; but when 
the latter came to him, his pale face 
colored with a soft red, and his great 
eyes flashed with a wondrous glow. 
Eckhof could not but see how much 
his silent young friend rejoiced in his 
presence. 

He came daily to lAipinus. It 
strengthened and consoled him in the 
midst of his nervous, restless artist-life, 
to look upon the calm, peaceful face of 
his friend ; this alone, without a word 
spoken, soothed his heart — agitated by 
storms and passions, and made him 
mild and peaceable. The quiet room, 
the books and papers, the weighty 
folios, the shining, polished medical 
instruments, these stern realities formed 
a strange and strong contrast to the 
dazzling, shimmering, frivolous, false 
life of the stage ; and all this exercised 
a wondrous influence upon the artiste. 
Eckhof came often, weighed down with 
care and exhaustion, or in feverish ex- 
citement over some new role he w'as 
studying, not to speak of his anxieties 
and perplexities, but to sit silently 
near Lupinus and look calmly upon 
him. 

“ Be silent, my Lupinus,” said Eck- 
hof to him. “ Let me lay my storm- 
tossed, wild heart in the moonlight of 
thy glance ; it will be warmed and 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


177 


cooled at the same time. Let thy mild 
countenance beam upon me, soften and 
heal my aching heart. Look you, 
when I lay my head thus upon your 
shoulder, it seems to me I have escaped 
all trouble ; that only far away in 
the distance do I hear the noise and 
tumult of the restless, busy world ; and 
I hear the voice of my mother, even as 
I heard it in my childish days, whisper- 
ing of God, of Paradise, and the angels. 
Still, still, friend, let me dream thus 
upon your shoulder.” 

He closed his eyes in silence, and did 
not see the fond and tender expression 
with which Lupinus looked down upon 
him. He did not feel how violently 
the young heart beat, how quick the 
hot breath came. 

At other times it was a consolation 
to Eckhof to relate, in passionate and 
eloquent words, all his sorrows and dis- 
appointments ; all his strifes and con- 
tests ; all his scorn over the intrigues 
and cabals which then, as now, were 
the necessary attendants of a stage-life. 
Lupinus listened till this wild cataract 
of rage had ceased to foam, and he 
might hope that his soft and loving 
words of consolation could find an en- 
trance into Eckhof ’s heart. 

Months went by, and Lupinus, faith- 
ful to the promise given to Eckhof, was 
still the thoughtful, diligent student ; . 
he sat ever in quiet meditation upon 
the bench of the auditory, and listened 
to the learned dissertations of the pro- 
fessors, and studied the secrets of sci- 
ence in his lonely room. 

But this time of trial was soon to be 
at an end. Eckhof agreed, that after 
Lupinus had passed his examination, 
he should decide for himself if he would 
abandon the glittering career of science 
for the rough and thorny path of artist- 
life. In the next few days this impor- 
tant event was to take place, and Lu- 
pinus would pulilicly and solemnly re- 
ceive his diploma. 

12 


Lupinus thought but little of this. 
He knew that the events of that day 
must exercise an important influence 
upon his future, upon the happiness or 
unhappiness of his whole life. 

The day before the examination Lu- 
pinus was alone in his room. He said 
to himself* “ If the Faculty give me my 
diploma, I will show myself in my true 
form to Eckhof. I will step suddenly 
before him, and in his surprise I will 
see if his friend Lupinus is more wel- 
come as — ” 

He did not complete the sentence, but 
blushing crimson at his own thoughts, 
he turned away and took refuge in his 
books; but the excitement and agita- 
tion of his soul was stronger than his 
will ; the letters danced and glimmered 
before his eyes ; his heart beat joyfully 
and stormily; and his soul, borne aloft 
on bold wings, could no longer be held 
down to the dusty and dreary writing- 
desk; he sprang up, threw the book 
aside, and hastened to the adjoining 
room. No other foot had ever crossed 
the threshold of this still, small room ; 
it was always closed against the most 
faithful of his friends. 

Besides, this little bedroom concealed 
a mystery — a mystery which would 
have excited the merriment of Freders- 
dorf and the wild amazement of Eckhof. 
On the bed lay a vestment which seem- 
ed utterly unsuited to the toilet of a 
young man ; it was indeed a woman’s 
dress, a glistening white satin, such as 
young, fair brides wear on their wed- 
ding day. There, upon the table, lay 
sniall white, satin shoes, perfumed, em 
broidered pocket-handkerchiefs, rib 
bons, and flowers. What did this sig 
nify ? what meant this feminine boudoir 
next to the study of a young man / 
Was the beloved whom he wished tc 
adorn with this bridal attire concealeo 
there ? or, was this only a costume in 
which he would play his first role as an 
actor ? 


178 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Lupinus gazed upon all these costly 
things with a glad and happy heart, 
and as he raised the satin robe and 
danced smilingly to the great mirror, 
nothing of the grave, earnest, dignified 
scholar was to be seen in his mien ; sud- 
denly he paused, and stood breathlessly 
listening. It seemed to him some one 
knocked lightly on the outer door, then 
again louder. 

“That is Eckhof,” whispered' Lu- 
pinus. He left the mysterious little 
room, hastily closed the door, and 
placed the key in his bosom, then open- 
ed the outer door. 

Yes, it was Eckhof. He entered with 
a beaming face, with a gay and happy 
smile. Lupinus had never seen him so 
joyous. He clasped his young friend 
so ardently in his arms, that he could 
scarcely breathe ; he pressed so glowing 
a kiss upon his cheek, that Lupinus 
trembled, and was overcome by his own 
emotion. 

“ See, Lupinus, how much I love 
you ! ” said Eckhof. “ I come first to 
you, that you may sympathize with me 
in my great joy. Almost oppressed by 
the sense of heavenly bliss, which seem- 
ed in starry splendor to overshadow 
me, I thought, ‘ I must go to Lupinus ; 
he alone will understand me.’ I am 
here to say to you, ‘Rejoice with me, 
for I am happy.’ I ran like a madman 
through the streets. Oh ! friend, you 
have not seen my sorrow ; I have 
concealed the anguish of my soul. I 
loved you boundlessly, and I would not 
fill your young, pure soul with sadness. 
But you dared look upon my rapture ; 
you, my most faithful, best-beloved 
fiiend, shall share my joy.” 

“ Tell me, then, at once, what makes 
you happy ? ” said Lupinus, with trem- 
bling lips, and with the pallor of death 
from excitement and apprehension. 

“ And you ask, my innocent and 
modest child,” said Eckhof. laughing:. 
“You do not yet know that love alone 


makes a man wretched or infinitely 
hapi^y. I was despairing because I did 
not know if I was beloved, and this 
uncertainty made a madman of me.” 

“ And now ? ” said Lupinus. 

“ And now I am supremely happy — 
she loves me ; she has confessed it this 
day. Oh ! my friend, I almost tore this 
sweet, this heavenly secret from her 
heart. I threatened her, I almost cursed 
her. I lay at her feet, uttering wild 
words of rebuke and bitter reproach. 
I was mad with j^assion ; resolved to 
slay myself, if she did not then and 
there disclose to me either her love or 
her contempt. I dared all, to win all. 
She stood pallid and trembling before 
me, and, as I railed at her, she extended 
her arms humbly and pleadingly tow- 
ard me. Oh ! she was fair and beau- 
tiful as a jDardonipg angel, with 
these glistening tears in her wondrous, 
dreamy eyes, fair and beautiful as a 
houri of Paradise ; when at last, carried 
away by her own heart, she bowed 
down and confessed that she loved me ; 
that she would be mine — mine, in spite 
of her distinguished birth, in spite of all 
the thousand obstacles which inter- 
posed. One wild day I exclaimed, ‘ Oh ! 
my God, my God ! T am set apart to be 
an artiste; Thou hast consecrated me 
by misfortune.’ To-day, I feel that only 
.when I am truly happy can I truly 
create. From this day alone will I 
truly be an artiste. I have now received 
the heavenly consecration of happi- 
ness.” 

Eckhof looked down upon his young 
friend. When he gazed upon the 
fair and ashy countenance, the glassy 
eyes staring without exjDression in the 
distance, the blue lips convulsively 
pressed together, he became suddenly 
silent. 

‘‘ Lupinus, you are ill ! you suffer ! ” 
he said, opening his arms and trying to 
clasp his friend once more to his breast 
But the touch of his hand made Li3 


179 


FRED^niCK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


pinus tremble, and awakened him 
from bis trance, One wild shriek rang: 
from his bosom, a stream of tears 
gushed from his eyes, and he sank al- 
most insensible to the floor. 

‘‘ My friend, my beloved friend ! ” 
cried Eckhof, “ you suffer, and are si- 
lent. What is it that overpowers you ? 
What is this great grief? Why do you 
weep ? Let me share and alleviate 
your sorrow.” 

“ No, no ! ” cried Lupinus, rising, 
^ I do not suffer ; I have no pain, no 
cause of sorrow. Do not touch me ; 
your lightest touch wounds ! Go, go ! 
leave me alone ! ” 

“ You love me not, then ? ” said Eck- 
hof. “ You suffer, and will not confide 
in me? you weep bitterly, and com- 
mand me to leave you?” 

“ And he thinks that I do not love 
him,” murmured Lupinus, with a 
weary smile. “ My God ! whom, then, 
do I love ? ” 

“ If your friendship for me were true 
and genuine, you would trust me,” said 
Eckhof. “I have made you share in 
my happiness, and I demand the holy 
right of sharing your grief.” 

Lupinus did not reply. Eckhof 
lifted him gently in his arms, and lay- 
ing him upon the sofa, took a seat near 
him. He laid his arms around him, 
placed his head upon his bosom, and 
in a soft, melodious voice, whispered 
words of comfort, encouragement, and 
love. The young man trembled con- 
vulsively, and wept without restraint. 

Suddenly he raised himself ; the 
agony was over ; his lips slightly 
trembled, but he pressed them to- 
gether ; his eyes were full of tears, but 
he shook his head proudly, and dashed 
them from him. 

“ It is past, all past ! my dream has 
dispersed. I am awake once more ! ” 

“ And now, Lupinus, you will tell 
me all ? ” 

“ No, not now, but to-morrow. To- 


moirow you shall know all. There- 
fore, go, my friend, and leave me 
alone. Go to her you love, gaze in her 
eyes, and see in them a starry heaven ; 
then think of me, whose star is quench- 
ed, who is bowed down under a heavy 
load of affliction. Go ! go I if you 
love me, go at once ! ” 

“ I love you, therefore I obey you, 
but my heart is heavy for you, and my 
own happiness is clouded, But I go ; 
to-morrow you will tell me all ? ” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ But when, when do we meet 
again ? ” 

“ To-morrow, at ten, we will see 
each other. At that time I am to re- 
ceive my diploma. I pray you, bring 
Fredersdorf with you.” 

“ So be it ; to-morrow, at ten, in the 
university. Till then, farewell.” 

“ Farewell.” 

They clasped hands, looked deep in - 
to each other’s eyes, and took a silent 
leave. Lupinus stood in the middle of 
the room and gazed after Eckhof till 
he had reached the threshold, then 
rushed forward, threw himself upon his 
neck, clasped him in his arms, and 
murmured, in a voice choked with 
tears : “ Farewell, farewell I Think of 
me, Eckhof I think that no woman has 
ever loved you as I have loved you ! 
God bless you ! God bless you, my be- 
loved ! ” 

One last glowing kiss, one last ear- 
nest look, and he pushed him forward 
and closed the door ; then with a wild 
cry sank upon the floor. 

How long he lay there, how long he 
wept, prayed, and despaired, he knew 
not himself. The hours of anguish 
drag slowly and drearily; the moments 
given to weeping seem to stretch out to 
eternity. Suddenly he heard heavy 
steps upon the stairs; he recognized 
them, and knew what they signified. 
The door opened, and two men en- 
tered : the first with a proud, imposing 


180 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


form, with gray hair, and stem, strong- 
ly-marked features ; the other, a young 
man, pale and delicate, with a mild and 
soft countenance. 

The old man looked at Lupinus 
with a frowning brow and angry 
glance ; the other greeted him with a 
sweet smile, and his clear blue eye 
rested upon him with an expression of 
undying love. 

“My father ! ” said Lupinus, hasten- 
ing forward to throw himself into his 
arms ; but he waved him back, and his 
look was darker, sterner. 

“We have received your letter, 
therefore are we here to-day. We hope 
and believe it was written in fever or 
in madness. If we are mistaken in this^ 
you shall repeat to us what was writ- 
ten in that letter, which I tore and 
trampled under my feet. Speak, then ! 
we came to listen.” 

“ Not so,” said the young man, “ re- 
cover yourself first ; consider your 
words; reflect that they will decide 
the question of your own happiness, of 
your father’s and of mine. Be firm and 
sure in your determination. Let no 
thought of others, no secondary consid- 
eration influence you. Think only of 
your own happiness, and endeavor to 
build it upon a sure foundation.” 

Lupinus shook his head sadly. “I 
have no happiness, I expect none.” 

“ What was written in that letter ? ” 
said the old Lupinus sternly. 

“That I had been faithful to my 
oath, and betrayed the secret I prom- 
ised you to guard, to .no one ; that to- 
morrow I would receive my diploma ; 
that you had promised when I had ac- 
complished this I should be free to 
choose my own future, and to confess 
my secret.” 

“ Was that all the letter contained ? ” 

“ No — that I had resolved to choose 
a new career, resolved to leave the old 
paths, to break away from the past, and 
begin a new life at Eckhofs side.” 


“My child at the side of a como^ 
dian ! ” cried the old doctor contempt' 
uously. “Yes, I remember that was 
written, but I believed it not, and 
therefore have I come. Was your letter 
true ? Did you write the truth to Er- 
velman ? ” 

Lupinus cast his eyes down, and 
gave his hand to his father. “No,” 
said he, “ it was not true ; it was a 
fantasy of fever. It is past, and I have 
recovered. To-morrow, after I receive 
my diploma, I will accompany you 
home, and you, friend, will go with 
us.” 

Tlie next day the students rushed in 
crowds to the university to listen to the 
discourse of the learned and worthy 
Herr Lupinus. Not only the students 
and the professors, but many other per- 
sons, were assembled in the hall, to 
honor the young man, of whom the 
professors said that he was not only a 
model of scholarship, but of modesty 
and virtue. Even actors were seen to 
grace the holy halls of science on this 
occasion, and the students laughed 
with delight and cried “ Bravo ! ” as 
they recogni2;ed near Fredersdorf the 
noble and sharp profile- of Eckhof. 
They had often rushed madly to the 
theatre ; why should he not sometimes 
honor the university ? 

But Eckhof was indifferent to the 
joyful greeting of the students; he 
gazed steadily toward the door, through 
which his young friend must enter the 
hall ; and now, as the hour struck, he 
stooped over Fredersdorf and seized his 
hand. 

“Friend,” said he, “a w'ondrous anx- 
iety oppresses me. It seems to me I am 
in the presence of a sphinx, who is in 
the act of solving a great mystery I I 
am a coward, and would take refuge in 
flight, but curiosity binds me to my 
seat.” 

“You promised poor Lupinus to be 
here,” said Fredersdorf, earnestly. “ It 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


181 


is perhaps the last friendly service you 
can ever show him — Ah! there he 
is.” 

A cry of surprise burst from the lips 
of all. There, in the open door, stood, 
not the student Lupinus, but a young 
maiden, in a white satin robe — a young 
maiden with the pale, thoughtful, gen- 
tle face of Lupinus. A man stood on 
each side of her, and she leaned upon 
the arm of one of them, as if for sup- 
port, as they walked slowly through the 
room. Her large eyes wandered ques- 
tioningly and anxiously over the au- 
dience ; and now, her glance met Eck- 
hof’s, and a deadly pallor covered her 
face. She tried to smile, and bowed her 
head in greeting. ' 

“This is the secret from which I 
wished to fly,” murmured Eckhof. “ I 
guessed it yesterday.” 

“ I knew it long since,” said Freders- 
dorf, sadly ; “ it was my most beautiful 
and cherished dream that your hearts 
should And and love each other. Have 
I not often told you that Lupinus was 
not your friend, but your bride ; that 
no woman would ever love you as he 
did ? You would not understand me. 
Your heart was of stone, and her hap- 
piness has been crushed by it.” 

“ Poor, unhappy girl I ” sighed Eck- 
hof, and tears ran slowly down his 
cheeks. “ I have acted the part of a 
barbarian toward you I Yesterday 
with smiling lips 1 pressed a dagger in 
her heart; she did not curse, but 
blessed me I ” 

“ Listen 1 she speaks ! ” 

It was the maiden’s father who 
spoke. In simple phrase he asl?ed 
forgiveness of the Faculty, for having 
dared to send them a daughter, in 
place of a son. But it had been his 
cherishect wish to prove that only the 
arrogance and prejudice of men had 
banished women from the universities. 
Heaven had denied him a son. He 
had soon discovered that his daughter 


was rarely endowed ; he determined to 
educate her as a son, and thus repair 
the loss fate had prepared for him. 
His daughter entered readily into his 
plans, and solemnly swore to guard her 
secret until she had completed her 
studies. She had fulfilled this prom- 
ise, and now stood here to ask the 
Faculty if they would grant a woman a 
diploma. 

The professors spoke awhile with 
each other, and then announced to the 
audience that Lupinus had been the 
most industrious and promising of all 
their students ; the pride and favorite 
of all the professors. The announce- 
ment that she was a woman would 
make no change in her merit or their 
intentions; that the maiden Lupina 
would be received by them with as 
much joy and satisfaction as the youth 
Lupinus would have been. The dis- 
putation might now begin. 

A murmur of applause was heard 
from the benches, and now the clear, 
soft, but slightly trembling voice of 
the young girl commenced to read. 
How strangely did the heavy, pompous 
Latin words contrast with the slight, 
fairy form of the youthful girl 1 She 
stood adorned like a bride, in satin ar- 
ray ; not like a bride of earth, inspired 
by love, but a bride of heaven, in the 
act of laying down before God’s altar 
all her earthly hopes and passions I 
She felt thus. She dedicated herself 
to a joyless and unselfish existence at 
the altar of science ; she would not lead 
an idle, useless, musing, cloister-life. 
With a holy oath she swore to serve 
her race ; to soothe the pain of those 
who sufiered; to stand by the sick- 
beds of women and children; togi>^e 
that love to suffering, weeping human- 
ity which she had once consecrated to 
one alone, and which had come home, 
like a bleeding dove, with broken 
wings, powerless and hopeless I 

The disputation was at an end. The 


182 


BERLIN AND SA NS-SOUCI ; OR, 


deacon declared the maiden, Dorothea 
Christine Lupinus, a doctor. The 
students uttered wild applause, and the 
professors drew near the old Lupinus, 
to congratulate him, and to renew the 
acquaintance of former days. 

The fair young Bride of Arts thought 
not of this. She looked toward Eck- 
hof ; their glances were rooted in each 
other firmly but tearlessly. She waved 
to him with her hands, and obedient 
to her wish he advanced to the door, 
then turned once more ; their eyes met, 
and she had the courage to look softly 
upon the friend of her youth, Ervel- 
man, who had accompanied her father, 
and say : 

“ I will fulfil my father’s vow — I will 
be a faithful wife. Look, you, Ervel- 
man, the star has gone out which 
blinded my eyes, and now I see again 
clearly.” She pointed, with a trem- 
bling hand, to Eckhof, who was disap- 
pearing. 

“Friend,” said Eckhof, to Freders- 
dorf, “ if the gods truly demand a great 
sacrifice as a propitiation, I think I 
have’ offered one this day. I have cast 
my Polycrates’ ring into the sea, and a 
part of my heart’s blood was cleaving 
to it. May fate be reconciled, and 
grant me the happiness this pale and 
lovely maiden has consecrated with her 
tears ! Farewell, Christine, farewell I 
Our paths in life are widely separated. 
Who knows, perhaps we will meet 
again in heaven ? You belong to the 
saints, and I am a poor comedian, who 
makes a false show throughout a wild 
tumultuous life with some pompous 
shreds and tatters of art and beauty, to 
whom, perhaps, the angels in heaven 
will deny a place, even as the priests on 
earth deny him a grave.” * 

* Eckhof lived to awake respect and love for 
the national theatre throughout all Germany. He 
had his own theatre in Gotha, where he was born, 
and where he died in 1778. He performed the 
double service of exalting the German stage, and 
obtaining foi the actors consideration and respect. 


CHAPTER Xn. 
trenck’s first flight. 

“This is, then, the day of liberation 1 ” 
said Princess Amelia to her confidante, 
Mademoiselle von Haak. “To-day, 
after five months of torture, he will 
again be free, will again enjoy life and 
liberty. And to me, happy princess, 
will he owe all these blessings ; to me, 
whom God has permitted to survive 
all these torments, that I might be the 
means of effecting his deliverance, for, 
without doubt, our work will succeed, 
will it not ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Ernestine von 
Haak ; “ we shall and must succeed.” 

“Let us reconsider the whole plan, 
if only to enliven the tedious hours 
with pleasant thoughts. When the 
commandant of the prison. Major von 
Doo, pays the customary Sunday-morn- 
ing visit to Trenck’s cell, and while he is 
carefully examining every nook to as- 
sure himself that the captive nobleman 
has not been endeavoring to make a 
pathway to liberty, Trenck will sud- 
denly overpower him, deprive him of 
his sword, and rush past him out of the 
cell. At the door he will be met by 
the soldier Nicolai, who is in our con- 
fidence, and will seein not to notice his 
escape. Once over the palisades, he 
will find a horse, which we have placed 
in readiness. Concealed by the military 
cloak thrown over him, and armed 
with pistols with which his saddle-hol- 
sters have been furnished, he will fly 
on the wings of the wind toward Bo- 
hemia. Near the border, at the village 
of Ldnnschutz, a second horse will 
await him. He will mount and hurry 
on until the Ijoundary and liberty are 
obtained. All seems so safe, Ernestine, 
so easy of execution, that I can scarcely 
believe in the possibility of a failure.” 

“It will not fail,” said Ernestine vor 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


183 


Haak. “ Our scheme is good, and will 
be ably assisted — it must succeed.” 

“ Provided he find the places where 
the horses stand concealed.” 

“ These he cannot fail to find. They 
ail! accurately designated in a little note 
which my lover, when he has charge of 
the prison-guard, will contrive to con- 
vey to him. Schnell’s known fidelity 
vouches for the horses being in readi- 
ness. As your royal highness was not 
willing that we should enlist accom- 
plices among the soldiers, the only 
question that need give us uneasiness is 
this: Will Trenck be able to overcome 
unaided all obstacles within the forti- 
fications ? ” 

“No,” answered Amelia, proudly; 
“ Trenck shall be liberated, but I will 
not corrupt my brother’s soldiers. To 
do the first, is my right and my duty, 
for I love Trenck. Should I dz the 
second, I would be guilty of high-trea- 
son to my king, and this even love 
could not excuse. Only to himself and 
to me shall Trenck owe his freedom. 
Our only allies shall be my means and 
his own strength. He has the courage 
of a hero and the strength of a giant. 
He will force his way through his ene- 
mies like Briareus ; they will fall before 
him like grain before the reaper. If he 
cannot kill them all with the sword, he 
will annihilate them with the lightning 
of his glances, for a heavenly power 
dwells in his eyes. Moreover, your 
lover writes that he is beloved by the 
oflBcers of the garrison, that all the 
soldiers sympathize with him. It is 
well that it is not necessary to bribe 
them with miserable dross ; Trenck has 
already bribed them wdth his youth 
and manly beauty, his misfortunes and 
his amiability. He will find no op- 
position, no one will dispute his passage 
to liberty.” 

“ God grant that it may be as your 
highness predicts I” said Ernestine, 
with a sigh. 


“Four days of uncertainty are still 
before us — would that they had pass- 
ed ! ” exclaimed Princess Amelia. “ I 
have no doubts of his safety, but I fear 
I shall not survive these four days of 
anxiety. Impatience will destroy me. 
I had the courage to endure misery, 
but I feel already that tlie expectation 
of happiness tortures me. God grant, 
at least, that his freedom is secured ! ” 
“Never speak of dying, with the 
rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes your 
highness has to-day,” said Mademoi- 
selle von Haak, with a smile. “Your 
increasing pallor, caused no doubt by 
your grief, has given me much pain. 
I am no longer uneasy, however, for 
you have recovered health and strength, 
now that you are again hopeful. As 
for the four days of expectancy, we will 
kill them with merry laughter, gayety, 
and dancing. Does not the queen give 
a ball to-day ? is there not a masquer- 
ade at the opera to-morrow ? For the 
last five months your highness has 
taken part in these festivities because 
you were compelled ; you will now do 
so of your own accord. You will no 
longer dance because the king com- 
mands, but because you are young, 
happy, and full of hope for the future. 
On the first and second day you will 
dance and fatigue yourself so much, 
that you will have the happiness of 
sleeping a great deal on the third. The 
fourth day will dawn upon your weary 
eyes, and whisper in your ear that 
Trenck is free, and that it is you who 
have given him his freedom.-” 

“Yes, let us be gay, let us laugh, 
dance, and be merry,” exclaimed Prin- 
cess Amelia. “My brother shall be 
satisfied with me; he need no longer 
regard me in so gloomy and threaten- 
ing a manner ; I will laugh and jest, I 
will adorn myself, and surpass all the 
ladies with the magnificence of my 
attire and my sparkling eyes. Come, 
Ernestine, come. We will arrange my 


[84 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


toilet for tliis evening. 'It shall be 
magnificent. I will wear flowers in my 
hair and flowers on my breast, but no 
pearls. Pearls signify tears, and I will 
w'eep no more.” 

Joyously she danced through the 
room, drawing her friend to the bou- 
doir ; joyously she passed the three fol- 
lowing days of expectation; joyously 
she closed her eyes on the evening ot 
the third day, to see, in her dreams, her 
lover kneeling at her feet, thanking 
her for his liberty, and vowing eternal 
fidelity and gratitude. 

Amelia greeted the fourth day with 
a happy smile, never doubting but that 
it would bring her glad tidings. But 
hours passed away, and still Mademoi- 
selle von Haak did not appear. Amelia 
had said to her: “I do not wish to see 
you to-morrow until you can bring me 
good news. This will, however, be in 
your power at an early hour, and you 
shall flutter into my chamber with these 
tidings, like the dove with the olive- 
branch.” 

Mademoiselle von Haak has still not 
yet arrived. But now the door opens — 
she is there, but her face is pale, her eyes 
tearful; and this pale lady in black, 
whose noble and beautiful features re- 
call to Amelia such charming and de- 
lightful remembrances — who is she? 
What brings her here ? Why does she 
hurry forward to the princess with 
streaming eyes ? Why does she kneel, 
raise her hands imploringly, and whis- 
per, “ Mercy, Princess Amelia, mercy ! ” 

Amelia rises from her seat, pale and 
trembling, gazes with widely extended 
eyes at the kneeling figure, and, almost 
speechless with terror, asks in low 
tones, “ Who are you, madame ? What 
do you desire of me ? ” 

The pale woman at her feet cries in 
heart-rending accents, “ I am the moth • 
er of the unfortunate Frederick von 
Trenck, and I come to implore mercy 
at the hands of your royal highness. 


My son attempted to escape, but God 
did not favor his undertaking. He 
was overtaken by misfortune, after 
having overcome almost all obstacles, 
when nothing but the palisades sep- 
arated him from liberty and safety ; he 
was attacked by his pursuers, disarmed, 
and carried back to prison, wounded 
and bleeding.” * 

Amelia uttered a cry of horror, and 
fell back on her seat pale and breath- 
less, almost senseless. Mademoiselle 
von Haak took her gently in her anus, 
and, amid her tears, whispered words 
of consolation, of sympathy, and of 
hope. But Amelia scarcely heeded her ; 
she looked down vacantly upon the 
pallid, weeping woman who still knelt 
at her feet. 

“ Have mercy, princess, have mercy ! 
You alone can assist me ; therefore 
have I come to you; therefore have 
I entreated Mademoiselle von Haak 
with tears, until she could no longer 
refuse to conduct me to your presence. 
Regardless, at last, of etiquette and 
ceremony, she permitted me to fall at 
your feet, and to cry to you for help. 
You are an angel of goodness and 
mercy ; pity an unfortunate mother, who 
wishes to save her son ! ” 

“And you believe that I can do 
this ! ” said Amelia, breathlessly. 

“You alone, royal highness, have 
the power to save my son’s life ! ” 

“ Tell me by what means, countess, 
and I will save him, if it costs my 
heart’s blood.” 

“ Conduct me to the king. This is 
all that I require of you. He has not yet 
been informed of ray son's unfortunate 
attempt. I must be the first to bring 
him this intelligence. I will confess 
that it was I who assisted my son in 
this attempt, who bribed the non-com- 
missioned officer, Nicolai, with flattery 
and tears, with gold and promises; 


♦ Trenok's Biography, i., 80 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


185 


tliat it was I who placed the horses and 
loaded pistols in readiness beyond the 
outer palisade ; that I sent my son the 
thousand ducats which were found on 
tils person ; that I wrote him the letter 
containing vows of eternal love and 
fidelity. The king will pardon a mo- 
ther who, in endeavoring to liberate her 
son, left no means of success untried.” 

“You are a noble, a generous wo- 
man ! ” exclaimed the princess, with 
enthusiasm. “You are worthy to be 
Trench’s mother ! You say that I 
must save him, and you have come to 
save me I But I will not accept this 
sacrifice; I will not be cowardly and 
timidly silent, when you have the cour- 
age to speak. Let the king know all ; 
let him know that Trenck was not the 
son, but the lover of her who endeav- 
ored to give him his freedom, and 
that—” 

“ If you would save him, be silent ! 
The king can be merciful when it was 
the mother who attempted to liberate 
the son; he will be inexorable if 
another has made this mad attempt; 
and, above all, if he cannot punish the 
transgressor, my son’s punishment will 
be doubled.” 

“Listen to her words, princess, adopt 
her counsel,” whispered the weeping 
Ernestine. “ Preserve yourself for the 
unfortunate Trenck; protect his friends 
by your silence, and we may still hope 
to form a better and happier plan of es- 
cape.” 

“ Be it so,” said the princess with a 
sigh. “ I will bring him this addi- 
tional sacrifice. I will be silent. God 
knows that I would willingly lay down 
my life for him. I would find this 
easier than to veil my love in cowardly 
silence. Come, I will conduct you to 
the king.” 

“ But I have not yet told your royal 
Bighuess that the king is in his library, 
and has ordered that no one should be 
admitted to his presence.” 


“ I will be admitted. I will conduct 
you through the private corridor and 
the king’s apartments, and not by way 
of the grand antechamber. Come.” 

She seized the countess’s hand and 
led her away. 

The king was alone in his library 
sitting at a table covered with books 
and papers, busily engaged in writing. 
From time to time he paused, and 
thoughtfully regarded what he had 
written. “I have commenced a new 
work, which it is to be hoped will be as 
great a success in the field of science as 
several that I have achieved with the 
sword on another field. I know my 
wish and my aim ; I have undertaken a 
truly noble task. I will write the his- 
tory of my times, not in the form of 
memoirs, nor as a commentary, but as 
a free, independent, and impartial his- 
tory. I will describe the decline of 
Europe, and will endeavor to portray 
the follies and weaknesses of her ru- 
lers.* My respected colleagues, the 
kings and princes, have provided me 
with rich materials for a ludicrous pic- 
ture. To do this work justice, the pen- 
cil of a Hollenbreughel and the pen of 
a Thucydides were desirable. Ah! 
glory is so piquant a dish, that the 
more we indulge, the more we thirst 
after its enjoyment. Why am I not 
satisfied with being called a good gen- 
eral ? why do I long for the honor of 
being crowned in the capitol ? Well, it 
certainly will not be his holiness the 
pope who crowns me or elevates me to 
the rank of a saint — truly, I am not en- 
vious of such titles. I shall be con- 
tented if posterity shall call me a good 
prince, a brave soldier, and a good 
lawgiver, and forgives me for having 
sometimes mounted the Pegasus instead 
of the war-horse.” 

With a merry smile, the king now 
resumed his writing. The door which 

* The king’s own words. — “ CEuvres posthumci 
Oorrespondance avec Voltalro.” 


186 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI , OR, 


commuuicated with his apartment was 
opened softly, and Princess Amelia, 
her countenance pale and sorrowful, 
looked searchingly into the room. See- 
ing that the king was still writing, she 
knocked gently. The king turned has- 
tily and angrily. 

“Did I not say that I desired to be 
alone ? ” said he, indignantly. Perceiv- 
ing his sister, he now arose, an expres- 
sion of anxiety pervading his counte- 
nance. “Ah, my sister ! your sad face 
proclaims you the bearer of bad news,” 
said he ; “ and very important it must 
have been to bring you unannounced to 
my presence.” 

“ My brother, misfortune has always 
the privilege of coming unannounced to 
the presence of princes, to implore pity 
and mercy at their hands. I claim this 
holy privilege for the unfortunate lady 
who has prayed for my intercession in 
her behalf. Sire, will you graciously 
accord her an audience ? ” 

“ Wlio is she ? ” asked the king, dis- 
contentedly. 

“ Sire, it is the Countess Lostange,” 
said Amelia, in a scarcely audible voice. 

“ The mother of the rebellious Lieu- 
tenant von Trenck ! ” exclaimed the 
king, in an almost threatening tone, 
his eyes flasliing angrily. 

“ Yes, it is the mother of the unfortu- 
nate Von Trenck who implores mercy 
of your majesty ! ” exclaimed the count- 
ess, falling on her knees at the thresh- 
old of the door. 

The king recoiled a step, and his eye 
grew darker. “ Really, you obtain 
your audiences in a daring manner — you 
conquer them, and make the princess 
your herald.” 

“ Sire, I was refused admission. In 
the anguish of my heart, I turned to 
tlie princess, who was generous enough 
to incur the displeasure of her royal 
brotlier for my sake.” 

“ And was that which you had to 
say really so urgent ? ” 


“ Sire, for five months has my son 
been languishing in prison, and you 
ask if there is an urgent necessity foi 
his mother’s appeal. My son has in- 
curred your majesty’s displeasure ; why, 
I know not. He is a prisoner, and 
stands accused of I know not what. 
Be merciful — let me know his crime, 
that I may endeavor to atone for it.” 

“ Madame, a mother is not responsi- 
ble for her son ; a woman cannot atone 
for a man’s crimes. Leave your son to 
his destiny ; it may be a brighter one 
at some future day, if he is wise and 
prudent, and heeds the w^arning which 
is now knocking at his benighted 
heart.” At these words, the king’s 
glance rested for a moment on the 
countenance of the princess, as if this 
warning had also been intended for 
her. 

“ It is, then, your majesty’s intention 
to cheer a mother’s heart with hope ? 
My son will not be long a captive. 
You will pardon him for this crime of 
which I have no knowledge, and which 
you do not feel inclined to mention.” 

“ Shall I make it known to you, 
madame ? ” said the king, with severi- 
ty. “ He carried on an imprudent 
and treasonable correspondence, and if 
tried by court-martial, w'ould be found 
guilty of high-treason. But, in con- 
sideration of his youth, and several ex- 
tenuating circumstances with which I 
alone am acquainted, I will be lenient 
with him. Be satisfied with this assur- 
ance : in a year your son wdll be free ; 
and when solitude has brought him to 
refiection, and the consciousness of his 
crime, wdien he is more humble and 
wiser, I will again be a gracious king 
to him.* Write this to your son, ma- 
dame, and receive my best wishes for 
yourself.” 

“ Oh, sire, you do not yet know all. 1 
have another confession to make, and — ' 


♦ Trenck’* Alcmclre, 1., 82. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


187 


A light knock at the door communi- 
cating with the antechamber interrupt- 
ed her, and a voice from the outside 
exclaimed : “ Sire, a courier with im- 
portant dispatches from Silesia.” 

“ Retire to the adjoining apartment, 
and wait there,” said the king, turning 
to his sister. 

Both ladies left the room. 

“ Dispatches from Silesia,” whispered 
the countess. “The king will now 
learn all, I fear.” 

“ Well, if he does,” said the princess, 
almost defiantly, “ we are here to save 
him, and we will save him.” 

A short time elapsed ; then the door 
was violently thrown open, and the 
king appeared on the threshold, his 
eyes flashing with anger. 

“ Madame,” said he, pointing to the 
papers which he held in his hand, 

from these papers I have undoubted- 
ly learned what it was your intention to 
have communicated to me. Your son 
has attempted to escape from prison 
like a cowardly criminal, a malefactor 
weighed down with guilt. In this at- 
tempt he has killed and wounded sol- 
diers, disarmed the governor of the 
fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy, has 
endeavored to scale the palisades in 
broad daylight. Madame, nothing but 
the consciousness of his own guilt 
could have induced him to attempt so 
daring a flight, and he must have had 
criminal accomplices who advised him 
to this step — accomplices who bribed 
the sentinel on duty before his door; 
who secretly conveyed money to him, 
and held horses in readiness for his 
flight. Woe to them if I should ever 
discover the criminals who treasonably 
induced my soldiers and officers to 
break their oath of fidelity ! ” 

“ I, your majesty, I was this crimi- 
nal,” said the countess. “A mother 
may well dare to achieve the freedom 
of her son at any price. It is her priv- 
ilege to defend him with any weapon. 


I bribed the soldiers, placed the horses 
in readiness, and conveyed money to 
my son. It was Trenck’s mother who 
endeavored to liberate him.” 

“ And you have only brought him to 
greater, to more hopeless misery ! For 
now, madame, there can be no mercy. 
The fugitive, the deserter, has forfeited 
the favor of his king. Shame, misery, 
and perpetual captivity will henceforth 
be his portion. This is my determi- 
nation. Hope for no mercy. The arti- 
cles of war condemn the deserter to 
death. I will give him his life, but 
freedom I cannot give him, for I now 
know that he would abuse it. Fare- 
well.” 

“ Mercy ! mercy for my son ! ” sobbed 
the countess. “ He is so young I he 
has a long life before him.” 

“ A life of remorse and repentance,” 
said the king with severity. “ I will 
accord him no other. Go ! ” 

He was on the point of reentering 
the library. A hand was laid on his 
shoulder ; he turned and saw the pale 
countenance of his sister. 

“ My brother,” said the princess, in 
a firm voice, “ permit me to speak with 
you alone for a moment. Proceed, I 
will follow you.” 

Her bearing was proud, almost dicta- 
torial. Her sternly tranquil manner, 
her clear and earnest brow, showed 
plainly that she had formed an heroic 
determination. She was no longer the 
young girl, timidly praying for her 
lover ; she was the fearless woman, de- 
termined to defend him, or die for 
him. The king read this in her coun- 
tenance, it was plainly indicated in her 
royal bearing ; and with the reverence 
and consideration which great spirits 
ever accord to misfortune, he did 
homage to this woman toward whom 
he was so strongly drawn by sympathy 
and picy. 

“Come, my sister, come,” said he, 
oflhring his hand. 


188 


BERLIN AND SANS-S(UCI; OR, 


Amelia did not take his hand ; by his 
side she walked into the library, and 
softly locked the door behind her. One 
moment she rested against the wall, as 
if to gather strength. The king hastily 
crossed the room, and looked out at the 
window. Hearing the rustle of her 
dress behind him, he turned and ad- 
vanced toward the princess. She re- 
garded him fixedly with cold and tear- 
less eyes. 

“ Is it sufficient if I promise never to 
see him again ? ” said she. 

“ The prqfnise is superfluous, for I 
will make a future meeting impossible.” 

She inclined her head slightly, as if 
this answer had been expected. 

“Is it enough if I swear never to 
write to him again, never more to give 
him a token of my love ? ” 

“ I would not believe this oath. If I 
set him at liberty he would compromise 
you and your family, by boasting of a 
love which yielded to circumstances 
and necessity only, and not to reason 
and indifference. 1 will make you no 
reproaches at present, for I think your 
conscience is doing that for me. But 
this much I will say : I will not set him 
at liberty until he no longer believes in 
your love.” 

“ Will you liberate him if I rob him 
of this belief? If I hurl the broken 
bond of my promised faith in his face ? 
If I tell him that fear and cowardice 
have extinguished my love, and that I 
bid him farewell forever ? ” 

“ Write him this, and I promise you 
that he shall be free in a few months ; 
but, understand me well, free to go 
where he will, but banished from my 
kingdom.” 

“ Shall I write at once ? ” said she, 
with an expression of utter indifference, 
and with icy tranquillity. 

“Write ; you will find all that is ne- 
cessary on my escritoire.'*'' 

She walked composedly to the table 
and seated herself. When she com- 


menced writing, a deathly pallor came 
over her face; her breath came and 
went hurriedly and painfully. The 
king stood near, regarding her with an 
expression of deep solicitude. 

“ Have you finished ? ” said he, as she 
pushed the paper aside on which she 
had been writing. 

“ Ho,” said she calmly, “ it was only 
a tear that had fallen on the paper. I 
must begin again.” And with perfect 
composure she took another sheet of 
paper, and began writing anew. 

The king turned away with a sigh. 
He felt that if he longer regarded this 
pale, resigned face, he would lose sight 
of reason and duty, and restore to her 
her lover. He again advanced to the 
window, and looked thoughtfully out 
at the sky. “ Is it possible ? can it be?” 
he asked himself. “ May I forget my 
duties as head of my family, and only 
remember that she is my sister, and that 
she is suffering and weeping? Must 
we then all pay for this empty gran- 
deur, this frippery of earthly magnifi^ 
cence, with our heart’s blood and our 
best hopes ? And if I now deprive her 
of her dreams of happiness, what com- 
pensation can I offer ? With what can 
I replace her hopes, her love, the hap- 
piness of her youth ? At the best, with 
a little earthly splendor, with the pur- 
ple and the crown, and eventually, per- 
haps, with my love. Yes, I will love 
her truly and cordially ; she shall for 
give the brother for the king’s harsh 
ness; she shall — ” 

“ I have finished,” said the sad voice 
of his sister. 

The king turned from the window , 
Amelia stood at the escritoire., holding 
the paper on which she had been writ- 
ing ill one hand, and sustaining herself 
by the table with the other. 

“ Read w'hat you have written,” said 
the king, approaching her. 

The princess bowed her head and 
read: 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


‘•I pity you, but your misfortune is 
irremediable; and I cannot and will 
lot attempt to alleviate it, for fear of 
compromising myself. This is, there- 
fore, my last letter — I can risk nothing 
more for you. Do not attempt to write 
to me, for I should return your letter 
unopened. Our separation must be for- 
ever, but I will always remain your 
friend; and if I can ever serve you 
hereafter, I will do so gladly. Farewell, 
unhappy friend, you deserve a better 
fate.” * 

“ That is all ? ” said the king, as his 
sister ceased reading. 

“ That is all, sire.” 

“ And you imagine that he will no 
longer believe in your love, when he 
receives this letter ? ” said the king, 
with a sad smile. 

“I am sure he will not, for I tell him 
in this letter that I will risk nothing 
more for him ; that I will not even at- 
tempt to alleviate his misery. Only 
when one is cow'ardly enough to sacri- 
fice love to selfish fears, could one do 
this. I shall have purchased his liberty 
with his consent.” 

“ What would you have written if 
you had been permitted to follow the 
promptings of your heart ? ” 

A rosy hue flitted over her counte- 
.*«ince, and love beamed in her eyes. “ I 
would have written, ‘ Believe in me, 
trust in me ! For henceforth the one 
aim of my life will be to liberate you. 
Let me die when I have attained this 
aim, but die in the consciousness of 
having saved you, and of having been 
true to my love.’ ” 

“ You would have written that ? ” 

“I would have written that,” said 
she, proudly and joyfully. “ And the 
truth of that letter he would not have 
doubted.” 

“Oh, w’oman’s heart I inexhaustible 
source of love and devotion ! ” mur- 


189 

mured the king, turning away to con 
ceal his emotion from his sister. 

“ Is this letter sufficient ? ” demanded 
the princess. “ Shall Trenck be free ? ” 

“ I have promised it, and will keep 
my word. Fold the letter and direct 
it. It shall be forwarded at once.” 

“ And when will he be free ? ” 

“ I cannot set him at liberty immedi- 
ately. I would be setting my officers a 
bad example. But in three months he 
shall be free.” 

“ In three months, then. Here is the 
letter, sire.” 

The king took the letter and placed 
it in his bosom. “ And now, my sister, 
come to my heart,” said he, holding out 
his arms. “ The king was angry v/ith 
you, the brother will weep with you. 
Come, Amelia, come to vour brother’s 
heart.” 

Amelia did not throw herself in his 
arms ; she stood still, and seemed not 
to have heard, not to have understooa 
his words. 

“I pray that your majesty will allow 
me to retire,” said she. “ I think we 
have finished — we have no other busi- 
ness to transact.” 

“Oh I my sister,” said Frederick, 
mournfully, “ think of what you are 
doing ; do not harden your heart against 
me. Believe me, I suffer with you ; and 
if the only question were the sacrifice 
of my personal wishes, I would gladly 
yield. But I must consider my ances- 
tors, the history of my house, and the 
prejudices of the world. Amelia, I can- 
not, I dare not do otherwise. Forgive 
me, my sister. And now, once more, 
let us hold firmly to each other in 
love and trust. Let me fold you to my 
heart.” 

He advanced and extended his hand, 
but his sister slowly recoiled. 

“ Allow me to remind your majesty 
that a poor unhappy woman is awaiting 
a word of consolation in the next room, 
and that this ^oman is Trenck’s mother. 


Trenck’s Memoirs, I., 86. 


190 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


She, at least, will be happy when I in- 
form her that her son will soon be free. 
Permit me, therefore, sire, to take my 
leave, and bear her this good news.” 

She bowed formally and profoundly, 
and walked slowly across the room. 
The king no longer endeavored to hold 
her back. He followed her with a 
mournful, questioning glance, still hop- 
ing that she would turn and seek a 
reconciliation. She reached the door, 
now she turned. The king stepped for- 
ward rapidly, but Princess Amelia 
bowed ceremoniously and disappeared. 

“ Lost ! I have lost her,” sighed the 
king. “ Oh, my God ! must I then part 
from all that I love? Was it not 
enough to lose my friends by death? 
will cruel fate also rob me of a loved 
and living sister ? Ah ! I am a poor, a 
wretched man, and yet they call me a 
king.” 

Frederick slowly seated himself, and 
covered his face with his hands. He 
remained in this position for a long 
time, his sighs being the only interrup- 
tion to the silence which reigned in the 
apartment. 

“ Work ! I will work,” said he proud- 
ly. “ This is at least a consolation, and 
teaches forgetfulness.” 

He walked hurriedly to his escritoire^ 
seated himself, and regarded the manu- 
scripts and papers which lay before 
him. He took up one of the manu- 
scripts and began to read, but with an 
impatient gesture he soon laid it aside. 

“ The letters swim before my eyes in 
inextricable confusion. My God, how 
hard it is to do one’s duty ! ” 

He’ rested his head on his hand, and 
was lost in thought for a long time. 
Gradually his expression brightened, 
and a wondrous light beamed in his 
eyes. 

“ Yes,” said he, with a smile, “ yes, 
so shall it be. I have just lost a much- 
loved sister. Well, it is customary to 
erect a monument in memory of those 


we love. Poor, lost sister, I will erect 
a monument to your memory The 
king has been compelled to make his 
sister unhappy, and for this he will en- 
deavor to make his people happy. And 
if there is no law to which a princess 
can appeal against the king, there shall 
at least be laws for all my subjects, 
which protect them, and are in strict 
accordance with reason, with justice, 
and the godly principle of equality. 
Yes, I will give my people a new code 
of laws.* This, Amelia, shall be the 
monument which I will erect to you in 
my heart. In this very hour I will 
write to Cocceji, and request him to 
sketch the outlines of this new code of 
laws.” 

The king seized his pen and com- 
menced writing. “ The judges,” said 
he, hastily penning his words, “the 
judges must administer equal and im- 
partial justice to all without respect to 
rank or wealth, as they expect to answer 
for the same before the righteous judg- 
ment-seat of God, and in order that the 
sighs of the widows and orphans, and 
of all that are oppressed, may not be 
visited upon themselves and their chil- 
dren. No rescripts, although issued 
from this cabinet, shall be deemed 
worthy of the slightest consideration, 
if they contain aught manifestly incom- 
patible with equity, or if the strict 
course of justice is thereby hindered or 
interrupted ; but the judges shall pro- 
ceed according to the dictates of duty 
and conscience.” 

The king continued writing, his 
countenance becoming more and more 
radiant with pleasure, while his pen 
flew over the paper. He was so com- 
pletely occupied with his thoughts that 
he did not hear the door open behind 
him, and did not perceive the merry 
and intelligent face of his favorites, 
General Rothenberg, looking in. 


* Kfdenbeck, Diary, p. 187. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


191 


The king wrote on. Rothenberg stoop- 
ed and placed something which he held 
in his arms on the floor. He looked 
over toward the king, and then at the 
graceful little greyhound which stood 
quietly before him. This was no other 
than the favorite dog of the king which 
had been lost and a captive.* 

The little Biche stood still for a mo- 
ment, looking around intelligently, and 
then ran lightly across the apartment, 
sprang upon the table and laid its fore- 
paw on the king’s neck. 

“ Biche, my faithful little friend, is it 
yoji?” said Frederick, throwing his 
pen aside and taking ‘the animal in 
his arms. Biche began to bark with 
delight, nestle closely to her master, 
and look lovingly at him with her 
small bright eyes. And the king — 
he inclined his face on the head of his 
faithful little friend, and tears ran 
slowly down his cheeks.t 

“You have not forgotten me, my 
little Biche ? Ah, if men were true, 
and loved me as you do, my faithful 
little dog, I should be a rich, a happy 
king 1 ” 

General Rothenberg still stood at the 
half-opened door. “ Sire,” said he, “ is 
it only Biche who has the grander and 
'petites entrees^ or have I also ? ” 

“ Ah, it was then you who brought 
Biche ? ” said Frederick, beckoning to 
the general to approach. 

“ Yes, sire, it was I, but I almost re- 
gret having done so, for I perceive 
that Biche is a dangerous rival, and I 
am jealous of her.” 

“ You are my best gentleman-friend. 


* The greyhound had fallen into the hands of the 
Austrians at the battle of Sohr, and had been pre- 
sented by General Nadasti to his wife ns a trophy. 
When this lady learned that Biche had been a pet 
of the king, she at first refused to give it up ; and 
only after several demands, and with much diffi- 
culty, could she be induced return it.— Eoden- 
bock. Diary, p. 126. 

t Muchler, Frederick the Great,” p. 350. Eo- 
dcnbeck, Diary, p. 127. 


and Biche is my best lady-friend,” said 
the king, laughing. “I shall never 
forget that Biche on one occasion might 
have discovered me to the Austrians, 
and did not betray me, as thousands of 
men would have done in her place. 
Had she barked at the time when I 
had concealed myself under the bridge, 
while the regiment of pandours was 
passing over, I should have been lost. 
But she conquered herself. From love 
to me she renounced her instincts, and 
was silent. She nestled close to my 
side, regarding me with her discreet 
little eyes, and licking my hand lov- 
ingly. Ah, my friend, believe me, 
dogs are better and truer than man- 
kind, and the so-called images of God 
could learn a great deal from them ! ” 


CHAPTER XHI. 

THE FLIGHT. 

Two months had pa,ssed since 
Trenck’s last attempted escape ; two 
months of anguish, of despair. But 
he was not depressed, not hopeless; 
he had one great aim before his eyes 
— to be free, to escape from this prison. 
The commandant had just assured him 
he would never leave it alive. 

This frightful picture of a life-long 
imprisonment did not terrify him, did 
not agitate a nerve or relax a muscle. 
He felt his blood bounding in fiery 
streams through his veins. With a 
merry laugh and sparkling eye he de- 
clared that no man could be impris- 
oned during his whole life who felt 
himself strong enough to achieve his 
freedom. 

“ 1 have strength and endurance like 
Atlas. I can bear the world on my 
shoulders, and shall I never be able to 
burst these doors and gates, to sur- 
meunt these miserable fortress walls 


192 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


which, separate me from liberty, the 
world of action, the golden sunshine ? 
No, no, before the close of this year, I 
shall be free. Yes, free ! free to fly to 
her and give her back this letter, and 
ask her if she did truly write it ? If 
these cold words came from her heart? 
No, some one has dared to imitate her 
writing, and thus deprive me of the 
only ray of sunshine which enters my 
dark prison. I must be free in order to 
know this. I will believe in nothing 
which I do not see written in her beau- 
tiful face ; only when her lips speak 
these fearful words, will I believe 
them. I must be free, and until then I 
must forget all other things, even this 
terrible letter. My thoughts, my eyes, 
my heart, my soul, must have but one 
aim — my liberty ! ” 

Alas ! the year drew near its close, 
and the goal was not reached ; indeed, 
the difficulties were greatly increased. 
The commandant. Von Fouquet, had 
just received stern orders from Berlin ; 
the watch had been doubled, and the 
officers in the citadel had been per- 
emptorily forbidden to enter the cell 
of the prisoner, or in any way to show 
him kindness or attention. 

The officers loved the young and 
cheerful prisoner; by his fresh and 
hopeful spirit, his gay laugh and merry 
jest, he had broken up the everlasting 
monotony of their garrison-life ; by his 
powerful intellect and rich fancy he 
had, in some degree, dissipated their 
weariness and stupidity. They felt 
pity for his youth, his beauty, his geni- 
ality, his energetic self-confidence ; his 
bold courage imposed upon them, and 
they were watching curiously and anx- 
iously to see the finale of this contest 
between the poor, powerless, imprisoned 
youth, and the haughty, stern com- 
mandant. wffio had sworn to Trenck 
that he should nbt succeed in makiner 

o 

even an attempt at escape, to which 
Trenck had laughingly replied ; 


“ I will not only make an attempt to 
escape, I will fly in defiance of all guards, 
and all fortress walls, and all command- 
ants. I inhale already the breath of 
liberty which is wafted through my 
prison. Do you not see how the God- 
dess of Liberty, with her enchanting 
smile, stands at the head of my wretch- 
ed bed, sings her sweet evening songs 
to the poor prisoner, and wakes him in 
the early morning with the sound of 
trumpets ? Oh, sir commandant. Lib- 
erty loves me, and soon will she take 
me like a bride in her fair arms, and 
bear me off to freedom ! ” 

The commandant had doubled the 
guard, and forbidden the officers, under 
heavy penalty, to have any intercourse 
with Trenck. Formerly, the officers 
who had kept watch over Trenck, had 
been allowed to enter, to remain and 
eat with him ; now the door was 
closed against them, the major kept the 
key, and Trenck’s food was handed 
him through the window. But this 
window was large, and the officer on 
guard could put his head in and chat 
awhile with the prisoner. The major 
had the principal key, but the officer 
had a night-key, and, by this means, 
entered often in the evenings and 
passed a few hours with the prisoner, lis- 
tening with astonishment to his plans 
of escape, and his dreams of a happy 
future. 

But they did not all come to speak 
of indifferent things, and to be cheered 
and brightened by his gay - humor. 
There were some who truly loved him, 
and wished to give him counsel and 
aid. One came because he had prom 
ised his beloved mistress, his bride, to 
liberate Trenck, cost what it would. 
This was Lieutenant Sehnell, the bride- 
groom of Amelia’s maid of honor. One 
day, thanks to the night-key, he entered 
Trenck’s cell. 


* Trenck’s Memoirs . 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


I wHl stand by you, and assist you 
to escape. More tlian that, I will fly 
with you. The commandant, Fouquet, 
hates me — he says I know too much 
for an officer; that I do not confine 
myself to my military duties, but love 
books, and art, and science. He has 
often railed at me, and I have twice 
demanded my dismissal, which he re- 
fused, and threatened me with arrest 
if I should again demand it. Like 
yourself, I am not free, and, like you, I 
wish to fly from bondage. And now 
let us consult together, and arrange our 
plan of escape.” 

“ Yes,” said Trenck, with a glowing 
countenance, and embracing his new- 
found friend, “ we will be uncon- 
querable. Like Briareus, we will have 
a hundred arms and a hundred 
heads. When two young and pow- 
erful men 'unite their wills, nothing 
can restrain them — nothing withstand 
them. Let us make our arrange- 
ments.” 

The plan of escape was marked out, 
and was, indeed, ripe for action. On 
the last day of the year. Lieutenant 
Schnell was to be Trenck’s night-guard, 
and then they would escape. The 
dark shadows of night would assist 
them. Horses were already engaged. 
There was gold to bribe the guard, and 
there were loaded pistols for those who 
could not be tempted. These had 
been already smuggled into Trenck’s 
cell, and concealed in the ashes of the 
fireplace. 

And now it was Christmas eve. 
This was a grand festal day even for 
all the officers of the citadel. With the 
exception of the night-watch, they 
were all invited to dine with the com- 
mandant. A day of joy and rejoicing 
to all but the poor prisoner, who sat 
solitary in his cell, and recalled, with a 
sad heart, the happy days of his child- 
hood. “The holy evening ’’had been 
tt) him a golden book of promise, and a 
13 


193 

munificent cornucopia of happiness and 
peace. 

The door of his cell was hastily 
opened, and Schnell rushed in. 

“ Comrade, we are betrayed ! ” said 
he breathlessly. “ Our plan of flight 
has been discovered. The adjutant of 
the commandant has just secretly in- 
formed me that when the guard is 
changed I am to be arrested. You 
see, then, we are lost, unless we 
adopt some rash and energetic resolu- 
tion.” 

“ We will fly before the hour of your 
arrest,” said Trenck, gayly. 

“If you think that possible, so be 
it I ” said Schnell. He drew a sword 
from under his mantle, and handed it 
to Trenck. “ Swear to me upon this 
sword, that come what may, you will 
never allow me to fall alive into the 
hands of my enemies.” 

“ I swear it, so truly as God will help 
me I And now, Schnell, take the same 
oath.” 

“ I swear it ! And now friend, one 
last grasp of the hand, and then for- 
ward. May God be with us! Hide 
your sword under your coat. Let us 
assume an indifferent and careless ex- 
pression — come ! ” 

Arm in arm, the two young men left 
the prison door. They appeared calm 
and cheerful ; each one kept a hand in 
his bosom, and this hand held a loaded 
pistol. 

The guard saluted the officer of the 
night-watch, who passed by him in full 
uniform. In passing, he said quietly ; 
“ I am conducting the prisoner to the 
officers’ room. Remain here — I will 
return quickly.” 

Slowly, quietly, they passed down 
the whole length of the corridor ; they 
reached the officers’ room, and opened 
the door. The guard walked with 
measured step slowly before the open 
door of Trenck’s cell, suspecting noth- 
ing. The door closed behind the fugi 


194 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


lives— tlie first step toward liberty was 
takeil. 

“ And now, quickly onward to the 
side door. When we have passed the 
sentry-box, we will be at the outer 
works. We must spring over the pal- 
isades, and woe to the obstacle that lies 
in our path ! — advance ! forward I ” 

They reached the wall, they greeted 
fair Freedom with golden smiles, but 
turning a corner, they stood suddenly 
before the major and his adjutant ! 

A cry of horror burst from Schnell’s 
lips. With one bold leap, he sprang 
upon the breastworks, and jumped be- 
low. With a wild shout of joy Trenck 
'' followed him. His soul bounded with 
rapture and gladness. He has mounted 
the wall, and what he finds below will 
be liberty in death, or liberty in life. 

He lives ! He stretches himself after 
this wondrous leap, and he is not in- 
jured — ^lie recovers strength and pres- 
ence of mind quickly. 

But where is his friend ? where is 
Schnell ? There — there ; he lies upon 
the ground, with a dislocated ankle, 
impossible to stand — impossible to 
move. 

“Remember yom* oath, friend — kill 
me ! I can go no farther. Here is my 
sword — thrust it into my bosom, and 
fly for your life 1 ” 

Trenck laughed gayly, took him in 
his arms as lovingly and tenderly as a 
mother. “ Swing yourself on my back, 
friend, and clasp your arms about my 
neck, and hold fast. We will run a 
race with the reindeer.” 

“ Trenck ! Trenck ! kill me. Leave 
me here, and hasten on. Escape is im- 
possible with such a burden.” 

“ You are as light as a feather, and I 
will die with you rather than leave 
70U.” 

(.imvard ! onward ! the sun sets and a 
heavy fog rises suddenly from out of 
I he earth. 

“ Trenck, Trenck, do you not hear 


the alarm-guns thundering from the 
citadel ? Our pursuers are after us.” 

“ I hear the cannon,” said Trenck, 
hastening on. “ We have a half hour’s 
start.” 

“ A half hour will not suffice. Ho 
one has ever escaped from Glatz who 
did not have two hours’ advance of pur- 
suit. Leave me, Trenck, and save your- 
self.” 

“ I will not leave you. I would rather 
die with you. Let us rest a moment, 
and gather breath.” 

Gently, carefully, he laid his friend 
upon the ground. Schnell suppressed 
his cries of pain, and Trenck restrained 
his panting breath — they rested and 
listened. The white, soft mist settled 
more thickly around them. The citadel 
and the town were entirely hidden from 
view. 

“ God is with us,” said Trenck. “ He 
covers us with an impenetrable veil, and 
conceals us from our enemies.” 

“ God is against us — our flight was 
too soon discovered. Already the whole 
border is alarmed. Listen to the sig- 
nals in every village. The three shots 
from the citadel have announced that a 
prisoner has escaped. Tlie command- 
ing officers are now fiying from point 
to point, to see if the peasants are do- 
ing duty, and if every post is strictly 
guarded. The cordon is alarmed ; the 
whole Bohemian boundary has been 
signalled. It is too late — we cannot 
reach the border.” 

“ We will not go then, friend, in the 
direction our enemies expect us,” said 
Trenck, merrily. “They saw us run- 
ning tow'ard the Bohemian boundary, 
and they will follow in that direction 
through night and fog. We will fiy 
where they are not seeking us — we will 
cross the Reise. Do you see there a line 
of silver shimmering through the fog, 
and advancing to meet us ? Spring 
upon my back, Schnell. We must cross 
the Reise ! ” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


105 


“I cannot, Trenck, — I siaffer agony 
with my foot. It is impossible for me 
to swim.” 

“ I can swim for both.” 

He knelt down, took his friend upon 
his back, and ran with him to the river. 
And now they stood upon the shore. 
Solemnly, drearily, the waves dashed 
over their feet, sweeping onward large 
blocks of ice which obstructed the cur- 
rent. 

“ Is the river deep, comrade ? ” 

“In the middle of the stream, deep 
enough to cover a giant like yourself.” 

“ Onward, then ! When I can no 
longer walk, I can swim. Hold fast, 
Schnell I ” 

Onward, in the dark, ice-cold water, 
bravely onward, with his friend upon 
his back 1 Higher and higher rose the 
waves ! How they reached his shoulder ! 

“ Hold fast to my hair, Schnell, we 
must swim ! ” 

With herculean strength he swam 
through the dark, wild waters, and 
dashed the ice-blocks which rushed 
against him from his path. 

Now they reached the other shore. 
Not yet safe — but safe from immediate 
danger. The blessed night conceals 
their course, and their pursuers seek 
them on the other shore. 

Suddenly the fog is dispersed; a 
rough, bleak wind freezes the moisture 
in the atmosphere, and the moon rises 
in cloudless majesty in the heavens. It 
was a cold, clear December night, and 
the wet clothes of the fugitives were 
frozen stiff, like a harness, upon them. 
Trenck felt neither cold nor stiff; he 
carried his friend upon his shoulders, 
and that kept him warm ; he walked 
so rapidly, his limbs could not stiffen. 

Onward, ever onward to the moun- 
tains I They reached the first hill, under 
whose protecting shadows they sank 
down to rest, and took counsel together. 

“ Trenck, I suffer great agony ; I im- 
plore you to leave me here and save 


yourself. In a few hours you can pass 
the border. Leave me, then, and save 
yourself ! ” 

“ I will never desert a friend in ne- 
cessity. Come, I am refreshed.” 

He took up his comrade and pressed 
on. The moon had concealed herself 
behind the clouds ; the cold, cutting 
winds howled through the mountains. 
Stooping, Trenck waded on through 
the snow. He was scarcely able now 
to hold himself erect. Hope inspired 
him with strength and courage — they 
had wandered far, they must soon 
reach the border. 

Day broke ! the pale rays of the De- 
cember sun melted the mountain vapors 
into moniing. The two comrades were 
encamped upon the snow, exhausted 
with their long march, hopefully peer- 
ing here and there after the Bohemian 
boundary. 

“ Great God I what is that ? Are not 
those the towers of Glatz? and that 
dark spectre which raises itself so 
threateningly against the horizon, is not 
that the citadel ? ” 

And so it was. The poor fugitives 
have wandered round and round the 
whole night through, and they are now, 
alas, exactly where they started. 

“We are lost,” murmured Schnell; 
“ there is no hope ! ” 

“ No, we are not lost ! ” shouted 
Trenck ; “ we have young, healthy limbs, 
and weapons. They shall never take 
us alive.” 

“ But we cannot escape them. Our 
appearance will instantly betray us; I 
am in full uniform, and you in your 
red coat of the body-guard, both of us 
without hats. Any man would know 
we were deserters.” ' 

“Woe to him who calls us so! we 
will slay him, and walk over his dead 
body. And now for some desperate 
resolve. We cannot go backward, we 
must advance, and pass right through 
the midst of our enemies in order to 


196 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


reach the border. You know the way, 
and the whole region round about. 
Come, Schnell, let us hold a council of 
war.” 

“ We must pass through that village 
in front of u's. How shall we attempt 
to do so unchallenged ? ” 

Half an hour later a singular couple 
drew near to the last house of the vil- 
lage. One was a severely wounded, 
bleeding officer of the king’s body- 
guard ; his face was covered with blood, 
a bloody handkerchief was bound about 
his brow, and his hands tied behind his 
back. Following him, limped an officer 
in full parade dress, but bareheaded. 
With rude, coarse words he drove the 
poor prisoner before him, and cried 
for help. Immediately two peasants 
rushed from the house. 

“ Kun to the village,” said the officer, 
“ and tell the judge to have a carnage 
got ready immediately, that I may take 
this deserter to the fortress. I succeeded 
in capturing him, but he shot my horse, 
and I fear I broke a bone in falling ; 
you see, though, how I have cut him to 
pieces. I think he is mortally wounded. 
Bring a carriage instantly, that I may 
take him, while yet alive, to the cita- 
del.” 

One of the men started at once, the 
other nodded to them to enter his hut. 

Stumbling and stammering out words 
of pain, the wounded man followed 
him; cursing and railing, the officer 
limped behind him. On entering the 
room, the wounded man sank upon the 
floor, groaning aloud. A young girl 
advanced hastily, and took his wounded 
head in her arms ; while an old woman, 
who stood upon the hearth, brought a 
vessel of warm milk to comfort him. 

The old peasant stood at the window, 
and looked, with a peculiar smile, at 
the officer, wdio seated himself upon a 
beneh near the fire, and drank the milk 
greedily which the old woman handed 
him. Suddenly the old man advanced 


in front of the officer and laid his hand 
on his shoulder. 

“ Your disguise is not necessary. 
Lieutenant Schnell, I know you ; my 
son served in your company. There 
was an officer from the citadel here 
last night, and informed us of the tw^o 
deserters. You are one, Lieutenant 
Schnell, and that is the other. That is 
Baron Trenck.” 

And now, the wounded man, as if 
cured by magic, sprang to his feet. The 
sound of his name had given him health 
and strength, and healed the wounds in 
his forehead. He threw the handker- 
chief off, and rushed out, while Schnell 
with prayers and threats held back the 
old man, and entreated him to show 
them the nearest way to the border. 

Trenck hastened to the stable — two 
horses were in the stalls. The young 
girl, wdio held his head so tenderly 
came up behind him. 

“ \Yhat are you doing, sir ? ” she said 
anxiously, as Trenck released the horses. 
“ You will not surely take my father’s 
horses ? — if you do, I will cry aloud for 
help.” 

“ If you dare to cry aloud, I wdll 
murder you,’’ said Trenck, with flaming 
eyes, “ and then I will kill myself ! I 
have sworn that I will not be taken 
alive into the fortress. Have pity, 
beautiful child — your eyes are soft and 
kindly, and betray a tender heart. 
Help me — think how beautiful, how 
glorious is the w^orld and life and liberty 
to the young ! My enemies will deprive 
me of all this, and chain me in a cell, 
like a wild beast. Oh, help me to es- 
cape I ” 

“ How can I help you ? ” said ISIarian- 
del, greatly touched. 

“ Give me saddles and bridles for 
these horses, in order that I may flee. 
I sw'ear to you, by God and by my be- 
loved, that they shall be returned to 
you!” 

1 “ You have then a ^eetheart, sir ? ” 



•That if> Baron Trenck.’’ 








• A 





. < At* 


> * 


* . j • ,» ' \ . I * .*PU‘ fp» • •■• 

».•>,' •- r ■#*» •.• ' \ • . ' ' 




« 




« '.f 



FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


197 


“I have — and she weeps day and 
night for me.” 

“ I will give you the saddles in re- 
membrance of my own beloved, who is 
far away from me. Come, saddle your 
horse quickly — I will saddle the other.” 

“ Now, farewell, Mariandel — one kiss 
at parting — farewell, compassionate 
child! — Schnell, Schnell, quick, quick 
to horse, to horse 1 ” 

Schnell rushed out of the hut, the 
peasant after him. He saw with hor- 
ror that his horses were saddled ; that 
Schnell, in spite of his foot, had mounted 
one, and Trenck was seated upon the 
other. 

“ My God 1 will you steal my 
horses ? Help 1 help 1 ” 

Mariandel laid her hand upon her 
father’s lips, and suppressed his cries 
for help. “ Father, he has a bride, and 
she weeps for him ! — think upon Jo- 
seph, and let them go.” 

The fugitives dashed away. Their 
long hair fluttered in the wind, their 
cheeks glowed with excitement and 
expectation. Already the village lay 
far behind them. Onward, over the 
plains, over the meadows, over the 
stubble-fields ! 

“Schnell, Schnell, I see houses — I 
see towns. Schnell, there lies a city ! ” 
“That is Wunschelburg, and we 
must ride directly through it, for this 
is the nearest way to Bohemia.” 

“There is a garrison there, but we 
must ride through them. Aha 1 this is 
royal sport! We will dash right 
through the circle of our enemies. 
They will be so amazed at our inso- 
lence, that they will allow us to es- 
cape. Hei! here are the gates — the 
bells are ringing for church. Onward, 
onward, my gallant steed, you must fly 
as if you had wings ! ” 

Huzza! — how the flints strike fire! 
how the horses’ hoofs resound on the 
pavement! how the gayly - dressed 
church-goers, who were advancing so 


worthily up the street, fly screaming to 
every side ! how the lazy hussars, 
thinking no harm, stand at the house 
doors, and fix their eyes with horror 
upon these two bold riders, who dash 
past them like a storm- wind ! 

And now they have reached the 
outer gate — the city lies behind them. 
Forward, forward, in mad haste ! The 
horses bow, their knees give way, but 
the bold ridel's rein them up with pow- 
erful arms, and they spring onward. 

Onward, still onward ! “ But what 
is that ? who is this advancing di- 
rectly in front of us ? Schnell, do you 
not know him ? That is Captain 
Zerbtz ! ” 

Yes, .that is Captain Zerbtz, who has 
been sent with his hussars to arrest the 
fugitives ; but he is alone, and his men 
are not in sight. He rode on just in 
front of them. When near enough to 
be heard, he said, “ Brothers, hasten ! 
Go to the left, pass that solitary house. 
That is the boundary-line.* My hus- 
sars have gone to the right.” 

He turned his horse quickly, and 
dashed away. The fugitives flew to 
the left, passed the lonely house, 
passed the white stone which marked 
the border, and now just a little farther 
on. 

“ Oh, comrade, let our horses breathe ! 
Let us rest and thank God, for we are 
saved — we have passed the border ! ” 

“We are free, free ! ” cried Trenck, 
with so loud a shout of joy that the 
mountains echoed with the happy 
sound, and reechoed back, “ Free, 
free ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I WILL. 

Swiftly, noiselessly, and unheeded 
the days of prosperity and peace pass 


♦ Trenck’B Memoirs. 


198 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


away. King Frederick has been 
happy : he does not even remember 
that more than two years of calm con- 
tent and enjoyment have been granted 
liim— two years in which he dared lay 
aside his sword, and rest quietly upon 
his laurels. This happy season had 
been rich in blessings; bringing its 
laughing tribute of perfumed roses and 
blooming myrtles. Two years of such 
happiness seem almost miraculous in 
the life of a king. 

Our happy days are ever uneventful. 
True love is silent and rething ; it does 
not speak its rapture to the profane 
world, but hides itself in the shadows 
of holy solitude and starry night. Let 
us not, then, lift the veil with which 
King Frederick had concealed his 
love. These two years of bloom 
and fragrance shall pass by unques- 
tioned. 

When the sun is most lustrous, we 
turn away our eyes, lest they be blinded 
by his rays; but when clouds and 
darkness are around about us, we look 
up curiously and questioningly. King 
Frederick’s sun is no longer clear and 
dazzling, dark clouds are passing over 
it; a shadow from these clouds has 
fallen upon the young and handsome 
face of the king, quenched the flashing 
glance of his eye, and checked the rapid 
beating of his heart. 

What was it which made King 
Frederick so restless and unhappy ? 
He did not know himself, or, rather, he 
would not know. An Alp seemed 
lesting upon his heart, repressing every 
joyful emotion, and making exertion 
impossible. He sought distraction in 
work, and in the early morning he 
called his ministers to council, but his 
thoughts were far away; he listened 
without hearing, and the most impor- 
tant statements seemed to him trivial. 
He mistrusted himself, and dismissed 
his ministers. It was Frederick’s cus- 
tom to read every letter and petition 


himself, and write his answ'ei upon the 
margin. This being done, he turned 
to his ordinary studies and occupations, 
and commenced writing in his 
toire de mon Tempsy Soon, however, 
he found himself gazing upon the 
paper, lost in wandering thoughts and 
wild, fantastic dreams. He threw hia 
pen aside, and tried to lose himself in 
the beautiful creations of his favorite 
poet ; all things in nature and fiction 
seemed alike vain. 

Frederick threw his book aside in 
despair. “What is the matter wulxI 
me ? ” he exclaimed angrily, “ I am 
not myself; some wdcked fairy has 
cast a spell about me, and bound my 
soul in magic fetters. I cannot work, 
I cannot think ; content and quiet 
peace are banished from my breast ! 
What does this signify ? and why — ” 
He did not complete his sentence, but 
gazed with breathless attention to the 
door. He had heard one tone of a 
voice without which made his heart 
tremble and his eyes glow with their 
wonted fire. 

“Announce to his majesty that I am 
here, and plead importunately for an 
audience,” said a soft, sweet voice. 

“ The king has commanded that no 
one shall be admitted.” 

“Announce me, nevertheless,” said 
the petitioner imperiously. 

“ That is impossible ! ” 

Frederick had heard enough. He 
stepped to the door and threw it open, 
“ Signora, I am ready to receive you ; 
have the goodness to enter.” He 
stepped abrui^tly forward, and, giving 
his hand to Barbarina, led her into his 
cabinet. 

Barbarina greeted him with a sweet 
smile, and gave a glance of triumph to 
the guard, who had dared to refuse her 
entrance. 

The king conducted her silently to 
his boudoir, and nodded to her to seat 
herself upon the divan. But Barba- 


IRE DERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


199 


rina remained standing, and fixed her 
great burning eyes upon his face. 

“ I see a cloud upon your brow, 
sire,” said she, in a fond and flattering 
tone: “ What poor insect has dared to 
vex my royal lion ? Was it an insect ? 
Was it — ” 

“ No, no,” said Frederick, interrupt- 
ing her, “ an angel or a devil has tor- 
tured me, and banished joy and peace 
from, my heart. Now tell me, Barba- 
rina, what are you ? Are you a demon 
come to martyr me, or an angel of 
light, who will transform my wild 
dreams of love and bliss into reality ? 
There are hours of rapture in which I 
believe the latter, in which your glance 
of light and glory wafts my soul on 
golden wings into the heaven of heav- 
ens, and I say to myself, ‘ I am not only 
a king, but a god, for I have an angel 
by my side to minister to me.’ But 
then, alas ! come weary times in which 
you seem to me an evil demon, and I 
see in your flashing eyes that eternal 
hatred which you swore to cherish in 
the first hour of our meeting.” 

“Alas! does your majesty still re- 
member that ? ” said Barbarina, in a tone 
of tender reproof. 

“ You have taken care that I shall 
not forget it. You once told me that 
from hatred to love was but a small 
step. If you have truly advanced so 
far, how can I be assured but you 
will one day step backward ? ” 

“ How can you be assured ? ” said 
she, pointing a rosy finger with inde- 
scribable grace at the king. “Ah, 
sire! your divine beauty, your eyes, 
which have borrowed lightning from 
dove and glory from the sun — your 
brow, where majesty and wisdom sit 
enthroned, and that youthful and en- 
chanting smile which illuminates the 
^l^ole — all these make assurance 
doubly sure ! I will not allude to your 
throne, and its pomp and power! 
What is it to me that you are a king ? 


For me you are a man, a hero, a god. 
Had I met you as a shepherd in the 
fields, I should have said, ‘There is a 
god in disguise ! ’ The fable is veri- 
fied, and ‘ Apollo is before me ! ’ 
Apollo, I adore, I worship you ! let one 
ray from your heavenly eyes fall upon 
my face ! ” She knelt before him, fold- 
ing her hands, extended them plead- 
ingly toward the king, and looked upon 
him with a ravishing smile. 

The king raised her, and pressed her 
in his arms, then took her small head 
in his hands, and turning it backward, 
gazed searchingly in her face. 

“ Oh ! Barbarina,” said he, sadly, 
“ to-day you are an angel, why were 
you a demon yesterday? Why did 
you martyr and torture me ^dth your 
childish moods and passionate temper ? 
Why is your heart, which can be so 
soft and warm, sometimes cold as an 
iceberg and wholly pitiless ! Child I 
child ! do you not know I have been 
wounded by many griefs, and that 
every rough word and every angry 
glance is like a poisoned dagger to my 
soul ? I had looked forward with such 
delight to our meeting yesterday at 
Rothenberg’s ! I expected so much 
happiness, and I had earned it by a 
diligent and weary day’s work. Alas! 
you spoiled all by your frowning brow 
and sullen silence. It was your fault 
that I returned home sad and heai-tless. 
I could not sleep, but passed the night 
in trying to find out the cause of your 
melancholy. This morning I could not 
work, and have robbed my kingdom and 
my people of the hours which prop- 
erly belong to them ; weak and power- 
less, I have been swayed wholly by 
gloom and discontent. What was it, 
Barbarina, which veiled your clear 
brow with frowns, and made your sweet 
voice so harsh and stern ? ” 

“ What was it ? ” said Barbarina, 
sadly ; and, resting on the arm of the 
king, she leaned her head back and 


200 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


looked up at liim with half-closed eyes, 
“It was ambition w’hich tortured me. 
But I did wrong to conceal any thing 
from you. I should, without sullen or an- 
gry looks, have made known the cause 
of my despair. I should have felt that 
I had only to breathe my request, and 
that the noble and magnanimous heart 
of my king would understand me. I 
should have known that the man who 
had won laurels in the broad fields of 
science and on the bloody battle-field, 
would appreciate this thirst for renown ; 
this glowing, burning hate toward 
those wbo cross our paths and wish to 
share our fame ! ” 

“ Jealous ? you are jealous, then, of 
some othe^ artiste, '' said the king, releas- 
ing Barbarina from his arms. 

“ Yes, sire, I am jealous ! — jealous of 
your smiles, of your applause ; of the 
public voice, of the bravos, which like 
a golden sbower have fallen upon me 
alone, and which I must now divide 
with another ! ” 

“ Of whom, then, are you jealous ? ” 
said the king. 

She threw her head back proudly, a 
crimson blush blazed upon her cheeks, 
and her eyes sparkled angrily. 

“Wby has this Marianna Cochois 
been engaged? Why has Baron von 
Swartz put this contempt upon me ? ” 
said she, fiercely. “ To engage another 
artiste is to say to the world, that Bar- 
barina no longer pleases, that she no 
longer has the power to enrapture the 
public, that her triumphs are over, and 
her day is past ! Oh ! this thought has 
made me wild ! Is not Barbarina the 
first dancer of the world ? Can it be 
that another prima donna, and not the 
Barbarina, is engaged for the principal 
r6le in a new and splendid ballet ? 
Does Barbarina live, and has she not 
murdered the one who dared to do this, 
to bring this humiliation upon her ? ” 

Tears gushed from her eyes, and sob- 
bing loudly, sbe hid her fiice in her 


hands. The king gazed sadly upon 
her, and a weary smile played upon his 
lip. 

“You are all alike — all,” said he, 
bitterly, “ and the great artiste is ‘even 
as narrow-minded and pitiful as the 
unknown and humble ; you are all weak, 
vain, envious, and swayed by small pas- 
sions ; and to think that you, Barbarina, 
are not an exception ; that the Barbarina 
weeps because Marianna Cochois is to 
play principal role in the new ballet, 
‘ Toste GalantV ” 

“ She shall not, she dare not,” cried 
Barbarina; “ I will not suffer this hu- 
miliation ; I will not be disgraced, dis- 
honored, in Berlin; I will not sit un- 
noticed in a loge, and listen to the bravos 
and plaudits awarded to another artiste 
which belong to me alone ! Oh, sire, 
do not allow this shame to be put upon 
me I Command that this part, which 
is mine, which belongs to me by right 
of the world-wide fame w'hich I have 
achieved, be given to me ! I implore 
your majesty to take this rdle from the 
Cochois, and restore it to me.” 

“That is impossible, Barbarina. The 
Cochois, like every other artiste, must 
have her d&mt. Baron Swartz has given 
her the principal part in ‘ Toste Galanti^ 
and I cannot bfame him.” 

“ Oh ! your majesty, I beseech you to 
listen. Is it not true — will you not 
bear witness to the fact that Barbarina 
has never put your liberality and mag- 
nanimity to the test ; that she has never 
shown herself to be egotistical or mer- 
cenary ? I ask nothing from my king 
but his heart, the happiness to sit at his 
feet, and in the sunshine of his eyes to 
bathe my being in light and gladness. 
Sire, you have often complained that I 
desired and would accept nothing from 
you ; that diamonds and pearls had 
no attraction for me. You know that 
not the lightest shadow of selfishness 
has fallen upon my love I Now, then, 
I have a request to-day: I ask soine^ 


201 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AXD HIS FRIENDS. 


thing from my king which is more pre- 
cious in my eyes than all the diamonds 
of the world. Give me this role; that 
is, allow me to remain in the undisturbed 
possession of my fame.” She bowed 
her knee once more before the king, but 
this time he did not raise her ‘n his 
arms. 

“ Barbarina,” said he, sadly and 
thoughtfully, “put away from you this 
unworthy and pitiful envy. Cast it off 
as you do the tinsel robes and rouge of 
the stage with which you conceal your 
beauty. Be yourself again. The noble, 
proud, and great-hearted woman who 
shines without the aid of garish orna- 
ment, who is ever the queen of grace 
and beauty, and needs not the borrowed 
and false purple and ermine of the stage. 
Grant graciously to the Cochois this 
small glory, you who are everywhere 
and always a queen in your own right ! ” 

Barbarina sprang from her knees with 
flashing eyes. “ Sire,” said she, “ you 
refuse my request — my first request — 
you will not order that this part shall 
be given to me ? ” 

“ I cannot ; it would be unjust.” 

“And so I must suffer this deadly 
shame ; must see another play the part 
which belongs to me ; another made 
glad by the proud triumphs which are 
mine and should remain mine. I will 
not suffer this ! I swear it ! So true 
as my name is Barbarina I will have no 
rival near me ! I will not be condemned 
to this daily renewed struggle after the 
first rank as an artiste. I will not bear 
the possibility of a comparison between 
myself and any other woman. I am 
and I will remain the first, yes, I will ! ” 

She raised herself up defiantly, and 
her burning glance fell upon the face 
of the king, but he met it firmly, and 
if the bearing of Barbarina was proud 
and commanding, that of King Fred- 
erick was more imposing. 

“ How 1 ” said he, in a tone so harsh 
and threatening that Barbarina, in spite I 


of her scorn and passion, felt her heart 
tremble with fear. “ How ! Is there 
another in Prussia who dares say, ‘1 
will ? ’ Is it possible that a voice is 
raised in contradiction to the expressed 
will of the king ? ” 

Barbarina turned pale and trembled. 
The countenance of Frederick expressed 
what she had never seen before. It was 
harsh and cold, and a cutting irony 
spoke in his glance and a contemptuous 
smile played upon his lip. 

“ Mercy, mercy ! ” cried she, plead- 
ingly ; “ have pity with my passion. 
Forget this inconsiderate word which 
scorn and despair drew from me. Oh ! 
sire, do not look upon me so coldly, un- 
less you wish that I should sink down 
and die at your feet ; crush me not in 
your anger, but pardon and forget.” 

With her lovely face bathed in tears 
and her arms stretched out imploringly, 
she drew near the king, but he stood up 
erect and stepped backward. 

“ Signora Barbarina, I have nothing 
to forgive, but I cannot grant your re- 
quest. The Cochois keeps her role, and 
if you have any complaint to make, 
apply to your chief, Baron Swartz; 
and now, signora, farewell; the audi- 
ence is ended.” 

He bowed his head lightly and turned 
away ; but Barbarina uttered one wild 
cry, sprang after him, and with mad 
frenzy she clung to his arm. 

“ Sire, sire 1 do not go,” she said, 
breathlessly ; “ do not forsake me in 
your rage. My God, do you not see 
that I suffer ; that I shall be a maniac 
if you desert me ! ” and, gliding to his 
feet, she clasped his knees with her 
beautiful arms, and looked up at him 
imploringly. “ Oh, my king and my 
lord, let me be as a slavje at your feet ; 
do not spurn me from you ! ” 

King Frederick did not reply; he 
leaned forward and looked down upon 
the lovely and enchanting woman lying 
at his feet, and never, perhaps, had her 


202 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


charms appeared so intoxicating as at 
this moment, but his face was sad, and 
his eyes, usually so clear and bright, 
were veiled in tears. There was a pause. 
Barbarina still clung to his knees, and 
looked up beseechingly, and the king 
regarded her with an expression of un- 
speakable melancholy; his great soul 
seemed to speak in the glance which he 
fixed upon her. It was eloquent with 
love, rapture, and grief. Now their 
eyes met and seemed immovably fixed. 
In the midst of the profound silence 
nothing was heard butBarbarina’s sighs. 
She knew full well the significancy of 
this moment. She felt that fate, with 
its menacing and unholy shadow, was 
hovering over her. Suddenly the king 
roused himself, and the voice which 
broke the solemn silence sounded strange 
and harsh to Barbarina. 

“Farewell, Signora Barbarina,” said 
the king, 

Barbarina’s arms sank down power- 
less, and a sob burst from her lips. The 
king did not regard it ; he did not look 
back. With a fh’m hand he opened the 
door which led into his chamber; en- 
tered and closed it. He sank upon a 
chair, and gave one long and weary 
sigh. A profound despair was wwitten 
on his countenance, and had Barbarina 
seen him, she would have apx^reciated 
the anguish of his heart. 

She lay bathed in tears before the 
door, and cried aloud: “He has for- 
saken me ! Oh, my God, he has forsaken 
me ! ” This fearful and terrible thought 
maddened her; she sprang up and 
shook the door fiercely, and with a loud 
and piteous voice she prayed for en- 
trance. She knew not herself what 
words of love, of anguish, of despair, 
and insulted pfide burst from her pallid 
lips. One moment she threatened 
fiercely, then pleaded touchingly for 
pardon; sometimes her voice seemed 
full of tears — then cold and command- 
ing. The king stood with folded arms. 


leaning against the other side of the 
door. He heard these paroxysms of 
grief and rage, and every word fell upon 
his heart as the song of the siren upon 
the ear of Ulysses. But Frederick was 
mighty and powerful; he needed no 
ropes or wax to hold him back. He 
had the strength to control his will, and 
the voice of wisdom, the warning voice 
of duty, spoke louder than the siren’s 
song. 

“ No,” said he, “ I will not, I dare 
not allow myself to be again seduced. 
All this must come to an end I I have 
long known this, but I had no strength 
to resist temi^tation. Have I not solemn- 
ly sworn to have but one aim in life — 
to place the good of my people far above 
my own personal happiness ? If the 
man and the king stiive within me for 
mastery, the king must triumph above 
all other things. I must consider the 
holy duties which my crown lays upon 
me ; my time, my thoughts, my strength, 
belong to my people, my land. I have 
already robbed them, for I have with- 
drawn myself. I have suffered an en- 
chantress to step between me and my 
duty — another will than mine finds 
utterance, influences, and indeed con- 
trols my thoughts and actions. Alas I 
a king should be old and be born with 
the heart of a graybeard — he dare never 
have a heart of youth and fire if he 
would serve his people faithfully and 
honestly ! With a heart of flesh I might 
have been a happier, a more amiable 
man, but a weak, unworthy king. I 
should have been intoxicated by a wo- 
man’s love, and her light wish would 
have been more powerful than my will. 
Never, never shall that be ! I will have 
the courage to traiiq^le my own heart 
under foot, and the sorrows of the man 
shall be soothed and healed by the pomp 
and glory of the king.” 

In the next room Barbarina leaned 
over against the door, exhausted by her 
prayers and tears. “ Listen to me, my 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


203 


king,” said she, softly. “ In one hour 
you have broken my will and humbled 
my pride forever I From this time on- 
ward Barbarina has no will but yours. 
Command me, then, wholly. Say to me 
that I am never to dance again, and I 
swear, to you that my foot shall never 
more step upon the stage; command 
that all my roles shall be given to the 
Cochois, I will myself hand them to her 
and pray her to accept them. You see, 
my king, that I am no longer proud — 
no longer ambitious. Have mercy 
upon me, then, sii’e ; open this fearful 
door ; let me look upon your face ; let 
me lie at your feet. Oh, my king, be 
merciful, be gracious ; cast me not away 
from you ! ” 

The king leaned, agitated and trem- 
bling, against the door. Once he raised 
his arm and laid his hand upon the 
bolt. Barbarina uttered a joyful cry, 
for she had heard this movement. But 
the king withdrew his hand again. All 
was still ; from time to time the king 
heard a low sigh, a suppressed sob, 
then silence followed. 

Barbarina pleaded no more. She 
knew and felt it was in vain. Scorn 
and wounded pride dried the tears 
which love and despair had caused to 
flow. She wept no more — ^her eyes 
were flaming — she cast wild, angry 
glances toward the door before which 
she had lain so long in humble entreaty. 
Threateningly she raised her arms tow- 
ard heaven, and her lips murmured un- 
intelligible words of cursing or oaths 
of vengeance. 

“Farewell, King Frederick,” she said, 
at last, in mellow, joyous tones — “ fare- 
well I Barbarina leaves you.” 

She felt that, in uttering these words, 
the tears had again rushed to her eyes. 
She shook her head wildly, and closed 
ner eyelids, and pressed her hands firm- 
ly upon them, thus forcing back the 
fitter tears to their source. Then with 
one wild spring, like an enraged lion- 


ess, she sprang to the other door, opened 
it and rushed out. 

Frederick waited some time, then en- 
tered the room, which seemed to him 
to resound with the sighs and prayers 
of Barbarina. It brought back the 
memory of joys that were past, and it 
appeared to him even as the death 
chamber of his hopes and happiness 
He stepped hastily through the room 
and bolted the door through which 
Barbarina had gone out. He wished 
to be alone. NTo one should share his 
solitude — no one should breath this air, 
still perfumed by the sighs of Barba- 
rina. King Frederick looked slowly 
and sadly around him, then hastened to 
the door before which Barbarina had 
knelt. An embroidered handkerchief 
lay upon the floor. The king raised it ; 
it was wet with tears, and warm and 
fragrant from contact with her soft, fine 
hand. He pressed it to his lips and to 
his burning eyes ; then murmured, 
lightly, “ Farewell ! a last, long farewell 
to happiness ! ” 


CHAPTEK XV. 

THE LAST STRUGGLE FOR POWER. 

Kestless and anxious the two cava- 
liers of the king paced the anteroom, 
turning their eyes constantly toward 
the door which led into the king’s 
study, and which had not been opened 
since yesterday morning. For twenty- 
four hours the king had not left his 
room. In vain had General Kothen- 
berg and Duke Algarotti prayed for ad- 
mittance. 

The king had not even replied to 
them; he had, however, called Fre- 
dersdorf, and commanded him sternly 
to admit no one, and not to return him 
self unless summoned. The king would 
take no refreshment, would undresp 


204 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


himself, required no assistance, and 
must not be disturbed in the impor- 
tant work which now occupied him. 

This strict seclusion and unaccus- 
tomed silence made the king’s friends 
and servants very anxious. With op- 
pressed hearts they stood before the door 
and listened to every sound from the 
room. During many hours they heard 
the regular step of the king as he 
walked backward and forward ; some- 
times he uttered a hasty word, then 
sighed wearily, and nothing more. 

Night came upon them. Pale with 
alarm, Rothenberg asked Algarottiifit 
was not their duty to force the door and 
ascertain the condition of his majesty. 

‘‘Beware how you take that rash 
stepl” said Fredersdorf, shaking his 
head. “The king’s commands were 
imperative ; he will be alone and undis- 
turbed.” 

“ Have you no suspicion of the cause 
of his majesty’s distress?” asked Al* 
garotti. 

“For some days f)ast the king has 
been grave and out of humor,” replied 
Fredersdorf. “I am inclined to the 
opinion that his majesty has been an- 
gered and wounded by some dear 
Mend.” 

General Rothenberg bent over and 
whispered to Algarotti ; “ Barbarina has 
wounded him ; for some time past she 
has been sullen and imperious. These 
haughty and powerful natures have 
been carrying on an invisible war with 
each other ; they both contend for sov- 
ereignty.” 

“If this is so, I predict confidently 
that the beautiful Barbarina will be 
conquered,” said Algarotti. “Man- 
kind will always be conquered by Fred- 
erick the king, and must submit to 
him. So soon as Frederick the Great 
recognizes the fact that the man in 
him is subjected by the enchanting 
Barbaifina, like Alexander the Great^ 
he will cut the gordian knot, and re- 


lease himself from even the soft bond*, 
age of love.” 

“I fear that he is strongly bound, 
and that the gordian knot of love can 
withstand even the king’s sword. Fred- 
erick, ordinarily so unapproachable, so 
inexorable in his authority and self-con- 
trol, endures with a rare patience the 
proud, commanding bearing of Barba- 
rina. Even yesterday evening when the 
king did me the honor to sup with me 
in the society of the Barbarina, in spite 
of her peevishness and ever-changing 
mood, he was the most gallant and al 
tentive of cavaliers.” 

“And you think the king has not 
seen the signora since that time ? ” 

“I do not know; let us ask the 
guard.” 

The gentlemen ascertained from the 
guard, that Barbarina had left the 
king’s room in the morning, deadly 
pale, and with her eyes infiamed by 
weeping. 

“ You see that I was right,” said Al- 
garotti ; “ this love-affair has reached a 
crisis.” 

“ In which I fear the king will come 
to grief,” said Rothenberg. “Believe 
me, his majesty loves Barbarina most 
tenderly.” 

“ Not the king ! the man loves Bar- 
barina. — But listen ! did you not hear 
a noise ? ” 

“ Yes, the low tone of a flute,” said 
Fredersdorf. “ Let us approach the 
door.” 

Lightly and cautiously they stepped 
to the door, behind which the king 
had carried on his fierce battle with 
himself, a battle in which he had shed 
his heart’s best blood. Again they 
heard the sound of the flute : it trem- 
bled on the air like the last sigh of lovt 
and happiuess; sometimes it seemed 
like the stormy utterance of a strong 
soul in extremest anguish, then melted 
softly away in sighs and tears. Never 
in the king’s gayest and brightest days 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


2U5 


nad lie played with such masterly skill 
as now in this hour of anguish. The 
pain, the love, the doubt, the longing 
which swelled his heart, found utter- 
ance in this mournful adagio. Greatly 
moved, the three friends listened breath- 
lessly to this wondrous development of 
genius. The king completed the music 
with a note of profound suffering. 

Duke Algarotti bowed to Kothenberg. 
“ Friend,” said he, “ that was the last 
song of the dying swan.” 

“ God grant that it was the last song 
of love, not the death-song of the 
king’s heart ! When a man tears love 
forcibly from his heart, I am sure he 
tears away also a piece of the heart in 
which it was rooted.” 

“ Can we not think of something to 
console him ? Let us go in the morn- 
inw to Barbarina; perhaps we may 
learn from her what has happened.” 

“Think you we can do nothing 
more to-day to withdraw the king 
from his painful solitude ? ” 

“ I think the king is a warrior and a 
hero, and will be able to conquer him- 
self.” 

While the king, in solitude, strength- 
ened only by his genius, struggled with 
his love, Barbarina, with all the pas- 
sion of her stormy nature, endured in- 
expressible torture. She was not alone 
— ^her sister was with her, mingled her 
tears with hers, and whispered sweet 
words of hope. 

“ The king will return to you ; your 
beauty holds him captive with invis- 
ible but magic bonds. Your grace and 
fascinations will live in his memory, 
will smile upon him, and lure him back 
humble and conquered to your feet.” 

Barbarina shook her head sadly. “ I 
have lost him. The eagle has burst the 
weak bonds with which I had bound 
his wings ; now he is free, he will again 
unfold them, and rise up conquering 
rtud to conquer in the blue vaults of 
Ueaven. In the rapturous enjoyment 


of liberty he will forget how happy he 
was in captivity. No, no ; I have lost 
him forever ! ” 

She clasped her hands over her face, 
and wept bitterly. Then, as if roused 
to dire extremity by some agonizing 
thought, she sprang from her seat ; her 
eyes were flashing, her cheeks crimson. 

“Oh, to think that Tie abandoned 
me; that I was true to him; that a 
man lives who deserted Barbarina! 
That is a shame, a humiliation, of 
which I will die — ^yes, surely die ! ” 

“ But this man was, at least, a king,” 
said her sister, in hesitating tones. 

Barbarina shook her head fiercely, 
and her rich black hair fell about her 
face in wild disorder. 

“ What is it to me that he is a king ? 
His sceptre is not so powerful as that 
of Barbarina. My realm extends over 
the universe, wherever men have eyes 
to see and hearts to feel emotion. That 
this man is a king does not lessen my 
shame, or make my degradation less 
bitter. Barbarina is deserted, forsaken, 
spurned, and yet lives. She is not 
crushed and ground to dust by this 
dishonor. But, as I live, I will take 
vengeance, vengeance for this mon- 
strous wrong — this murder of my 
heart 1 ” 

So, in the midst of wild prayers, and 
tears, and oaths of vengeance, the day 
declined; long after, Barbarina yielded 
to the tender entreaties of Marietta, and 
stretched herself upon her couch. She 
buried her head in the pillows, and 
during the weary hours of the night she 
wept bitterly. 

With pale cheeks and weary eyes she 
rose on the following morning. She 
was still profoundly sad, but no longer 
hopeless. Her vanity, her rare beauty, 
in whose magic power she still be- 
lieved, whispered golaen words of 
comfort, of encouragement; she was 
now convinced that the king could not 
give her up. “ He spurned me yeste^ • 


206 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 




day, to-day lie will implore me to for- 
give him.” She was not surprised when 
her servant announced Duke Algarotti 
and General Rothenberg. 

“ Look you,” said she, turning to her 
sister, “ you see my heart judged 
rightly. The king sends his two most 
confidential friends to conduct me to 
him. Oh, my God, grant that this 
poor heart, which has oorne such 
agony, may not now break from excess 
of happiness ! I shall see him again, 
and his beautiful, loving eyes will melt 
out of my heart even the remembrance 
of the terrible glance with which he 
looked upon me yesterday. Farewell, 
sister; farewell — I go to the king.” 

“But not so; not in this neglige; 
not M’ith this hair in wild disorder,” 
said Marietta, holding her back. 

“ Yes, even as I am,” said Barbarina. 
“For his sake I have torn my hair; 
for his sake my eyes are red ; my sad, 
pale face speaks eloquently of my de- 
spair, and will awaken his repentance.” 

Proudly, triumphantly she entered 
the saloon, and returned the profound 
salutation of the two gentlemen with a 
slight bow. 

“ You bring me a message from his 
majesty ? ” said she, hastily. 

“The king commissioned us to in- 
quire after your health, signora,” said 
Algarotti. 

Barbarina smiled very significantly. 
“He sent you to watch me closely,” 
thought she ; “ he would ascertain if 
I am ready to pardon, ready to return 
to him. I will meet them frankly, 
honestly, and make their duty light. — 
Say to his majesty that I have passed 
the night in sighs and tears, that my 
lieart is full of rejientanr'e. I grieve for 
•ijy conduct.” 

The gentlemen exchanged a meaning 
glance; they afready knew what they 
came to learn. Barbarina had had a 
contest with the king, and he had sep- 
arated from hei in scorn. Therefore 


was the proud Barbarina so humble, so 
repentant. 

Barbarina looked at them expect- 
antly ; she was convinced they would 
now ask, in the name of the king, to 
be allowed to conduct her to the cas- 
tle. But they said nothing to that ef- 
fect. 

“ Repentance must be a very poison- 
ous worm,” said General Rothenberg, 
looking steadily upon the face of Bar- 
barina; “it has changed the blooming 
rose of yesterday into a fair, white 
blossom.” 

“ That is perhaps fortunate,” said 
Algarotti. “ It is well known that the 
white rose has fewer thorns than the 
red, and from this time onward, signo- 
ra, there will be less danger of mortal 
wounds when approaching you.” 

Barbarina trembled, and her eyes 
flashed angrily. “ Do you mean to in- 
timate that my strength and power are 
broken, and that I c n never recover 
my realm ? Do you mean that the Bar- 
barina, whom the king so shamefully 
deserted, so cruelly humiliated, is a 
frail butterfly ? that the purple hue of 
beauty has been brushed from my 
wings? that I can no longer charm 
and ravish the beholder because a 
rough hand has touched me ? ” 

“ I mean to say, signora, that it will 
be a happiness to the king, if the sad 
experience of the last few days should 
make you milder and gentler of mood,” 
said Algarotti. 

Rothenberg and himself had gone to 
Barbarina to find out, if possible, the 
whole truth. They wished to deceive 
her — to lead her to believe that the 
king had fully confided in them. 

“ The king was suffering severely 
yesterday from the wounds which the 
sharp thorns of the red rose had in- 
flicted,” said Rothenberg. 

“And did he not cruelly revenge 
himself? ” cried Barbarina. “ He left 
me for long hours kneeling at his door^ 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


wringing my hands, and pleading for 
pity and pardon, and he showed no 
mercy. But that is passed, forgotten, 
forgiven. My wounds have bled and 
they have healed, and now health and 
happiness will return to my poor 
martyred heart. Say to my king that 
I am humble. I pray for happiness, 
not as my right, but as a royal gift 
which, kneeling and with uplifted 
hands, I will receive, oh, how grate- 
fully ! But no, no, you shall not tell 
this to the king — I will confess all my- 
self to his majesty. Come, come, the 
king awaits us — let us hasten to him 1 ” 

“We were only commanded to in- 
quire after the health of the signora,” 
said Algarotti, coolly. 

“ And as you have assured us that 
you have passed the night in tears and 
repentance, this confession may per- 
haps ameliorate his majesty’s sufferings,” 
said Rothenberg. 

Barbarina looked amazed from one 
to the other. • Suddenly her cheeks be- 
came crimson, and her eyes flashed 
with passion. “ You did not come to 
conduct me to the king ? ’’ said she, 
breathlessly. 

“ No, signora, the king did not give 
us this commission.” 

“ Ah ! he demands, then, that I shall 
come voluntarily ? Well, then, I will 
go uncalled. Lead me to his majesty 1 ” 

“ That is a request which I regi*et I 
cannot fulfil. The king has sternly 
commanded us to admit no one.” 

“ No one ? ” 

“No one, without exception, signora,” 
Raid Algarotti, bowing profoundly. 

Barbarina pressed her lips together 
to restrain a cry of anguish. She 
placed her hands upon the table to 
sustain her sinking form. “ You have 
omy come to say that the king will 
not receive me ; that to-day, as yester- 
day, his doors are closed against me. 
Well, then, gentlemen, you have ful- 
filled your duty. Go and say to his 


207 

majesty I shall respect his wishes — go, 
sirs 1 ” 

Barbarina remained proudly erect, 
and replied to their greeting with a de- 
risive smile. With her hands pressed 
nervously on the table, she looked 
after the two cavaliers as they left her 
saloon, with wide-extended, tearless 
eyes. But when the door closed upon 
them, when sure she could not be heard 
by them, she uttered so wild, so pier- 
cing a cry of anguish, that Marietta 
rushed into the room. Barbarina had 
sunk, as if struck by lightning, to the 
floor. 

“ I am dishonored, betrayed, spum- 
ed,” cried she, madly. “ O ^od ! let 
me not outlive this shame — send death 
to my relief I ” 

Soon, however, her ^ries of despair 
were changed to words of scorn and 
bitterness. She no longer wished to 
die — she wished to revenge herself. 
She rose from her knees, and paced the • 
room hastily, raging, flashing, filled 
with a burning thirst for vengeance, re- 
solved to cast a veil over her shame, 
and hide it, at least, from the eyes oK 
the world. 

“ Marietta, O Marietta ! ” cried ' she, 
breathlessly, “ help me to find the 
means quickly, by one blow, to satisfy 
my vengeance ! — a means which will 
prove to the king that I am not, as he 
supposes, dying from grief and de- 
spair ; that I am still the Barbarina — 
the adored, triumphant, all-conquering 
artiste — a means which will convince 
the whole world that I am not de- 
serted, scorned, but that I myself am • 
the inconstant one. Oh, where shall 
I find the means to rise triumphantly 
from this humiliation ? where — ” 

“ Silence, silence, sister ! some one it 
coming. Let no one witness your agi- 
tation.” 

The servant entered and announced 
that Baron vcm Swartz, director of the 
theatre, wished to know if the signcra 


208 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


would appear in the ballet of the even- 
ing. 

“ Say to him that ‘l will dance with 
pleasure,” said Barbarina. 

When once more alone. Marietta en- 
treated her to be quiet, and not increase 
her agitation by appearing in public. 

Barbarina interrupted her impa- 
tiently. “ Do you not see that already 
the rumor of my disgrace has reached 
the theatre ? Do you not see the mal- 
ice of this question of Baron Swartz ? 
They think that Barbarina is so com- 
pletely broken, crushed by the dis- 
pleasure of the king, that she can no 
longer dance. They have deceived 
themselves — I will dance to-night. 
Perhaps*! shall go mad; but I will 
first refute the slander, and bring to 
naught the report of my disgrace with 
the king.” 

And now the servant entered and an- 
nounced Monsieur Cocceji. 

• “You cannot possibly receive him,” 
whispered Marietta. “ Say that you 
are studying your role for the evening ; 
say that you are occupied with your 
toilet. Say what you will, only decline 
to receive him.” 

Barbarina looked thoughtful for a 
moment. “No,” said she, musingly, 
“ I will not dismiss him. Conduct Coc- 
ceji to my boudoir, and say he may ex- 
pect me.” 

The moment the servant left them, 
Barbarina seized her sister’s hand. “ I 
have prayed to God for means to re- 
venge myself, and He has heard my 
prayer. You know Cocceji loves me, 

• and has long wooed me in vain. 
Well, then, to-day he shall not plead in 
vain; to-day I will promise him my 
love, but I will make my own condi- 
tions. Come, Marietta ! ” 

Glowing and lovely from excitement, 
Barbarina entered the boudoir where 
the young Councillor Cocceji, son of 
the minister, aw^aited her. With an 
enchanting smile, she advanced to meet 


him, and fixing her great burning eyes 
fipon him, she said softly, “ Are you 
not yet cured of your love for me ? ” 
The young man stepped back a mo- 
ment pale and wounded, but Barba- 
rina stood before him in her wondrous 
beauty; a significant, enchanting smile 
was on her lip, and in her eyes lay 
something so sweetly encouraging, so 
bewildering, tjiat he was reassured ; he 
felt that it was not her intention to 
mock at his passion. 

“ This love is’a fatal malady of which 
I shall never be healed,” he said, warm- 
ly ; “ a malady wdiich resists all reme- 
dies.” 

“ Wliat if I return your love ? ” said 
she in soft, sweet tones. 

Cocceji’s countenance beamed with 
ecstasy ; he was comf)letely overcome 
by this unlooked-for happiness. 

“Barbarina, if I dream, if I am a 
somnambulist, do not awaken me ! If, 
in midsummer madness only, I have 
heard these blissful words, do not un- 
deceive me ! Let me dream on, give 
my mad fancy full play ; or, slay me if 
you w^ill, but do not say that I mis- 
take your meaning ! ” 

“I shall not say that,” she whis- 
pered, almost tenderly. “For a long 
year you have sworn that you loved 
me.” 

“ And you have had the cruelty to 
jest always at my passion.” 

“From this day I believe in your' 
love, but you must give me a proof of 
it. Will you do that ? ” 

“ I will, Barbarina ! ” 

“Well, then, I demand no giant 
task, no herculean labor; there is no 
rival whom you must murder ! I de- 
mand only that you shall make your 
love for me known to the whole w^orld. 
Give eclat to this passion I I demand 
that with head erect, and clear un- 
troubled eye, you shall give the world 
a proof of this love ! I will not that 
tins love you declare to me so passion- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


209 


ately shall be hidden under a veil of 
mystery and silence. I demand that 
you have the courage to let the sun in 
the heavens and the eyes of men look 
down into your heart and read your 
secret, and that no quiver of the eye- 
lids, no feeling of confusion, shall 
shadow your countenance. I will 
that to-morrow all Berlin shall know 
and believe the young Councillor Coc- 
ceji, the son of the minister, the fa- 
vorite of the king, loves the Barbarina 
ardently, and that she returns his pas- 
sion. Berlin must know that this is 
no cold, northern, German, phlegmatic 
lihing^ which chills the blood in the 
veins and freezes the heart, but a full, 
ardent, glowing passion, animating 
every fibre of our being — an Italian 
love, a love of sunshine, and of storm, 
and of tempest.” 

Barbarina was wholly irresistible; 
her bearing was proud, her eyes 
sparkled, her face beamed with en- 
ergy and enthusiasm. A less passion- 
ate nature than that of Cocceji would 
have been kindled by her ardor, would 
have been carried away by her energy. 

The fiery young Cocceji threw him- 
self at her feet. “ Command me 1 my 
name, my life, my hand, are yours; 
only love me, Barbarina, and I will be 
proud to declare how much I love you ; 
to say to the whole world, ‘ This is my 
bride, and I am honored and happy 
that she has deigned to accept my 
hand I’” 

“ Of this another time,” said Barba- 
rina, smiling ; “ first prove to the 

world that you love me. This even- 
ing in the theatre give some public evi- 
dence, give the Berliners something to 
talk about : then — then — ” said she, 
softly, “ the rest will come in time.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE DISTUBBANCE IN THE THEATRE. 

Duke Algarotti and General 
Rothenberg returned to the castle 
much comforted by their interview 
with Barbarina. 

“ The Barbarina repents, and is ready 
to take the first step toward reconcilia- 
tion,” said Rothenberg ; “ I see the 
end ; I will go at once and order my 
cook to prepare a splendid supper for 
the evening.” 

“ Do not be hasty,” said Algarotti, 
shaking his head ; “ you may give your 
cook unnecessary trouble, and the rich 
feast might be cold before the arrival 
of the king.” 

“ Do you believe that ? ” 

“ I believe that for a summer cloud 
or an April shower the king would 
not withdraw himself to solitude and 
silence. It is no passing mood, but a 
life question which agitates him.” 

“ The door has not been opened to- 
day ; Fredersdorf has repeatedly beg- 
ged for admittance.” 

The two friends stood sad and irres- 
olute in the anteroom, alarmed at the 
seclusion and silence of the king. 
Suddenly the door leading into the 
corridor was hastily opened, and a man 
of commanding and elegant appear- 
ance stood upon the threshold ; you 
saw at a glance that he was a cavalier 
and courtier, while his glowing cheek, 
his clear, bright eyes, and jovial smile 
betrayed the man of pleasure and the 
epicure. This remarkable man, in 
whom every one who looked upon him 
felt confidence ; whose face, in spite of 
the thousand wrinkles which fifty years 
of an active, useful life had laid upon 
it, still retained an innocent, amiable, 
and childlike expression — this man 
was the Marquis d’Argens, the true, un- 
changeable, never-faltering friend of the 


14 


no 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


king. He had consecrated to him his 
heart, his soul, his whole being; so 
great was his reverence for his royal 
master, that the letters received from 
him were always read standing. The 
marquis had just returned from Paris; 
he entered the anteroom of the king 
with a gay and happy smile, impatient 
and eager to see his beloved master. 
Without looking around, he hastened 
to the door which led into the cabinet 
of the king. Rothenberg and Alga- 
rotti drew near to him, and greeted 
him joyously, then told him of the 
strange seclusion of the king. The 
countenance of the marquis was 
troubled, and his eyes filled with tears. 

“ We must not allow this,” he said, 
decidedly; “ I will kneel before the 
door, and pray and plead till the noble 
heart of the king is reached, and he 
will have pity with our anxiety. Go, 
Fredersdoif, and announce me to his 
majesty.” 

“ Sire,” cried Fredersdorf, knocking 
on the door, “ sire, the Marquis 
d’Argens is here, and begs for admit- 
tance.” 

No answer was given. 

“ Oh, sire,” said the marquis, “ be 
merciful; have consideration for my 
eagerness to see you after so long ah 
ibsence ; I have travelled day and 
night in order to enjoy that happiness 
a few hours sooner. 1 wish to warm 
and solace myself in the sunshine of 
your glance ; be gracious, and allow me 
to enter.” 

A breathless silence followed this 
earnest entreaty. At last, the door was 
shaken, a bolt was drawn back, and 
the king appeared on the threshold. 
He was pale, but of that clear and 
transparent pallor which has nothing 
in common with the sallow hue of 
physical weakness ; there was no trace 
of nervous excitement. Smiling, and 
with calm dignity, he approached his 
friends. 


“ Welcome, marquis, most welcome I 
may joy and happiness crown your 
return! No doubt you have much to 
relate to us of your wild and impu- 
dent countrymen, and I see that Ro- 
thenberg and Algarotti are burning 
with curiosity to hear an account of 
your love-adventures and rendezvous 
with your new-baked and glowing 
duchesses and princesses.” 

“ Ah, your majesty, he approached 
with the proud mien of a conqueror,” 
said Rothenberg, gladly entering into 
the jesting humor of the king. “ We 
are more than ready to believe in the 
triumphs of the marquis at the court 
of Louis the Fifteenth.” 

“ The marquis has done wisely if he 
has left his heart in Paris,” said Alga- 
rotti. “ Your majesty knows that he 
suffers greatly with heart-disease, and 
every girl whom he does not exactly 
know to be a rogue, he believes to be 
an angel of innocence.” 

“ You know,” rejoined Rothenberg, 
“ that shortly before his journey, his 
housekeeper stole his service of silver. 
The marquis promised to give her the 
worth of the silver if she would dis- 
cover the thief and restore it. She 
brought it back immediately, and the 
marquis not only paid her the promised 
sum, but gave her a handsome reward 
for her adroitness in discovering the 
robber. As D’Argens triumphantly 
related this affair to me, I dared to 
make the remark that the housekeeper 
was herself the rogue, the good mar- 
quis w^as as much exasi^erated with me 
as if I had dared to charge him with 
theft I ‘ Have more reverence for 
women,’ said he to me, gravely; ‘to 
complain of, or accuse a woman, is 
a crime against God and Nature. 
Women are virtuous and noble when 
not misled, and I cannot see who could 
have tempted my good housekeeper; 
she is, therefore, innocent.’ ” 

I All laughed heartily, but D’Argens. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


211 


wlio cast Ills eyes to the ground, look- 
ing somewhat ashamed. But the king 
advanced, and laying both hands upon 
the shoulders of the marquis, he looked 
into the kindly, genial face with an ex- 
pression of indescribable love and con- 
fidence. • 

“ He has the heart of a child, the in- 
tellect of a sage, and the imagination 
of a poet, by the grace of God,” said 
the king. “ If all men were like him, 
this earth would be no vale of tears, 
but a glorious paradise ! It is a real 
happiness to me to have you here, my 
dear H’Argens. You shall take the 
place of the Holy Father, and bless 
and consecrate a small spot of earth for 
me. With your pure lips you shall 
pray to the house gods for their bless- 
ing and protection on my hearth, and 
beseech them to pour a little joy and 
mirth into the cup of wormwood and 
gaU which this poor life presses to our 
lips. My palace of Weinberg, near 
Pctsdam, is finished. I will drive you 
there to-day — ^you alone, marquis ! As 
for the others, they are light-minded, 
audacious, suspicious children of men, 
and they shall not so soon poison the 
air in my little paradise with their 
levities. You alone, D’Argens, are 
worthy. You are pure as those who 
lived before the fall. You have never 
tasted of the ominous and death-giving 
apple. You will go with me, then, to 
Weinberg, and when you have conse- 
crated it, you shall relate to me the 
chronique scandaleuse of the French 
court. Now, however, I must work! 
— Fredersdorf, are my ministers yet 
here ? ” 

“ Sire, they have been an hour in the 
Dureau.” 

“ Wlio is in the anteroom ? ” 

“Baron Swartz, with the repertoire 
jf the week.” 

“ Ah ! Swartz,” said the king, thought- 
Ailly, “let him enter.” 

Fredersdorf hastened to summon the 


director, and the king recommenced 
his careless conversation with his friends. 
As the baron entered, the king stepped 
forward to meet him, and took a paper 
from his hand. He read it with seem- 
ing indifference, but his lips were com- 
pressed and his brow clouded. 

“ Who w’ill dance the solo this even- 
ing in Be Pastore ? ” he said at last. 

“ Signora Barbarina, your majesty.” 

“ Ah ! the Signora Barbarina,” said 
the king, carelessly. “ I thought I heard 
that she was indisposed ? ” 

Frederick’s eyes were fixed searching- 
ly upon his friends. He perhaps sus- 
pected the truth, and thought it natural 
that, in the disquiet of their hearts, 
they had sought an explanation of Bar- 
barina. 

“ Sire,” said Rothenberg, “ Signora 
Barbarina has entirely recovered. Al- 
garotti and myself made her a visit this 
morning, and she commissioned us, if 
your majesty should be gracious enough 
to ask for her, to say that she was well 
and happy.” 

The king made no reply. He walked 
thoughtfully backward and forward, 
then stood before D’Argens, and said, 
in a kindly tone : “You are so great an 
enthusiast for the stage that it would 
be cruel to take you to Weinberg this 
evening. We will go to the theatre 
and see Barbarina dance, and to-morrow 
you shall consecrate my house; and 
now, adieu, gentlemen — I must work ! 
You will be my guests at dinner, and 
will accompany me to the theatre.” 

The king entered his study. “She 
defies me,” said he lightly to himself. 

“ She will prove to me that she is in- 
different. Well, so be it ; I will also 
show that I have recovered ! ” 

The theatre was at last opened. A ’ 
brilliant assembly filled the first range 
of boxes, and the parquet. The second 
tier and the parterre were occupied by 
the burghers, merchants, and their 
wives and daughters, who were waiting 


212 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


writh joyful impatience for the com- 
mencement of the performance. The 
brilliant court circle, however, was ab- 
sorbed by other interests. A murmur 
had spread abroad that “ the Barbarina 
had fallen into disgrace and lost forever 
the favor of the king.” The wild de- 
spair of the beautiful dancer was spoken 
of, and there were some who declared 
that she had made an attempt to take 
her life. Others asserted that she had 
sworn never again to appear on the 
Berlin stage, and that she would assur- 
edly feign illness in order not to dance. 
All were looking anxiously for the ris- 
ing of the curtain, and toward the side 
door through which the king and his 
suite were accustomed to enter. 

At last the door opened ; the drums 
and trumpets sounded merrily ; the king 
entered, and walked with calm comi^os- 
ure to his chair. The bell rang, the 
curtain rolled up, and the ballet began. 

There was first a dance of shepherds 
and shepherdesses, then an interrup- 
tion by fauns and satyrs, who, inter- 
mingled in groups with the first dancers, 
had ranged themselves on the side of 
the stage, waiting for the appearance 
of the shepherd queen. There was a 
breathless pause — every eye but the 
king’s was fixed upon the stage. 

And now there was an outbm’st of 
admiration and enthusiasm. Yes, there 
she was ; rosy, glowing, perfumed, ten- 
der, enchanting, and intoxicating, she 
floated onward in her robe of silver. 
Her magical smile disclosed her small, 
pearly teeth and laughing dimples; her 
great, mysterious black eyes understood 
the art of flattery and of menace ; in 
both they were irresistible. Noiselessly 
she floated onward to the front of the 
stage. Now, with indescribable grace, 
she bowed her body backward, and 
standing on tiptoe she raised her rounded 
arms high over her head, and looked 
upward, with a sweet smile, to a wreath 
of roses which she held. 


Wondrous, most wondrous ! ” cried 
suddenly a full, clear voice. It was the 
young state councillor, Von Cocceji, 
who sat in the proscenium box near the 
stage, and gazed with beaming eyes on 
Barbarina. 

Barbarina turned toward him, and 
smiled sweetly. The king frowned, 
and played rather fiercely with his snuff- 
box. 

“ Wondrous ! ” repeated Cocceji, and 
threw a threatening, scornful glance 
upon a thin, wan young man who sat 
near him, and who dared, in a small, 
weak voice to repeat the “ wondrous ” 
of the young athlete. “ I pray you, sir, 
to refrain from the expression of your 
applause, or, if that is impossible, choose 
your own words, and not mine, to con- 
vey your approbation,” said the six- 
footed giant, Cocceji, to his pallid neigh- 
bor. 

The latter looked with a sort of hor- 
ror at the broad-shouldered, muscular 
figure before him, and scarcely daring 
to breathe loudly, he looked with wide- 
open, staring eyes at Barbarina, who was 
now floating with ench anting grace upon 
the stage. The audience had entirely 
forgotten the vague rumors of the day 
— thought no more of the king. Their 
attention was wholly given to Barbarina 
and Cocceji, whose eyes were ever fixed 
threateningly upon his shrinking neigh- 
bor. Suddinly, just as Barbarina had 
completed one of her most difficult (ou?'s 
and knelt before the lamps to receive 
the bravos of the spectators, something 
flew from the loge of Cocceji, and fell 
exactly at Barbarina’s feet. 

This oftering was no wreath or bou- 
quet of flowers, no costly gem, but a 
man, a poor, panting, terrified man, who 
did not yet comprehend how he came 
to make this rapid journey through the 
air, nor why Cocceji with his giant 
hand had seized him and dashed him 
upon the stage. 

Confused and terrified, the pool 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


213 


bruised youth lay for some moments 
motionless at the feet of Barbarina ; 
then gathering himself up and bowing 
profoundly to the king, "who regarded 
liiin in fierce silence, he said aloud : 
“ Sire, I pray for pardon ; I am not to 
blame ; Cocceji forbade me, in a proud, 
commanding tone, to look upon the 
Signora Barbarina. As I did not choose 
to obey this arbitrary order, he seized 
me without warning, and dashed me at 
the feet of the signora.” * The public, 
recovered from their astonishment, be- 
gan to whisper, laugh merrily, and gaze 
ironically at the young man, who stood 
humble and wan near Barbarina; while 
Cocceji, turning his bold, daring face 
to the audience, seemed to threaten 
every man who looked upon him ques- 
tioningly. The orchestra was silent. 
Barbarina stood radiant in grace and 
beauty, and smiled bewitchingly upon 
Cocceji. 

“ Go on,” said suddenly the clear, 
commanding voice of the king, as he 
nodded to the poor youth, who disap- 
peared behind the curtain. “ Go on,” 
said the king again. The music com- 
menced, and Barbarina, raising her gar- 
land of roses, swam like an elf over the 
boards. The audience thought not of 
her grace and beauty. They were wholly 
occupied with this curious adventure ; 
they had forgotten her disgrace. They 
thought only of Cocceji’s passionate 
love, and declared he was jealous as a 
Turk. So Barbarina had gained her 
purpose. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

SA2?S-S0UCI. 

Early the next morning a plain, 
simple equipage stood at the gate of 
the new park in Potsdam. The king 

• MQchler’s “History of Frederick the Great.” 


and the Marquis d’Argens entered the 
carriage alone. Frederick refused all 
other attendance ; even his servants were 
forbidden to accompany him. 

When the carriage stopped he opened 
the door himself, and springing lightly 
out, ofiered his arm to his older and 
less agile friend. The marquis blushed 
like a young girl, and wished to decline 
this ofiered service of the kinsr. 

Frederick, however, insisted upon 
giving his assistance, and said, smiling : 
“ Forget, D’Argens, for this day, that I 
am a king ; grant me the pleasure of 
passing the time with you without cere- 
mony, as friend with friend. Come, 
marquis, enter my paradise, and I pray 
you to encourage a solemn and prayer- 
ful mood.” 

“ Do you know, sire, I have a feeling 
of oppression and exaltation combined, 
such as the Grecians may have felt when 
they entered the Delphian valley?” 
said D’Argens, as arm in arm with the 
king they sauntered through the little 
shady side allee which the king had 
expressly chosen in order to surprise the 
marquis with the unexpected view of 
the beautiful height upon which the 
castle was erected. 

“Well, I believe that many oracles 
will go out from this height to the 
world,” said Frederick ; “ but they shall 
be less obscure, shall bear no double 
meaning ; shall not be partly false, shall 
contain great shining truths. I also, 
dear D’Argens, feel inspired. I seem to 
see floating before me through the trees 
a majestic, gigantic form of air, with 
uplifted arm beckoning me to follow 
her. That is the spirit of the world’s 
history, marquis; she carries her golden 
book on her arm ; in her right hand, 
with which she beckons me, she holds 
the diamond point with which she wdll 
engrave my name and this consecrated 
spot upon her tables. Therefore, my 
holy father and priest, I have brought 
you here to baptize my Weinberg. 


214 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


Come, fnend, that form of air beckons 
once more ; she awaits the baptism 
with impatience.” 

And now they passed ft’om the little 
ullee and entered the great avenue ; an 
expression of admiration burst from the 
lips of the marquis ; with flashing eyes 
ae gazed around upon the magnificent 
and enchanting scene. Here, just be- 
fore them, was the grand basin of mar- 
ble, surrounded with groups of marble 
jtatues ; farther off the lofty terraces, 
adorned with enormous orange-trees, 
rustling their glossy leaves and pearly 
blossoms in the morning breeze, greet- 
ed their king with their intoxicating 
fragrance. Upon the top of these su- 
perb terraces, between groups of marble 
forms and laughing cascades, stood the 
Jttle castle of Weinberg, beautiful in 
its simplicity ; upon its central cupola 
stood a golden crown, which sparkled 
and glittered in the sunshine. 

The king pointed to the crown. 
“ Look,” said he, “ how it flashes in the 
sun, and throws its shadow upon all 
beneath it ; so is it, or may it be, with 
my whole life I May my crown and my 
reign be glorious ! ” 

The marquis pressed his hand tender- 
ly. “ They will be great and glorious 
through all time,” said he. “Your 
grandchildren and your great-grand^ 
children will speak of the lustre which 
played upon that crown, and when they 
speak of Prussia’s greatness they will 
say : ‘ When Frederick the Second lived, 
the earth was glad with light and sun- 
shine.’ ” 

Arm in arm, and silently, they 
mounted the marble steps of the ter- 
race. Deep, holy silence surrounded 
them ; the cascades prattled softly ; the 
tops of the tall trees which bordered the 
terrace bowed and whispered lowly 
with the winds; here and there was 
heard the melodious note of a bird. 
No noise of the mad world, no discord 
mterrupted this holy peace of Nature. 


They seemed to have left the world be- 
hind them, and with solemn awe to 
enter upon a new existence. 

Now they had reached the height; 
they turned and looked back upon the 
beautiful panorama which lay at their 
feet. The luxurious freshness, the ar- 
tistic fonns, the blue and graceful 
river winding through the wooded 
heights and green valleys, formed an 
enchanting spectacle. 

“ Is not this heavenly ? ” said Fred- 
erick, and his face glow^ed with enjoy- 
ment. “ Can we not rest here in peace, 
away from all the sorrows and suffer- 
ings of this world ? ” 

“This is, indeed, a paradise,” cried 
the marquis. He spread out his arms 
in ecstasy, as if he would clasp the 
whole lovely jDicture to his breast ; 
then, turning his eyes to heaven, he 
exclaimed, “ O God ! grant that my 
king may be happy in this consecrated 
spot ! ” 

“ Happy f ” repeated Frederick, with 
a slight shrug. “ Say content^ marquis. 
I believe that is the highest point any 
man attains upon this earth. And now 
let us enter the house.” 

He took the arm of the marquis, and 
then stepped over the golden sand to 
the large glass door which led to the 
round saloon. As Frederick opened 
the door he fixed his greai blue eyes 
steadily upon D’Argens. 

“Pray! marquis, pray! — we stand 
upon the threshold of a new existence, 
which now opens her mysterious portals 
to us,” 

“ Sire, my every thought is a prayer 
for you at this moment.” 

They entered the oblong saloon. 

“ This is the room which separates 
me from my friends,” said the king. 
“ On this side of the house I will dwell ; 
that side is for the use of my friends, 
above aL others, dear marquis, for you. 
In this saloon we wdll meet together, 
and here will be my symposiur^ Now 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


215 


I will show you uiy own room, then the 
others.” 

In the reception-room, which was 
adorned with taste and splendor, Fred- 
erick remained but a few moments ; he 
scarcely allowed his artistic friend a 
fleeting glance at the superb pictures 
which hung upon the walls, and for 
the selection of which he had sent the 
merchant Gotzkowsky several times to 
Italy; he gave him no time to look 
upon the statues and vases of the 
Poniatowsken Gallery, for which four 
hundred thousand thalers had been 
paid, but hurried him along. 

“ You must first see my work-room,” 
said Frederick ; “ afterward we will 
examine the rest.” 

He opened a door and conducted the 
marquis into the round library, which 
had no other adorning than that of 
books; they stood arrayed in lofty 
cases around this temple of intellect, of 
art, and science, and even the door 
through which they had entered, and 
which the king had lightly pressed 
back, had now entirely disappeared 
behind the books, with which it was 
cunningly covered on the inside. 

“ You see,” said Frederick, “ he who 
enters into this magic circle is confined 
for life. He cannot get out, and I will 
have it so. With this day begins a new 
existence for me, D’Argens. When I 
crossed the threshold the past fell from 
me like an overripe fruit.” 

Frederick’s face was sad, his eye 
clouded : with a light sigh he laid his 
hand upon the shoulder of the marquis 
and looked at him long and silently. 

“ I wish to tell you a secret,” said he 
at last. “ I believe my heart died yes- 
terday, and I confess to you the death- 
struggle was hard. Now it is past, but 
the place where my heart once beat is 
sore, and bleeds yet from a thousand 
vounds. They will heal at last, and 
then I shall be a hard and hardened 
man. We will speak no more of it.” 


“ No, sire, you shall not say that you 
will ever be hardened j'"* cried D’Argens, 
deeply moved. “You dare not slander 
your heart and say that it is dead. It 
beats, and will ever beat, for your 
friends, for the whole world, for all 
that is great, and glorious, and ex- 
alted.” 

“ Only no longer for love,” said the 
king ; “ that is a withered rose which I 
have cast from me. The roses of love 
are not in harmony with thrones or 
crowns ; they grow too high and 
climb over, or their soft rosy leaves are 
crushed. I owe it to my people to 
keep myself free from all chains, and 
make my reign glorious. I will never 
give them occasion to say that I have 
been an idle and self-indulgent savant. 
I dedicate to Prussia my strength and 
my life. But here, friend, here in my 
cloister, which, like the Convent of the 
Carmelites, shall never be desecrated 
by a woman’s foot ; here we will, from 
time to time, forget all the pomps and 
glories of the world, and all its vanities. 
Here, upon my Weinberg, I will not be 
a king, but a friend and a philoso- 
pher.” 

“ And a poet,” said D’Argens, in 
loving tones. “I will now recall a 
couplet to the poet-king, which he 
once repeated to me, when I was mel- 
ancholy — almost hopeless : 

‘ Nous avons deux moments 4 vivre ; 

Qu’il en soit un pour lo plaisir.’ ” 

“ Can you believe that we have not 
already exhausted this moment? ” said 
Frederick, with a sad smile. Then, 
after a short pause, his face lightened 
and his eye glowed with its wonted 
fire ; a gay resolve was written in his 
countenance. “ Well, let us try, mar- 
quis, if you are right; let us seek to 
extend this moment as long as possible, 
and when death comes — 

Flnissons sans trouble, et mourons sans regrets, 
En laissant TuniverB, combl6 de nos bienfaits. 
Alnsil’astre du jour au bout de sa carri6re, 


216 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI 


Kepand sar Thorizon une douce lumifere, 

Et les derniers rayons qu’il darde dans les airs, 
Sont ses derniers soupirs qnMl donne ^ I’univers.” 

The marquis listened with rapture to 
this improvised poem of the hing. 
When it was concluded the fiery Pro- 
ven 9 al called out, in an ecstasy of en- 
thusiasm : “You are not a mere mortal, 
sire; you are a king — a hero — yes, a 
demi-god ! ” 

“ I will show you something to dis- 
prove your fiattering words,” said 
Frederick, smiling. “Look out, dear 
D’Argens ; what do you see, there, di- 
rectly opposite to the window ? ” 

“ Does your majesty mean that beau- 
tiful statue in marble ? ” 

“Yes, marquis. What do you sup- 
pose that to be ? ” 

“ That, sire ? It is a reclining statue 
of Flora.” 

“ No, D’Argens ; that is my grave ! ” 

“Your grave, sire?” said the mar- 
quis, shuddering ; “and you have had 
it placed exactly before the window of 
your favorite study ? ” 

“Exactly there;, that I may keep 
death always in rememlyrance ! Come, 
marquis, we wiU draw nearer.” 

They left the house, and advanced 


to the Rondel, where the superb statue 
of Flora was reclining. 

“ There, under this marble form, is 
the vault in which I shall lie down to 
sleep,” said Frederick. “I began my 
building at Weinberg with this vault. 
But it is a profound secret ; guard it 
well, also, dear friend I The living have 
a holy horror of death ; it is not well to 
speak of graves or death lightly I ” 

D’Argens’ eyes were filled with tears. 
“ Oh, sire ! may this marble lie immov- 
able, and the grave beneath it be a 
mystery for many long years ! ” 

^The king shook his head lightly, and 
a heavenly peace was written on his 
features. “ Why do you wish that ? ” 
said he. Then 23ointing to the grave 
he said : “ When I lie there — Je serais 
sans souci ! ” * 

“ Sans souci ! ” repeated D’Argens, in 
low tones, deejfiy moved, and staring 
at the vault. 

The king took his hand smilingly. 
“ Let us seek, even while we five, to be 
sans souci, and as evidence that I will 
strive for this, this house shall be called 
^Sans-Souci!^^^ 


* Nicolai, “ Anecdotes of King Frederick.” 


BOOK lY. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PROMISE. 

It was a lovely summer day. The 
whole earth seemed to look up with a 
smile of faith, love, and happiness, into 
the clear, blue heavens, whose mysteri- 
ous depths give promise of a brighter 
and better future. Sunshine and clouds 
were mirrored in the rapid river and 
murmuring brook ; the stately trees and 
odorous flowers bowed with the gentle 
west wind, and gave a love-greeting to 
the glorious vault above. 

Upon the terrace of Sans-Souci stood 
the king, and looked admiringly upon 
the lovely panorama spread out at his 
feet. Nature and art combined to make 
this spot a paradise. The king was 
alone at the palace of Sans-Souci ; for 
a few happy hours he had laid aside the 
burden and pomp of royalty. He was 
now the scholar, the philosopher, the 
sage, and the friend ; in one word, he 
was what he loved to call himself, the 
genial abl)ot of Sans-Souci, 

At the foot of the romantic hill upon 
which his palace was built Frederick 
laid aside the vain pomp and glory of 
the world, and with them all its petty 
cares and griefs. With every step upon 
the terrace his countenance lightened 
and his breath came more freely. He 


had left the valley of tears and ascended 
the holy mountain. Repose and purity 
were around him, and he felt nearer the 
God of creation. 

Sans-Souci, now glittering in the sun- 
shine, seemed to greet and cheer him. 
These two laconic but expressive words, 
mm souci^ smoothed the lines which 
the crown and its duties had laid upon 
his brow, and made his heart, which 
was so cold and weary, beat with the 
hopes and strength of youth 1 He was 
himself again, the warrior, the sage, the 
loving ruler, the just king, the philan- 
thropist, the faithful, fond friend ; the 
gay, witty, sarcastic companion, who 
felt himself most at home, most happy, 
in the society of scholars, artists, and 
writers. 

Genius was for Frederick an all-suflS- 
cient diploma, and those who possessed 
it were joyfully received at his court. 
If, from time to time, he granted a coat- 
of-arms, or a duke’s diadem, to those 
nobles, “ by the grace of God,” it was 
not so much to do them honor as to 
exalt his courtiers by placing among 
them the great and intellectual spirits 
of the time. He had made Algarotti 
and Chazot dukes, and Bielfeld a baron ; 
he had sent to Voltaire the keys of the 
wardrobe in order that the chosen friend 
of the philosopher of Sans-Souci might 
without a shock to etiquette be also the 
companion of the King of Prussia in 


218 


BERLIN iND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


his more princely castles, and belong 
to the circle of prince, and princess, and 
noble. 

When Frederick entered Sans-Souci 
he laid aside all prejudices and all con- 
sideration of rank. He wished to for- 
get that he was king, and desired his 
friends also to forget it, and to show 
him only that consideration which is 
due to the man of genius and of letters. 
Some of his friends had abused this 
privilege, and Frederick had been 
forced to humiliate them. There were 
others who never forgot at Sans-Souci 
the respect and reverence due to the 
royal house. Amongst these was his 
ever-devoted, ever-uniform friend, the 
Marquis d’Argeus. He loved him, not 
because he was king, but because he be- 
lieved him to be the greatest, best, most 
exalted of men. In the midst of his 
brilliant court circle and all his earthly 
pomp, D’Argens did not forget that 
Frederick was a man of letters, and his 
dear friend ; even so, while enjoying the 
hospitalities of Sans-Souci, he remem- 
bered always that the genial scholar 
and gentleman was a great and power- 
ful king. 

Frederick had the greatest confidence 
in D’Argens, and granted him more 
privileges than any other of his friends. 
Frederick invited many friends to visit 
him during the day, but the marquis 
was the only guest whose bedchamber 
was arranged for him at Sans-Souci. 

Four years have elapsed since D’Ar- 
gens consecrated Weinberg — since the 
day in which we closed our last chapter. 
We take advantage of the liberty al- 
lowed to authors, and pass over these 
four years and recommeuce our story in 
1750, the year which historians are ac- 
customed to consider the most glorious 
and happy in the life of Frederick the 
Second. We all know, alas! that earth- 
ly happiness resembles the purple rose, 
which, even while rejoicing the heart 
with her beauty and fragrance, wounds 


us with her thorns. We know that the 
sunshine makes the flowers bloom in 
gardens, on the breezy mountains, and 
also on the graves; when we jfiuck and 
wear these roses, "who can decide if we 
are influenced by joy in the present or 
sad remembrances of the past ? 

Frederick the Great ajDpeared to be 
gay and happy, but these four years had 
not passed away without leaving a 
mark upon his brow and a shadow on 
his heart ; Jiis youthful smile had van- 
ished, and the expression of his lip was 
stem and resolved. He was now thirty- 
eight years of age, and was still a hand- 
some man, but the sunshine of life had 
left him; his eyes could flash and 
threaten like Jove’s, but the soft and 
loving glance was quenched. Like 
Polycrates, King Frederick, in order to 
propitiate fate, had sacrificed his idol. 
He had thus lost his rarest jewel, had 
become poor in love. Perhaps his crown 
rested more firmly upon his head, but 
his heart had received an almost mortal 
wound ; it had healed, but he was 
hardened I 

Frederick thought not of the past 
four years, and their griefs and losses, 
as he stood now upon the terrace of 
Sans-Souci, illuminated by the evening 
sun, and gazed with ravished eyes upon 
the panorama spread out before him. 

“ Beautiful, wondrous beautiful 1 ” he 
said to himself. “ I think Voltaire will 
find that the sun is even as warm and 
cheering at Sans-Souci as at Cirey, and 
that we can be gay and happy without 
the presence of the divine Emilie, who 
enters one moment with her children, 
and the next with her learned and ab- 
struse books.* Ah 1 I wish he were 

* Voltaiie lived for ten years in Cirey with hia 
friend the Marquise Enailie de Chdtelet Samont, a 
very learned lady, to whom he was much devoted. 
He had refused all Frederick’s Invitations because 
he was unwilling to be separated from this lady. 
After twenty years of marriage, in the year 1740, the 
countess gave birth to her first child ; two hours 
after the birth of her son, she seated herself a* bey 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


219 


JKre; so long as I do not see him, I 
doubt if lie will come.” 

At this moment the king saw the 
shadow of a manly figure thrown upon 
tiie terrace, which the evening sun 
lengthened into a giant’s stature. He 
turned and greeted the Marquis d’Ai-- 
gens, who had just entered, with a gra- 
cious smile. 

“ You are indeed kind, marquis,” 
said Frederick; “you have returned 
from Berlin so quickly, I think Love 
must have lent you a pair of wings.’’ 

“ Certainly, Love lent me his wings ; 
the little god knew that your majesty 
was the object of my greatest admira- 
tion, and that I wished to fly to your 
feet and shake out from my horn of 
plenty the novelties and news of the 
day.” 

“There is something new, then?” 
said the king. “ I have done well in send- 
ing you as an ambassador to the Goddess 
of Rumor ; she has graciously sent you 
back full-handed; let us see, now, in 
what your budget consists.” 

“The first, and I am sorry to say the 
most welcome to your majesty, is this 
— Voltaii'e has arrived in Berlin, and 
will be here to-morrow morning.” 

The king’s countenance was radi- 
ant with delight, but he was con- 
siderate, and did not express his rap- 
ture. 

“Dear marquis, you say that Vol- 
taire has arrived. Do you indeed re- 
gret it ? ” 

D’Argens was silent and thoughtful 
for a moment ; he raised his head, and 
his eyes were obscured by tears. 

“Yes,” said he, “I am sorry! We 
greet the close of a lovely day, no mat- 
ter how glorious the declining sun may 
oe, with something of fear and regret ; 
who can tell but that clouds and dark- 


vritinsf-table to wTite an essay on the Newtonian 
system; in consequence of this she sickened and 
died In two days. After her death, Voltaire accept- 
ed Frederick’s invitation to Sans-Soaci. 


ness may be round about the morning ? 
To-morrow a new day dawns and anew 
sun rises in Sans-Souci. Sire, I grieve 
that tliis happy day is ended.” 

“Jealous I ” said the king, folding his 
arms and walking backward and for- 
ward upon the terrace. Suddenly he 
stood before D’Argens and laid his 
hands upon his shoulders. “You are 
right,” said he ; “ a new day dawns, a 
new sun rises upon Sans-Souci, but 1 
fear the sun’s bright face will be cloud- 
ed and the day will end in storm. Vol- 
taire is the last ideal of my youth ; God 
grant that I may not have to cast it 
aside wdth my other vain illusions! 
God grant that the man Voltaire may 
not cast down the genius Voltake from 
the altar which, with willing hands, I 
have erected for him in my heart of 
hearts ! I fear the cynic and the miser. 
I have a presentiment of evil ! My al- 
tar will fall to pieces, and its ruins will 
crush my own heart. Say what you 
will, D’Argens, I have still a heart, 
though the world has gnawed at and 
undermined it fearfully.” 

“Yes, sire, a great, noble, warm 
heart,” cried D’Argens, deeply moved, 
“full of love and poetry, of magnanim- 
ty and mercy ! ” 

“You must not betray these weak- 
nesses to Voltaire,” said the king, laugh- 
ing ; “ he would mock at me, and I should 
suffer from his poisonous satire, as I 
have done more than once. Voltaire 
is miserly ; that displeases me. Covet- 
ousness is a rust which will obscure 
and at last destroy the finest metal ! 
The miser loves nothing but himself. 
I fear that Voltaire comes to me simply 
for the salary I have promised him, and 
the four thousand thalers I have sent 
him for his journey ! ” 

“In this, sire, you do both your 
self and Voltaire injustice. Voltaire is 
genial enough to look, not upon your 
crown, but upon the clear brow which 
it shades. He admires and seeks you, 


220 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


not because you are a king, but because 
you are a great sj)irit, a hero, an author, 
a scholar, and a philosopher, and, best 
of all, a good and noble man.” 

“What a simiRe-minded child you 
are, marquis ! ” said Frederick, with 
a sad smile ; “ you believe even yet 
in the unselfish attachments of men. 
Truly, you have a right to this rare 
faith ; you at least are capable of such 
an affection. I am vain enough to be- 
lieve that you are unselfishly devoted 
to me.” 

“ God be thanked for this word 1 ” 
said D’Argens, with a glowing counte- 
nance. “And now let Voltaire and the 
seven wise men, and Father Abraham 
himself, come ; your Isaac fears none of 
them ; my king has faith in me ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Frederick, “ I believe in 
you ; an evil and bitter thing will it be, 
if the day shall ever come when I shall 
doubt you; from that time onward I 
will trust no man. I tell you, D’Ar- 
gens, your kindly face and your love 
are necessary to me ; I will use them 
as a shield to protect myself against 
the darts and wiles of the false world. 
You must never leave me ; I need your 
calm, kind eye, your happy smile, 
your childish simplicity, and your wise 
experience ; I need a Pylades, I well be- 
lieve that something of Orestes is hid- 
den in my nature. And now, my Py- 
lades, swear to me, swear to me that 
you will never leave me; that from 
this hour you will have no other father- 
land than Prussia, no other home than 
Potsdam and Sans-Souci.” 

“ Ah, your majesty asks too much. I 
cannot abjure my fatherland, I cannot 
relinquish my Provence. I am the 
Switzer, with his song of home; when 
he hears it in his own land, his heart 
bounds with joy; when he hears it in 
a strange land, his eyes fill with sorrow- 
ful tears. So is it with the ‘ 'beau soleil 
de ma Provence^'' the remembrance of it 
warms my heart ; I think that if I were 


a weak old man, the sight of my beau- 
tiful sunny home would make me young 
and strong. Your majesty will not ask 
me to abandon my land forever ? ” 

“ You love the sun of Provence, 
then, more than you do me,” said Fred- 
erick, with a slight frown. 

“ Your majesty cannot justly say 
that, when I have turned my back upon 
it, and shouted for joy when the sun of 
the north has cast its rays upon me. 
Sire, let me pass my life under the glo- 
rious northern sun, but grant that I 
may die in my own land.” 

“ You are incomprehensible, D’Ar- 
gens ; how can you know when you are 
about to die, and when it will be time 
to return to your beautiful Provence ? ” 

“ It has been prophesied that I shall 
live to be very old, and I believe in 
prophecy.” 

“ What do you call old, marquis ? 
Zacharias was eighty years of age when 
his youthful wife of seventeen gave 
birth to her first child.” 

“ God guard me from such an over- 
ripe youth and such a youthful wife, 
sire 1 I shall be content if my heart re- 
mains young till my seventieth year, 
and has strength to love my king and 
rejoice in his fame ; then, sire, I shall 
be aged and cold, and then it will be 
time for the sun of Provence to shine 
upon me and my grave. When I am 
seventy years of age, your majesty 
must allow your faithful servant to re- 
member that France is his home, and 
to seek his grave even where his cradle 
stood.” 

“ Seventy, marquis ! and how old are 
you now ? ” 

“ Sire, I am still young — forty-six 
years of age. You see I have only 
sought a plea to remain half an eternity 
at the feet of your majesty.” 

“ You are forty-six, and you are will- 
ing to remain twenty-four years at my 
side. I shall then be sixty-six ; that is 
to say, I will be hard of heart and cold 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


221 


uf purpose. 1 will despise mankind, 
and have no illusions. Marquis, I be- 
lieve when that time comes, I can give 
you up. Let it be so I — ^you remain 
with me till you are seventy. Give 
your word of honor to this, marquis.” 

“ Rathgr will your majesty be gra- 
cious enough to promise not to dismiss 
me before that time ? ” 

“ I promise you, and I must have 
your oath in return.” 

“ She, I swear ! On that day in 
which I enter my seventieth year, I will 
send you my certificate of baptism, 
which you will also look upon as my 
funeral notice. You will say sadly, 
‘ The Marquis d’Argens is dead,’ and 
I — I will go to ma belle Provence^ and 
seek my grave.” * 

“ But before this time you will be- 
come very religious, a devotee, wdll you 
not ? ” 

“ Yes, sire; that is, I shall devoutly 
acknowledge all your goodness to me. 
I shall be the most religious worshipper 
of all that your majesty has done for 
the good of mankind, for the advance- 
ment of true knowledge, and the glory 
of your great name.” 

“ So far, so good ; but there is in this 
world another kind of religion, in the 
exercise of which you have as yet 
shown but little zeal. Will you at last 
assume this mask, and contradict the 
principles which you have striven to 
maintain during your whole life ? Will 
you, at the approach of death, go 
through with those ceremonies and ob- 
servances which religion commands?” 

Tlic marquis did not reply immedi- 
ately. His eye turned to the beautiful 
prospect lying at his feet, upon which 
the last purple rays of the evening sun 
were now lingering. 

“ This is God, sire ! ” said he, en- 
thusiastically this is truly God! 
Why are not men content to worship 


Him in nature, to find Him where He 
most assuredly is ? Why do they seek 
Him in houses made with hands, 
and — ” 

“ And in wafers made of meal and 
water ? ” said Frederick, interrupting 
him ; “ and now tell me, marquis, will 
you also one day seek Him thus ? ” 

Yes, sire,” said D’Argens, after a 
short pause, “ I will do thus from 
friendship to my brothers, and mterest 
for my family.” 

“ That is to say, you will be unfaith- 
ful to the interest of philosophy and 
truth ? ” 

“ It will appear so, sire ; but no man 
of intellect and thought will be duped 
by this seeming inconsistency. If the 
part which I play seem unworthy, I 
may be excused in view of my motive — ■ 
at all events, I do not think it wrong. 
The folly of mankind has left me but 
one alternative — to be a hypocrite, or to 
prepare bitter grief for my relations, 
who love me tenderly. ‘ Out of love,’ 
then, for my family, I will die a hypo- 
crite.* But, sire, why should we speak 
of death ? why disquiet the laughing 
spirits of the Greeks and Homans, who 
now inhabit this their newest temple by 
discoursing of graves and skeletons ? ” 

“ You are right, marquis — away with 
the ghastly spectre 1 This present life 
belongs to us, and a happy life it shall 
be. We will sit at the feet of Voltaire, 
and learn how to banish the sorrows of 

* The marquis returned to Provenee,in his seven- 
tieth year, and died there. The journals hastened 
to make knovs^u that he died a Christian, recanting 
his atheistical philosophy. The king wrote to the 
widow of the marquis for intelligence on this s ob- 
ject. She replied that her husband had received 
the last sacraments, but only after he was in the 
arms of death, and could neither see nor hear, and 
she herself had left the room. The marquise 
added : “ Ah, sire, what a land is this I I have 
been assured that the greatest service I could 
render to my husband -would be to burn all his 
writings, to give all his pictures to the flames ; thal 
the more we burn on earth of that which is sinful 
or loads to sin, the less we shall burn in hell! 
(Euvres Posthumes, voh xil., p. 316. 


♦ Thiebault, voi. i., p. 360. 


222 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCI; OR, 


life by wit and mocking laughter. 
With the imagination and enthusiasm 
of poets, we will conceive this world to 
be a paradise. And now tell me what 
other news you have brought back with 
you from Berlin.*- 

“ Well, sire, Voltaire is not the only 
star who has risen in Berlin. There are 
other comets which from time tc time 
lighten the heavens, and then disappear 
for a season, to reappear and bring strife 
and war upon the earth.” 

Frederick looked searchingly upon 
the marquis. “ You speak in riddles — 
what comet has returned ? ” 

“ Sire, I know not what to call it. 
She herself claims a name, her right to 
which is disputed by the whole world, 
though she swears by it.” 

“ She ? it is, then, a woman of whom 
you speak ? ” 

“Yes, sire: a woman w’hom for 
years we worshipped as a goddess, or 
at least as an enchanting fairy — Barba- 
rina has returned to Berlin.” 

“ Returned ? ” said the king, indiffer- 
ently; but he walked away thought- 
fully to the end of the terrace, and 
gazed upon the lovely landscape which, 
in its quiet beauty, brought peace to 
his heart, and gave him the jjower of 
self-control. 

The marquis stood apart, and looked 
wdth kindly interest upon his noble 
face, now lighted by the glad golden 
rays of the sinking sun. Among the 
trees arose one of those fierce, sighing 
winds, which often accompany the de- 
clining sun, and seem the last struggling 
groan of the dying day. This melan- 
choly sound broke the peaceful still- 
ness around the castle, and drowned 
the babbling of the brooks and cas- 
cades. As the wild wind rushed 
madly through the trees, it tore from 
their green boughs the first faded, yel- 
low leaves which had lain concealed, 
like the first white hairs on the temples 
of a beautiful woman, and drove them 


here and there in wanton sport. One 
of these withered leaves fell at the feet 
of the king. He took it up and gazed 
at it. Pensively he drew near the 
marquis. 

“Look you, friend,” said he, holding 
up the fallen leaf toward the* marquis; 
“ look you, this is to me the Barbarina 
— a faded remembrance of the happy 
past, and nothing more. Homer was 
right w^hen he likened the hearts of 
men to the yellow leaves tossed and 
driven by the winds. Even such a leaf 
is Barbarina ; I raise it and lay it in my 
herbarium wdth other mementoes, and 
rejoice that the dust and ashes of life 
have fallen upon it, and taken from it 
form and color. And now that you 
know this, D’Argens, tell me franklv 
why the signora has returned. Does 
she come alone, or with her husband, 
Lord Stuart McKenzie ? ” 

“She has returned with her sister, 
and Lord Stuart is not her husband. It 
is said that when Barbarina arrived in 
England, she found him just married to 
a rich Scotch lady.” 

The king laughed heartily. “ And 
yet men expect us to listen gravely 
when they rave of the eternity of their 
love,” said he. “ This little sentimental 
lord called heaven and earth to wit- 
ness the might of his love for Barba- 
rina. Was he not almost a madman 
when I seized his jewel, and tore her 
away from Venice? Did he not de- 
clare that he would consider me an- 
swerable for his life and reason, if I did 
not release my prima donna ? He 
wished her to enter, with an artistic 
pirouette^ his lofty castle, and place her- 
self, as Lady Stuart McKenzie, amongst 
his ever-worthy, ever-virtuous, ever -re- 
nowned ancestors. And now, Barba- 
rina can stand as godmother by his 
first-born.” 

“ Or he perform that holy office for 
Barbarina. It is said that she is also 
married.” 


FREDERICK TEE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


223 


“ To whom ? ” 

“ To the state councillor, Cocceji.” 

“ Folly I how can that be ? She has 
oeen in England, and he has not left 
Berlin. But her return will bring us 
vexation and strife, and I see already 
the whole dead race of the Coccejis 
raising up their skeleton arms from 
their graves to threaten the bold dancer, 
who dares to call herself their daugh- 
ter. I prophesy that young CoCceji will 
become even as cool and as reasonable 
as Lord Stuart McKenzie has become. 
Give a man time to let the fire burn out 
— all depends upon that. This favor 
his family may well demand of me, and 
I must grant it. But now let us enter 
the house, marquis, the sun has disap- 
peared, and I am chilled. I know not 
whether the news you bring, or the 
evening air, has affected me. Let us 
walk backward and forward once or 
twice, and then we will go to the li- 
brary, and you will assist me in the 
last verse of a poem I am composing to 
greet Voltaire. Do not frown, marquis, 
let me sing his welcome ; who knows 
but I may also rejoice in his departure ? 
My heart is glad at his coming, and 
yet I fear it. We must not scrutinize 
the sun too closely, or we will find 
spots upon his glorious face. Perhaps 
Voltaire and myself resemble each other 
too much to live in peace and harmony 
together. I think we are only drawn 
permanently to our opposites. Believe 
me, D’Argens, I shall not be able to live 
Twenty -four years happily with Vol- 
taire, as I shall surely do with you. 
Twenty-four years ! do not forget that 
you are mine for twenty-four years.” 

“ Sii’e, as long as I live, I am yours. 
You have not bought me with gold, 
but by the power of a noble soul. So 
long as I live, my heart belongs to you, 
even when, at seventy, I fly to seek my 
grave in telle Provence. But, my king, 
I have yet another favor to ask of 
you.” 


“Speak, marquis, but do not be so 
cruel as to ask that which I cannot 
grant.” 

“ If it shall please Providence to call 
me away before I have attained my 
seventieth year, if I die in Berlin, will 
your majesty grant me the grace not 
to be buried in one of those dark, damp, 
dreary churchyards, where skull lies 
close by skull, and at the resurrection 
every, one will be in danger of seizing 
upon the bones which do not belong to 
him, and appearing as a thief at the 
last judgment? I pray you, let me 
remain even in death an individual, 
and not be utterly lost in the great 
crowd. If I die here, grant that I may 
be buried where, when living, I have 
been most happy. Allow me, after a 
long and active day, to pass the night 
of immortality in the garden of Sans- 
Souci.” 

“ It shall be so,” said the king, much 
moved. “There, under the statue of 
Flora, is my grave — where shall be 
yours ? Choose for yourself.” 

“ If I dare choose, sire, let it be there 
under that beautiful vase of ebony.” 

Frederick gave a smiling assent, and 
taking the arm of the marquis, he said, 
“ Come, we will go to the vase, and I 
will lay my hand upon it and conse- 
crate it to you.” 

Silently they passed the statue of 
Flora, which Frederick greeted gayly, 
and the marquis with profound rever- 
ence then mounted two small steps and 
stood upon the green circle. The king 
paused and looked down thoughtfully 
upon a gravestone which his feet almost 
touched. 

“ Be pious and prayerful on this spot,” 
said he ; “ we stand by the grave of my 
most faithful friend, who is enjoying 
before us the happiness of everlasting 
sleep. Here lies Biche ! Hat off, mar- 
quis I She loved me, and was faithful 
unto death. Who knows if I, under 
my statue of Flora, and you, undei 


224 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


your vase, will merit tlie praise wMcli 
I, with my whole soul, award to my 
Biche ! She was good and faithful to 
the end.” * 


CHAPTER II. 

VOLTAIRE AND HIS ROYAL FRIEND. 

The king had withdrawn to his li- 
brary earlier than usual ; he had at- 
tended a cabinet council, worked for an 
hour with his ministers of state, and, 
after fulfilling these public duties, with- 
drawn gladly to his books to consume 
the time which crept along with leaden 
feet. 

The king expected Voltaire; — he 
knew he had arrived at Potsdam, 
where he would rest and refresh himself, 
for a few hours, and then proceed at 
once to Sans-Souci. 

Frederick regarded this first meeting 
with Voltaire, after long years of sepa- 
ration, with more of anxiety than of 
joyful impatience. Voltaire’s arrival 
and residence at Sans-Souci had been 
the warm desire of Frederick’s heart 
for many years, and yet, as the time for 
its fulfilment drew near, the king al- 
most trembled. What did this mean ? 
How was it that this friendship, which 
for sixteen years had been so publicly 
avowed, and so zealously confirmed by 
private oaths and protestations, seemed 
now wavering and uncertain ? 

About now to reach the goal so ar- 
dently striven for, the king felt that he 
was not pleased. A cold blast seemed 
to sweep over him, and fill him with 
sad presentiments. 

Frederick was filled with wonder 
and admiration for the genius of the 
great French writer, but he knew that, 
as a man, Voltaire was unworthy of his 
friendship. He justly feared that the 


realities of life and daily intercourse 
would fall like a cold dew upon this 
rare blossom of friendship between a 
king and a poet ; this tender plant 
which, during so many years of sepa- 
ration, they had nourished and kept 
warm by glowing assurances and fiery 
declarations, must now be removed from 
the hot-house of imagination, where it 
had been excited to false growth by the 
eloquence of letters, and transplanted 
into a world of truth and soberness. 

This friendship had no real founda- 
tion ; it floated like a variegated phantom 
in the air, a fata morgana^ whose glitter- 
ing temple halls and pillars would soon 
melt away like the early cloud and the 
morning dew. In these “ cloud-capped 
towers and gorgeous palaces,” the two 
great freethinkers and genial philoso- 
phers of their century intended to culti- 
vate and enjoy their friendship. In 
these temples of air they wished to em- 
brace each other, but the two-edged 
sword of mistrust and suspicion already 
flashed between them, and both felt in- 
clined to draw back. 

Both doubted the sincerity of this 
friendship, and the less they believed 
in it the more eloquently they declaimed 
as to its ardor and eternity. Each one 
thought to himself, “ I will enjoy and 
profit by the fruit of this friendship, I 
will yield up the blossoms only.” The 
blossoms, alas ! were artificial, without 
odor and already fading, though at the 
first glance they looked fresh and prom- 
ising. 

Once in the youthful ardor of his 
enthusiasm for genius, Frederick had 
forgotten himself so far as to kiss the 
hand of Voltaire.* The proud and 
ambitious poet had boasted loudly of 
this act of devotion ; for this Frederick 
had never forgiven him ; he should have 
guarded it as a holy and dangerous se- 
cret in the innermost shrine of his heart. 


* Nicolai, “ Anecdoten.’’— Heft, p. 202. 


* Thl6bault. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


225 


Voltaire was angry with the king, be- 
cause he had lately addressed some 
verses to the young poet D’Arnaud, in 
which he was represented as the rising 
and Voltaire as the setting sun.* And 
yet they believed they loved each other, 
and were about to put their love to the 
severe test of uninterrupted intercourse. 

The king awaited Voltaire with im- 
patience, and now he heard the rolling 
of carriage- wheels, then the opening of 
doors, then the sound of voices. In the 
first impulse of joy he sprang from 
his seat and advanced eagerly to meet 
Voltaire, but reaching the threshold of 
the door he stood still and considered. 
“ No,” said he, “ I will not go to meet 
him — he would mock at me, perhaps 
boast of it.” He turned back to his 
chair, and took up the book he had been 
reading. And now some one tapped 
gently upon the door, a servant appeared 
and announced “Monsieur Voltake,” 
and now a figure stood upon the door- 
sill. 

This man, with small, contracted 
chest, with a back bowed down by old 
age or infirmities ; this man, with the 
wondrous countenance, of which no one 
could decide if it was the face of a satyr 
or a demigod ; whose eyes flashed with 
heavenly inspiration at one moment, and 
in the next glowed with demoniac fire ; 
whose lips were distorted by the most 
frightful grimaces or relaxed into the 
most enchanting smiles — this man is 
Voltaire. 

As Frederick’s glance met those burn- 
ing eyes, he forgot all else, his royalty, 
his dignity, even Voltaire’s baseness and 
vanity; he was to him the spirit of the 
age, the genius of the world, and he 
hastened to meet him, opened his arms 
wide, and pressed him tenderly to his 
heart. “Welcome, welcome my lord 
and master,” said the king; “I receive 
you, as becomes a pupil, in my school- 


♦ CEuvres Posthumes. 

15 


room, surrounded by my books, whose 
mysterious lessons of wisdom, you, my 
teacher, will make clear.” 

“ On the contrary, sire,” said Voltaire, 
with a soft voice and a most enchanting 
smile — “on the contrary, you receive 
me with all the pomp of royalty seated 
upon a throne, which is not yours by 
inheritance, but which you have con- 
quered ; upon the throne of knowledge 
and learning, crowned with the laurels 
which the gods consecrate to heroes 
and poets. Alas ! my eyes are dazzled 
by the lustre which surrounds me. I 
bow in humility before this lordly head 
adorned by two royal crowns and reign- 
ing over two mighty kingdoms. Re- 
ceive me, sire, as an ambassador frt)m 
the realm of poets, whose crown you 
wear with so much grace and dignity.” 

Frederick smiled kindly. “Let me 
be only a burgher and your comrade in 
arms in the republic of letters,” said he. 
“ I hold republics generally as impossi- 
bilities, but I believe in a republic of 
letters, and I have a right republican 
heart, striving after liberty, equality, 
and brotherly love. Remember this, 
friend, and let us forget at Sans-Souci 
that your comrade is sometimes the first 
servant of a kingdom. And now, tell 
me how you have borne the fatigues of 
the journey, and if you have been re- 
ceived at every station with the marked 
attention I had commanded.” 

“Yes, sire, everywhere in Prussia I 
have felt myself almost oppressed, hum- 
bled, by your greatness. How great, 
how mighty, how powerful, must your 
majesty be, when I am so distinguished, 
so honored, simply because I enjoy your 
favor I This honor and this pleasure 
alone have given me strength for my 
journey. My friends in Paris thought 
it absurd and ridiculous for me, in my 
miserable condition, to attempt so 
fatiguing a journey. But, sire, I was 
not willing to die before I had once 
more sat at the feet of this great ano 


I 

BERLIN AND bAiSS-SOT^CI; OR, 


’d26 

yet simple man, this exalted yet genial 
philosopher. I wish to revive and 
quicken my sick heart at this fountain 
of wit and wisdom. I come, therefore, 
not as Voltaire, but as the tragic Scar- 
ron of your century, and throughout 
my whole journey I have called myself 
the ‘ Invalid of the King of Prus- 
sia.’ ” * 

Frederick laughed heartily. “The 
Marshal of Saxony and yourself are in 
the same condition with your maladies : 
in the extremity of illness you have 
more energy and power than all other 
men in the most robust health. Vol- 
taire, if you had not come now, I should 
have considered you a bad penny: in 
place of the true metal of friendship I 
should have suspected you of palming 
off plated lead upon me. It is well for 
you that you are here. You are like 
the white elephant for whom the Shah 
of Persia and the Great Mogul are con- 
tinually at war. Tlie one who is so 
fortunate as to possess the white ele- 
phant makes it always the occasion of 
an added title. I will follow their ex- 
ample, and from this time my title shall 
run thus : ‘ Frederick, by the grace of 
God, King of Prussia, Prince-Elector of 
Brandenburg, Possessor of Voltaire, 
etc. etc.’ ” 

“ Your majesty may say, ‘ of inalien- 
able Voltaire.’ I am wiser than the 
white elephant ; no war shall be neces- 
sary to conquer or to hold me. I de- 
clare myself your majesty’s most willing 
subject joyfully. Let me then be your 
white elephant, sire, and if the Great 
Mogul covets and demands me, I pray 
you to conceal me.” 

While Voltaire was speaking, he cast 
a sly glance upon the countenance of 
ihe king, his smile disappeared, and his 
tace lost its kindly expression. 

Frederick did not, or would not, see 
it. “ Not so,” said he, gayly ; “I will 

* CEuvres CouiplStes tie Voltaire. (Euvres Post- 
bum es. 


not conceal you, but boldly declare 
that you are mine.” 

“ I am, nevertheless, the subject of 
the King of France,” said Voltaire, 
shrugging his shoulders. “When Ire 
solved to leave Paris, they did not de- 
prive me of my title of ‘ Historian ol 
the King of France,’ they only took 
from me my pension. They knew I 
must travel by post, and that a title 
was less weighty for the horses than a 
pension of six thousand livres ; so they 
lightened me of that, and I come un- 
pensioned to your majesty.” 

This little comedy was too clear to 
escape the king, but he seemed not to 
understand it. A shadow fell upon his 
brow, and the expression of his face 
was troubled. He wished to worship 
Voltaire as a noble, exalted genius, and 
he was pained to find him a pitiful, cal- 
culating, common man. 

“You have, then, fallen under the 
displeasure of my brother Louis, of 
France ? ’’ said he. 

“ On the contrary, I am assured that 
I stand in the highest favor. I am, in- 
deed, honored with a most agreeable 
and flattering commission ; and if your 
majesty allows, I will immediately dis- 
charge it.” 

“ Do so,” said Frederick, smiling. 
“Lay aside every weight, that ycrur 
wdngs may waft you into the heaven 
of heavens while at Sans-Souci. You 
have been relieved of your pension, 
cast all your ballast into the scale 
also.” 

“ Sire, the Marquise de Pompadour 
directed me to present your majesty 
with her most obedient and submissive 
greetings, and to assure you of her rev- 
erence and heart-felt devotion.” 

Frederick quietly drew his tdbatiere 
from his vest-pocket, and slowly taking 
a pinch of snuff, he fixed his burning 
eyes upon Voltaire’s smiling and expect- 
ant face ; then said, with the most com- 
plete indifference, “The Marquise df 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


227 


Pompadour. Who is she? I do not 
know her ! ” 

Voltaire looked at the king aston- 
ished and questioning. 

Frederick did not remark this, but 
went on quietly : “ Have you no other 
greetings for me ? Have none of the 
great spirits, in which Paris is so rich, 
remembered me ? ” 

“I shall be careful not to mention 
any other greetings. AJl the so-called 
great spirits appear so small in the pres- 
ence of your exalted majesty, I fear you 
will not acknowledge them.” 

“ Not so,” said Frederick ; “ I gladly 
recognize all that is really great and 
worthy of renown. Voltaire will never 
find a more enthusiastic admirer than I 
am.” 

“ Ah, sire, these words are a balsam 
which I will lay upon my breast, lacer- 
ated by the wild outcries of my crit- 
ics.” 

“ So the critics have been giving you 
trouble ? ” said Frederick. 

“ Yes, sire,” said Voltaire, with the 
passionate scorn so peculiar to him ; 
“ they have bored their insatiable and 
poisonous teeth into my flesh. They 
are so miserable and so pitiful, that I 
seem to myself miserable and pitiful as 
their victim, and in all humility I will 
ask your majesty, if such hounds are 
allowed to howl unpunished, would it 
not be better for Voltaire to creep into 
some den, and acknowledge the wild 
beasts of the forest as his brothers — per- 
haps they might regard his verses as 
melodious barkings and bowlings ? ” 

“ Still the same boisterous hot-head, 
the Orlando Furioso,” cried the king, 
laughing heartily. “Is your skin so 
tender still that the needles of the little 
critics disturb you, and to gratify their 
malice will you become a mule? If 
you are driven to abandon the Muses, 
friend, who will have the hardihood 
to stand by them ? No, no ! do not 
follow in the footsteps of the God of 


Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; do not 
‘visit the sins of the fathers upon the 
children unto the third and fourth gen- 
eration ; ’ do not make the public of 
our day, and of the next century, suffer 
for the crimes of a few pitiful critics, 
the persecutions and slanders of the 
envious are the tribute great merit 
must always pay to the world at lar^e. 
Let them rail on, but do not believe 
that the nations and the future will be 
duped by them. Utterly disregarding 
the criticisms of the so-called masters of 
art, we of this century admire and won- 
der at the chefs-d'ce'uvre of Greece and 
Rome. The mad cry of ^schines does 
not obscure the fame of Demosthenes ; 
and, in spite of Lucian, Caesar is, and 
will ever remain, the greatest man the 
world has ever produced. I guarantee 
that after your death you will be canon- 
ized, worshipped. I humbly entreat you 
not to hasten the time, but be content to 
have the apotheosis in your pocket, and 
to be honored by all those who are 
too exalted to be envious or prejudiced. 
I, Frederick, stand foremost in the 
ranks.” * 

“ Why cannot the whole world be 
present to hear the words of a king 
whom I am proud, from this day on- 
ward, to call my king ? ” cried Voltaire, 
passionately. “ Sire, I love you, ar- 
dently ! I believe the gods made us 
for each other. I have long loved you 
tenderly I I have been angry with you, 
but I have forgiven you all, and I love 
you to madness ! There was never a 
weaker, frailer body than mine, but my 
soul is strong! I dare to say I love 
you as much as I admire you ! f Verily, 
I hold this to be as great a conquest as 
the five other victories yom* majesty has 
achieved, and for which the world wor- 
ships you. From this day I will be like 
your faithful hound ; I will lie at your 
feet, even though you should spurn mq 


♦ The king’s own words. — (Euvres Posthumw. 
t Voltaire’s own words. 


228 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


and declare that you will not be my 
masl,er and lord. I will still return. 
Your threshold shall be my home, and 
I will be content with the crumbs 
which fall from your table. My for- 
tune and my happiness shall consist in 
loving you ! ” 

“ I will not put your love to so hard 
a proof,” said the king, smiling. “ I 
dare hope to provide you with a more 
durable dAvelling. I promise you shall 
not be like Lazarus, feeding ujDon 
crumbs. You shall be the rich man, 
dispensing them.” 

Here was a sort of promise and as- 
surance which banished in some degree 
the nervous anxiety and distrust of 
Voltaire, and his countenance once 
more beamed with joy. He suppressed 
his satisfaction, however, instantly. He 
did not wish to betray.to the observant 
eye of Frederick his selfish and miserly 
nature, and assumed at once a melan- 
choly look. 

“ Sire,” said he, “ I do not resemble 
Lazarus ; and if your majesty does not 
possess the miraculous power of the 
young rabbi, Jesus Christus, I fear you 
will soon have to bury me. But I am 
as true a believer as any Jew. I trust 
fully to the magic power of your hand. 
Was not your marvellous touch suffi- 
cient to place beautiful Silesia, a gem of 
the first water, in the crown of Prus- 
sia ? — ^to awaken spirits, sleeping almost 
the sleep of death, and to call into life 
on these barbarous northern steppes 
the blossoms of education and refine- 
ment ? I believe in the miracles of the 
Solomon of the North, and I am will- 
ing to give my testimony to the whole 
world.” 

“ Nevertheless, if the French cock 
crows, you will betray me three times,” 
said the king. “ I Imow you, Voltaire, 
and I know when you are enraged 
nothing is sacred. I fear that here, as 
elsewhere, you will find provocations. 
But now, before all other things, what 


have you brought me ? What gift has 
your muse produced for the poor phi - 
losopher of Sans-Souci ? I will not be- 
lieve that you come with empty hands, 
and that the Homer of Franco has bro- 
ken his lyre.” 

“ No, sire, I am not empty-handed! 
I have brought you a present. I be- 
lieve it to be the best and most, beauti- 
ful production of my muse. For twen- 
ty years I have swelled with indignation 
at the tragedy which my good Mend, 
Master CrSbillon, made of the most ex- 
alted subject of antiquity. With the 
adroit hands of a tailor he stitched up 
a monke^'^-jacket out of the purple 
toga, and adorned it with the miserable 
tawdry trifles of a pitiful lore and 
pomijous Gothic verse I Cr6billon has 
written a French Catiline. I, sire, have 
written a Roman Catiline ! You shall 
see, sii*e, and you shall admire ! In 
one of my most wretched, sleepless 
nights, the devil overcame me, and 
said: ‘ Revenge Cicero and France! 
Cr6billon has disgraced both. Wash 
out this stain from France.’ This was 
a good devil ; and even you, sire, could 
not have driven me to work more 
eagerly than he did. Day and night 
he chained me to my writing-desk ! I 
feared I should die of excitement, but 
the devil held on to me, and the sjnrits 
of the great Romans stood by my ta- 
ble and tore off the absurd and ridicu- 
lous masks which Crgbillon had laid 
upon them. They showed me their 
true, exalted, glowing faces, and com- 
manded me to portray them, ‘ that the 
world at last might feel their majestic 
beauty, and be no longer deceived by 
the caricatures of CrSbillon ! ’ I was 
obliged to obey, sire! I worked cui- 
ceasingly, and in eight days I had fin- 
ished ! Catiline was born, and I was 
as much exhausted as ever a woman 
was at the birth of her first-born ! ” * 


* This whole speech is fron V ^Itairo. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


229 


‘ You do not mean * that in eight 
days you completed the tragedy ? ” said 
the king. “ You mean only that you 
have arranged the plot, and will finish 
the work here.” 

“ No, sire, I bring you the tragedy 
:-omplete, and I wrote it in eight days. 
Ah, sire, this is a tragedy you will en- 
joy ! You will see no lovelorn Tullia, 
no infirm and toothless Cicero; you 
will see a fearful picture of Rome, a 
picture at which I myself shuddered. 
But, sire, when you read it, you must 
swear to me to read it in the same 
spirit in wdiich it is written. I have 
left to my collegian CrSbillon all his 
dramatic plunder; his Catiline is a 
pure fiction. I have written mine, re- 
membering my province as an histo- 
rian. Rome is my heroine ; she is the 
mistress for whom I would interest all 
Europe. I have no other intrigue 
than Rome’s danger ; no other materi- 
al than the mad craft of Catiline, 
the vehemence and heroic virtue of 
Cicero, the jealousy of the Roman 
Senate, the development of the charac- 
ter of Caesar; no other woman than 
that unfortunate who was seduced by 
Catiline because of her gentleness and 
amiability. I know not, sire, if you 
wdll shudder at the fourth act, but I, 
the writer, trembled and shuddered. 
My tragedy is not formed upon ajiy 
model, it is new in nom fert animus. 
Truly I know the world will rail at me 
for this, and the small souls gnash their 
teeth and howl, but my work is writ- 
ten with a great soul, and kindred 
8i3irits w ill comprehend me. The envi- 
ous and the pitiful I will at last tram- 
ple under my feet. Jupiter strove with 
the Titans and overcame them. I am 
no Jupiter, neither are my adversaries 
Titans.” 

While these words, in an irrepressible 
and powerful stream of eloquence, burst 
from his lips, Voltaire became another 
man. His countenance was imposing 


in its beauty, his eyes glowed with the 
fire of inspiration, an enchanting smile 
played upon his lips, and his bowed and 
contracted form was proudly erect and 
commanding. The king gazed upon 
him with admiration. At length Vol- 
taire, panting for breath, was silent. 
Frederick laid his two hands upon his 
shoulders, and looked into the glowing 
face with an indescribable expression 
of love and tenderness. 

“ Now,” said he, “ I have again and 
at last found my Voltaire, my proud, 
inspired king of poets, my Homer, 
crowned with immortality ! The might 
of genius has torn away the mantle of 
the courtier, and in place of pitiful, 
pliant, humble words, I hear again the 
melodious, fiashing, eloquent speech of 
my royal poet ! Welcome, Voltaire, 
welcome to Sans-Souci, whose poor 
philosopher is but king of men, while 
the spirits are subject unto you ! Ah, 
my all-poweiful king and master, be 
gracious! You possess a wondrous 
realm, give me at least a small province 
in your kingdom.” 

“ Sire, you mock at me,” cried Vol- 
taire. “ I have written Cgesar and Cicero 
for the theatre. You, however, exhibit 
on the stage of the world the two great- 
est men of the greatest century, com- 
bined in your own person. I have come 
to gaze upon this wonder ; it is a far 
loftier drama than mine, and will be 
surely more nobly represented.* Your 
majesty represents what you truly are, 
but where shall I find actors to fiU the 
role of Caesar, Cicero, and Catiline ; how 
shall I change the pitiful souls of the 
coulisse into great men ; make noble 
Romans out of these small pasteboard 
heroes of the mode ? I could find no 
actors for my tragedy in Paris, and it 
shall never be unworthily represented 1 ” 

“ We will bring it upon the stage 
here,” said Frederick. “Yes, truly^ 


* Voltaire’s own words. 


£30 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI • OR, 


this new and great work shall announce, 
like a flaming comet, Voltaire’s arrival 
in Berlin. At the same moment in which 
the Berlinese see that you are at last 
amongst them, shall they acknowledge 
that you are worthy to be honored and 
worshipped. In four weeks, Voltaire, 
shall your new tragedy be given in my 
palace.” 

“Has your majesty, then, a French 
company, and such a one as may dare 
to represent my Catiline ? ” 

“ For the love of Voltaire will all my 
courtiers, and even my sister, become 
actors ; and though a Cicero failed you 
in Paris, in Berlin we will surely And 
you one. Have we not Voltaire who 
can take that rdle ? If no reliable di- 
rector could be found in Paris, I give 
you permission to select from my court 
circle those you consider most talented 
and most capable as actors, and you can 
study their parts with them — myself 
alone excepted. Ten years ago I wished 
to have yom- ‘ Death of Caesar ’ given at 
Rheinsberg, and I had selected a role ; 
just then the Emperor of Germany died, 
and fate called me out upon the great 
theatre of the world, where I have since 
then tried to play my part worthily, 
and I must consecrate to this all my 
strength and ability. I can play no 
other part ! The two roles might make 
a rare confusion, and strange results 
might follow should the King of Prussia 
of this morning be changed to the Cice- 
ro of the evening, utter a fulminating 
speech against tyrants, and call upon 
the noble Romans to defend their rights; 
while this same King of Prussia is a 
small tyrant, and his subjects are more 
like pitiful slaves than heroic Romans. 
I must, therefore, confine myself to the 
narrow boundaries of a spectator, and 
applaud you as heartily in your charac- 
ter of Cicero as I applaud you in that 
of the great Voltaire.” 

“ And is this indeed your intention, 
sire ? My poor tragedy lies in my writ- 


ing-desk, seemingly dead; will you 
awaken it to life and light ? ” 

“It shall be given in two months, 
and you shall conduct it.” 

Voltaire’s countenance darkened; his 
gay smile disappeared, and lines of self- 
ishness and covetousness clouded the 
brow of the great poet. 

“ In two months, sire ! ” said he, shak- 
ing his head. “ I fear I shall not be 
here. I have only come to sun myself 
for a few happy days in your presence.” 

“ And then ? ” said Frederick, inter- 
rupting him. 

“ Then I must fulfil one of the darling 
dreams of my whole life. I must go to 
Italy, to the holy city of Rome, and 
kneel upon the graves of Cicero and 
Caesar. I must see St. Peter’s, the Venus 
de Medici, and the pope.” 

“ You will never go to Rome,” said 
Frederick. “ The Holy Father will not 
have the happiness of converting the 
blasphemous Saul into the pious and 
believing Paul. You will remain in 
Berlin ; if you do not yield willingly, I 
must compel you to yield. I will make 
you my subject ; I will bind you with 
orders and titles ; I will compel you to 
accept a salary from me; and then, 
should they seek to ravish you from me, 
I will have a right to withhold you from 
all the potentates of the world.” 

Voltaire’s face was again radiant. 
“ Ah ! sire, no power or chains will be 
necessary to bind me here; your ma- 
jesty’s command alone would suffice.” 

“ And your duty I My gentleman of 
the bedchamber dare not withdraw 
himself for a single day without my 
permission. I make you gentleman of 
the bedchamber. I lay the ribbon of 
my order, '‘^pour le raerite^ around your 
neck ; and that I may always have a 
rope around you, and make you com- 
pletely my prisoner, I give you an apart- 
ment in my palace at Potsdam; and 
that you may not feel yourself a hermit, 
you will have every day six covers laid 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


231 


toi your friends ; and to mock you witli 
the appearance of liberty, you shall have 
your own equipage and servants, who 
will obey you in all things with one ex- 
ception — ^if you order your valet to pack 
up your effects, and your coachman to 
take the road to Paris, they will disobey.” 

Voltaire heard the words of the king 
with breathless attention. Sullen sus- 
picion and discontent were written on 
his face. This did not escape the king ; 
he understood the cause, but he said 
nothing. Voltaire exhausted himself 
in words of joy and gratitude, but they 
had not the ring of truth, and the joy 
which his lips expressed found no echo 
m his face. 

“ I have but one other thing to add,” 
said Frederick, at last. “Can your 
greatness pardon a poor earthworm, if 
he dare speak in your presence of so 
common and villanous a thing as 
money ? ” 

Voltaire’s eyes sparkled; the subject 
of conversation did not seem disagree- 
able to him. 

“You have relinquished a pension of 
six thousand livres in France. It is but 
just that you receive full compensation. 
Your great spirit is certainly above all 
earthly considerations, but our fleshly 
existence has its rights. So long as you 
are with me, you shall not be troubled 
by even a shadow of privation. You 
will therefore receive a salary of flve 
thousand thalers from me. Your lodg- 
ing and your table cost you nothing, 
and I think you can be very comfort- 
able.” 

Voltaire’s heaft bounded for joy, but 
he forced himself to seem calm and in- 
cllflerent. 

“ Your majesty has forgotten an im- 
portant matter,” said he. “ You have 
named lodging and food, but you say 
nothing of light and fire. I am an old 
man, and cannot produce them mj^self.” 

“ Truly said — I find it quite in order 
that the great freethinker and poet of 


his century is troubled for the light 
which should illuminate him. You shall 
have twelve pounds of wax-lights every 
month ; I think this will be sufficient 
for your purposes. As for the other 
little necessities of life, have the good- 
ness to apply to the castellan of the 
castle. On the first day of every month 
he will supply them regularly. The 
contract is made ; you will remain with 
me ? ” 

“ I remain, sire ! — not for the title, or 
the pension, or the order — I remain with 
you, because I love you. My heart 
offers up to you the dream of my life, 
my journey to Italy. Oh, I wish I 
could make greater, more dangerous 
sacrifices ! I wish I could find a means 
to prove my love, my adoration, my 
worship ! ” 

The king laid his hand softly on Vol- 
taire’s shoulder, and looked earnestly 
in his eyes. 

“ Be as good a man as you are a great 
poet. That is the most beautiful offer- 
ing you can bring me.” 

“ Ah ! I see,” said Voltaire, enraged ; 
“some one has slandered me. Your 
majesty has opened your ears to my 
enemies, and already their ffiillish poison 
has reached your heart. As they can- 
not destroy Voltaire the poet, they seize 
upon Voltaire the man, and slander his 
character because they cannot obscure 
his fame. I will advance to meet them 
with an open visor and without a shield. 
From their place of ambush, with their 
poisoned arrows, let them slay^me. It 
is better to die than to be suspected and 
contemned by my great and worshipped 
king.” 

“ See, now, what curious creatures 
you poets are!” said Frederick ;“ al- 
ways in wild tumult and agitation; 
either storming heaven or hell ; contend- 
ing with demons, or revelling with 
angels ! You have no daily quiet, pa- 
tienee, and perseverance. If you see a 
man who tells you he is planting pota 


232 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


toes, you do not believe him — you con- 
vince yourself be is sowing dragons’ 
teeth to raise an army to contend against 
you. If you meet one of your fellows 
with a particularly quiet aspect, you 
are sure you can read curses against you 
upon his lip. When one begs you to 
be good, you look upon it as an accu- 
sation. No, no, my poet ! no one has 
poured the poison of slander into my 
ears — no one has accused you to me. I 
am, moreover, accustomed to form my 
own conclusions, and the opinions of 
others have but little weight with me.” 

“ But your majesty is 2 :)leased to lend 
your ears to my enemies,” said Voltaire, 
sullenly ; “ exactly those who attack me 
most virulently receive the highest 
honors at the hands of your majesty. 
You are as cruel with me as a beautiful 
and ravishing coquette. So soon as by 
a love-glance you have made me the 
happiest of men, you turn away with 
cold contempt, and smile alluringly 
upon my rivals. I have yet two dagger- 
strokes in my heart, which cause me 
death-agony. If your majesty would 
make me truly ha23py, you must cure 
the wounds with your own hands.” 

“I will, if it is possible,” said the 
king, gravely. “ Let us hear of what 
you complain.” 

“ Sire, your majesty has made Fr^ron 
your correspondent in Paris — Frgron, 
my most bitter enemy, my irreconcilable 
adversary. But it is not because he is 
my foe that I entreat you to dismiss 
him ; yoju will not think so pitifully of 
me as to suppose that this is the reason 
I entreat you to dismiss him from your 
service. My personal dislike will not 
make me blind to the worth of Fr6ron 
as a writer. No, sire, Fr6ron is not 
worthy of your favor; he is an openly 
dishonored scoundrel, who has com- 
mitted more than one common fraud. 
You may imagine what an excitement 
it produced in Paris when it was known 
that you had honored this scamp with 


a position which should be filled by a 
man of wisdom and integrity. Fr6ron 
is only my enemy because, in spite of 
all entreaties, I have closed my house 
upon him. I took this step for reasons 
which should have closed the doors of 
every respectable house against him.* 
Sire, I implore you, do not let the world 
believe for a single day longer that 
Frgron is your correspondent. Dismiss 
him at once from your service.” 

The king did not re^Dly for a few 
moments; he walked backward and 
forward several times, then stood qui- 
etly before Voltaire. The expression of 
his eye was stern. 

“ I sacrifice Fr6ron to you,” said he, 
“ because I will deny you nothing on 
this, the day of your arrival ; but I re- 
peat to you what I said before, ‘ be not 
only a great poet, be also a good man.’ ” 

Voltaire shook his head, sadly. 
“ Sire,” said he, “ in your eyes I am not 
a great poet, only un soUil couchant. 
Remember Arnaud, my pupil, whom I 
sent to you ! ” 

“ Aha ! ” cried the king, laughing, 
“ you have, then, read my little poem to 
Arnaud ? ” 

“ Sire, I have read it, and that was 
the second dagger-stroke which I re- 
ceived on this journey, to which my 
loving heart forced my weak and 
shrinking body ; I felt that I must see 
you once more before I died. Yes, I 
have read this terrible poem, and the 
lines have burned into my heart these 
cruel words : 

‘T)6j^ sans 6tre tcmftraire, 

Prenant votre vol jusqu’aux deux, 

Yous pouvez 6galer Voltaire, 

Et pr^s de Yirgile et d’Homfire. 

Jouir de vos succ^s houreux, 

D6ja I’Apollon de la France, 

Slachemine k sa d6cadence, 

Yenez brillera votre tour, 

Elevez vous s'il brille encore ; 

Ainsi le couchant d’un beau jour, 

Promet une plus belle aurore.’ ”t 

* Voltaire’s own words. 

t Supplement des Oiuvres Posthumes. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


233 


. “Yes,” said the king, as Yoltaire 
ceased declaiming, and stood in rather 
a tragic attitude before him — “ yes, I 
confess that a sensitive nature like 
yours might find a thorn in these inno- 
cent rhymes. My only intention was to 
give to the little Arnaud a few roses 
which he might weave into a wreath of 
fame. It seems I fulfilled my purpose 
poorly; it was high time that Yoltaire 
should come to teach me to make bet- 
ter verses. See, I confess my injustice, 
and I allow you to punish me by writ- 
ing a poem against me, which shall be 
published as extensively as my little 
verse to Arnaud.” 

“ Does your majesty promise me this 
little revenge in earnest ? ” 

“ I promise it ; give me your poem 
as soon as it is ready ; it shall be pub- 
lished in ‘Formey’s Journal.’ ” 

“ Sire, it is ready : hear it now.* 

‘Quel diable de Marc Antoine I 
Et quelle malice est le vdtre, 

Yous 6gratlnez d’une main 
Lorsque vous carossez de I’autre. ’ ” 

“ Ah,” said Frederick, “ what a beau- 
tiful quatrain Monsieur Arouet has 
made ! ” 

‘‘ Arouet ! ” said Yoltaire, astonished. 

“ Well, now, you would not surely 
wish me to believe that this little sting- 
ing, pitiful rhyme, was written by the 
great Yoltaire. No, no I this is the 
work of the young Arouet, and we will 
have it published with his signature.” 

Yoltaire fixed his great eyes for a 
moment angrily upon the handsome 
face of the king, then bowed his head 
and looked down thoughtfully. There 
was a pause, and his face assumed a 
noble expression — ^lie was again the 
great poet. 

. “ Sire,” said he, softly, “ I will not 
have this poem published. You are 
right, Yoltaire does not acknowledge 
it. This poor verse was written by 


Arouet, or the ‘ old Adam,’ who often 
strikes the poet Yoltaire slyly in the 
back. But you, sire, who have already 
won five battles, and who find a few 
morning hours sufiicient to govern a 
great kmgdom with wisdom, consider- 
ation, and love; you, by one kindly 
glance of your eye, will be able to ban- 
ish the old Adam^ and call heavenly 
hymns of love and praise from the lips 
of Yoltaire.” 

“ I shall be content with hymns of 
love. I will spare you all eulogy,” cried 
Frederick, giving his hand warmly to 
Yoltaire. 

At the close of the first day at Sans- 
Souci, the new gentleman of the bed- 
chamber returned to Potsdam, adorned 
with the order “ Pour le Merite^'' and a 
written assurance from the king of a 
pension of five thousand thalers in his 
pocket. 

Two richly-liveried servants received 
him at the gate of the palace ; one of 
them held a silver candelabrum, in 
which five wax-lights were burning. 
Yoltaire leaned, exhausted and groan- 
ing, upon the arm of the other, who al- 
most carried him into his apartment. 
Yoltaire ordered the servant to place 
the lights on the table, and to wait in 
the anteroom for further orders. 

Scarcely had the servant left the 
room when Yoltaire, who had thrown 
himself, as if perfectly exhausted, in 
the arm-chair, sprang up actively and 
hastened to the table upon which the 
candelabrum stood ; raising himself on 
tiptoe, he blew out three of the lights. 

“ Two are enough,” said he, with a 
grimace. “I am to receive twelve 
pounds of wax-lights a month. I will 
be very economical, and out of the pro- 
ceeds of this self-denial I can realize a 
little pin-money for my niece, Denis.” 
He took the candelabrum and entered 
his study. 

It was curious to look upon this lone- 
ly, wrinkled, decrepit old man, in the 


♦ (Euvres Completes de Yoltaire. 


234 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


richly 'furnisbed but half-obscure room ; 
the dull light illuminated his malicious 
but smilmg face ; here and there as he 
advanced it flashed upon the gilding, 
or was reflected m a mirror, while be- 
hind him the gloom of night seemed to 
have thrown an impenetrable veil. 

Voltaire seated himself at his desk 
and wrote to his niece, Madame Denis : 
“I have bound myself with all legal 
form to the King of Prussia. My 
marriage with him is determined upon. 
Will it be happy ? I do not know. I 
could no longer postpone the decisive 
yes. After coquetting for so many 
years, a wedding was the necessary 
consequence. How my heart beat at 
the altar! How could I have sup- 
posed, seven months ago, when we ar- 
ranged our little house in Paris, that I 
should be to-day three hundred leagues 
from home in another man’s house, and 
this other a ruler ! ” * 

At the same moment wrote Frederick, 
King of Prussia, to Algarotti : “ Vol- 
taire is here; he has of late, as you 
know, been guilty of an act unworthy 
of him. He deserves to be branded 
upon Parnassus. It is a shame that so 
base a soul should be united to so ex- 
alted a genius. Of all this, however, 
I shall take no notice ; he is necessary 
to me in my study of the French lan- 
guage. One can learn beautiful things 
from an evil-doer. I must learn his 
French. I have nothing to do with his 
morals. He unites in himself the 
strangest opposites. The world wor- 
ships his genius and despises his char- 
acter.” f 

CHAPTER HI. 

THE CONFIDENCE-TABLE. 

“ And now, friends, let us be joyful, 
and forget all the cares and sorrows 

* OEuvres Completes, 801. 

+ CEuvres de Fr6d6ric le Grand. 


of the world,” cried the king, with a 
ringing laugh; “raise your glasses and 
strike them merrily. Long life to mirth, 
to jest, to joy ! ” 

The glasses were raised, and as they 
met they rang out cheerily ; they were 
pressed to the lips and emptied at a 
draught ; the guests then seated them- 
selves silently at the table. Frederick 
glanced at the circle of his friends whe; 
sat with him at the round-table; his 
eyes dwelt searchingly upon every 
laughing face, then turned to the gar- 
den of Sans-Souci, which sent its per- 
fumed breath, its song of birds, its 
evening breeze, through the open doors 
and windows, while the moon, rising in 
cloudless majesty, shone down upon 
them and rivalled with her silver rays 
the myriads of wax-lights which glit- 
tered in the crystal chandeliers. 

“ This is a glorious evening,” said 
the king, “ and we will enjoy it glori- 
ously.” 

He ordered the servants to close the 
doors, place the dessert and cham- 
pagne upon the table, and leave the 
room; Noiselessly and silently this 
command was fulfilled. Frederick 
then greeted each one of his guests 
with a kindly nod. 

“Welcome, thrice welcome are you 
all ! ” said he. “ I have longed to have 
you all together, and now, at last, you 
are here. There sits Voltaire, whose 
divine Emilie was delivered first of a 
book, then of a child, and then released 
from life before he was free to come to 
Berlin. There is Algarotti, the swan 
of Italy, who spreads his wings and 
would gladly fly to the land of oranges 
and myrtles. There is La ]\rettrie, who 
only remains here because he is con- 
vinced that my Cape wine is pure, and 
my pdtes de foie gras truly from Stras- 
bourg. There is D’Argens, who 
sought safety in Prussia because in 
every other land in Europe there are 
sweethearts waiting and sighing for 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


235 


aim, to whom he has sworn a thousand 
oaths of constancy. There is Bastiani, 
who only remains with us while the 
Silesian dames, who have frankly con- 
fessed their sins to him and been ab- 
solved, find time and opportunity to 
commit other peccadilloes, which they 
will do zealously, in order to confess 
them once more to the handsome Abbd 
Bastiani. And lastly, there is my 
lord-marshal, the noblest and best of 
all, whose presence we owe to the firm- 
ness of his political principles and the 
misfortunes of the house of Stuart.” 

“And there is the Solomon of the 
North,” cried Voltaire — “there is 
Frederick, the youngest of us all, and 
the wisest — the philosopher of Sans- 
Souci. There sits Apollo, son of the 
gods, who has descended from Olympus 
to be our king.” 

“ Let us not speak of kings,” said 
Frederick. “ When the sun goes 
down, there is no king at Sans-Souci ; 
he leaves the house and retires into 
another castle, God only knows where. 
We are all equal and wholly sans gene. 
At this table there are no distinctions ; 
we are seven friends, who laugh and 
chat freely with each other ; or, if you 
prefer it, seven wise men.” 

“ This is then the Confidence-Table,” 
said Voltaire, “ of which D’Argens has 
so often spoken to me, and which has 
seemed to me like the Round-Table of 
King Arthur. Long live the Confi- 
dence-Table I ” 

“ It shall live,” cried the king, “ and 
we will each one honor this, our first 
sitting, by showing our confidence in 
each other. Every one shall relate 
something piquant and strange of his 
past life, some lively anecdote, or 
some sweet little mystery, which we 
dare trust to our friends, but not to our 
wives. The oldest begins first.” 

“ I am afraid I am that,” said Vol- 
taire, “ but your majesty must confess 
that my heart has neither white hair 


nor wrinkles. Old age is a terrible old 
woman who slides quietly, ^grinning 
and threatening, behind every man, and 
watches the moment when she dares 
lay upon him the mask of weary years 
through which he has lived and suf- 
fered. She has, alas! fastened her 
wrinkled mask upon my face, but my 
heart is young and green, and if the 
women were not so short-sighted as to 
look only upon my outward visage, if 
they would condescend to look within, 
they would no longer call me the old 
Voltaire, but would love and adore 
me, even as they did in my youth.” 

“Listen well, friends; he will no 
doubt tell us of some duchess who 
placed him upon an altar and bowed 
down and worshipped him.” 

“ No, sire, I will tell you of an in- 
jury, the bitterest I ever experienced, 
and which I can never forget.” 

“ As if he had ever forgotten an injury 
unless he had revenged it threefold 1 ” 
cried D’Argens. 

“And chopped up his enemy for 
pastry and eaten him,” said La Mettrie. 

“ Truly, if I should eat all my ene- 
mies, I should sufter from an everlasting 
indigestion, and, in my despair, I might 
fly to La Mettrie for help. It is well 
known that when you sufier from incu- 
rable diseases, you seek, at last, coun- 
sel of the quack.” / 

“You forget that La Mettrie is a 
regular physician,” said the king, with 
seeming earnestness. 

“ On the contrary, he remembered it 
well,” said La Mettrie, smiling. “ The 
best physician is the greatest quack, or 
the most active grave-digger, if you 
prefer it.” 

“Silence!” said the king. “Vol- 
taire has the floor ; he will tell us of 
the greatest offence he ever received. 
Give attention.” 

“ Alas ! my heart is sad, sire ; of all 
other pain, the pain of looking back 
into the past is the most bitter. I see 


i>S6 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


myself again a young man, the Arouet 
to whom Ninon de I’Enclos gave her 
library and a pension, and who was 
confined for twenty years to the Bas- 
tile because he loved God and the king 
too little, and the charming Marquise 
de Yilliers and some other ladies of the 
court too much. Besides these exalted 
ladies, there was a beautiful young 
maiden whom I loved — ^perhaps be- 
cause she had one quality which I had 
never remarked in the possession of my 
more noble mistresses — she was inno- 
cent ! Ah, friends, you should have 
seen Phillis, and you would have con- 
fessed that no rose-bud was lovelier, no 
lily purer, than she. Phillis was the 
daughter of a gypsy and a mouse- 
catcher, and danced on the tight-rope 
in the city gardens.” 

“Ah, it api^ears to me the goddess 
of innocence dances always upon the 
tight-rope in this world,” said the king. 
“ I should not be surprised to hear that 
even your little Phillis had a fall.” 

“Sire, she fell, but in my arms; and 
we swore eternal love and constancy. 
You all know from experience the qual- 
ity and fate of such oaths ; they are 
the kindling-wood with which the fire 
of love is sustained ; but, alas, kindling 
and fire soon burn out! Who is re- 
sponsible ? Our fire burned long ; but, 
think you, my Phillis, whom I had re- 
moved from the tight-rope, and ex- 
alted to a dancer upon the stage, was 
so innocent and na'ive as to believe that 
our love must at last be crowned with 
marriage ! I, however, was a republican, 
and feared all crowns. I declared that 
Ninon de I’Enclos had made me swear 
never to marry, lest my grandchildren 
should fall in love with me as hers had 
done with her.” 

“Precaution is praiseworthy,”* said 
La Mettrie. “ The devil’s grand- 
mother had also a husband, and her 
grandsons might have falen in love 
with her.” 


“Phillis did not take me for the 
devil’s grandfather, but for the devil 
himself She cried, and shrieked, and 
cast my oaths of constancy in my 
teeth. I did not die of remorse, nor she 
of love, and, to prove her constancy, 
she married a rich Duke de Venta- 
dour.” 

“ And you, no doubt, gave away the 
bride, and swore you had never known 
a purer woman ! ” 

“ No, sire, I was at that time again in 
the Bastile, and left it only as an exile 
from France. When at last I was al- 
lowed to return to Paris, I sought 
out my Duchess de Ventadour, my 
Phillis of former times. I found her a 
distinguished lady ; she had forgotten 
the follies of her youth ; had forgotten 
her father, the rope - dancer ; her 
mother the mouse-catcher. She had no 
remembrance of the young Arouet, to 
whom she had sworn to say only ‘ tu ’ 
and ‘ tai.' Now, she was grave and 
dignified, and ‘ Vous^ monsieur,^ was on 
her fair lip. Thanks to the heraldry 
office, she had become the daughter ol 
a distinguished Spaniard, blessed wdth 
at least seven ancestors. Phillis gave 
good dinners, had good wine, and the 
world overlooked her somewhat ob- 
scure lineage. She was the acknowl- 
edged and respected Duchess de Yen- 
tadour. She was still beautiful, but 
quite deaf ; consequently her voice was 
loud and coarse, when she believed 
herself to be whispering. She invited 
me to read some selections from my 
new work in her saloon, and I was 
weak enough to accept the invitation. 
I had just completed my ‘ Brutus,’ and 
burned with ambition to receive the 
applause of the Parisiennes. I com- 
menced to read aloud my tragedy of 
‘ Brutus ’ in the saloon of the duchess, 
surrounded by a circle of distinguished 
nobles, eminent in knowledge and art 
I was listened to in breathless attention 
In the deep silence which surrounded 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


237 


me, in the glowing eyes of my audience, 
in the murmurs of applause which 
greeted me, I saw that I was still Vol- 
taire, and that the hangman’s hands, 
which had burned my ^ Lettres Philo- 
sopliiques,' had not destroyed my fame 
or extinguished my genius. While I 
read, a servant entered upon tiptoe to 
rekindle the fire. The Duchess de Ven- 
tadour sat near the chimney. She 
whispered, or thought she whispered, 
to her servant. I read a little louder, 
to drown her words. I was in the 
midst of one of the grandest scenes of 
my tragedy. My own heart trembled 
with embtion. Here and there I saw 
eyes, which were not wont to weep, 
filled with tears, and heard sighs from 
trembling lips, accustomed only to 
laughter and smiles. And now I came 
to the soliloquy of Brutus. He was re- 
solving whether he would sacrifice his 
son’s life to his fatherland. There was 
a solemn pause, and now, in the midst 
of the profound silence, the Duchess de 
Ventadour in a shrill voice, which she 
believed to be inaudible, said to her 
servant : ‘ Do not fail to serve mustard 
with the pig’s head I ’ ” 

A peal of laughter interrupted Vol- 
taire, in which he reluctantly joined, 
being completely carried away by the 
general mirth. 

“ That was indeed very piquant, and 
I think you must have been greatly en- 
couraged.” 

“ Did you eat of the pig’s head, or 
were your teeth on edge ? ” 

“ No, they were sharp enough to bite, 
and I bit ! In my first rage I closed my 

book, and cried out : ‘ Madame ! 

Well ! as you have pig’s head, you do 
not require that Brutus should offer up 
the head of his son ! ’ I was on the 
point of leaving the room, but the poor 
:luch(jss, who was just beginning to 
comprehend her unfortunate interrup- 
tion, hastened after me, and entreated 
me 90 earnestly to remain and read 


further, that I consented. I remained 
and read, but not from ‘Brutus.’ My 
rage made me, for the moment, an im- 
provisator. Seated near to the duchess, 
surrounded by the proud and hypocrit- 
ical nobles, who acknowledged Phillis 
only because she had a fine house and 
gave good dinners, I improvised a poem 
which recalled to the grand duchess 
and her satellites the early days of the 
fair Phillis, and brought the laugh on 
my side. My poem was called Le tu 
et le wus.’’ Now, gentlemen, this is the 
story of my ‘Brutus’ and the pig’s 
head.” 

“I acknowledge that it is a good 
story. It will be difficult for you, 
D’Argens, to relate so good a one,” said 
the king. 

“I dare not make the attempt, sire. 
Voltaire was ever the child of good 
fortune, and his life and adventures 
have been extraordinary, while I was 
near sharing the common fate of younger 
sons. I was destined for the priest- 
hood.” 

‘‘ That’s a droll idea, indeed ! ” said 
Frederick. “D’Argens, who believes 
in nothmg, intended for a priest ! Flow 
did you escape this danger ” 

“Through the example of my dear 
brother, who was of a passionate piety, 
and became in the school of the Jesuits 
so complete a fanatic and bigot that he 
thundered out his fierce tirades against 
all earthly joys and pastimes, no matter 
how innocent they were. To resemble 
the holy Xavier and the sanctified and 
childlike Alois Gonzago, was his highest 
ideal. In the extremity of his piety 
and prudery he slipped into the art- 
gallery of our eldest brother and de- 
stroyed Titian’s most splendid paintings 
and the glorious statues of the olden 
time. He gloried in this act, and called 
it a holy offering to virtue. He could 
not understand that it was vandalism. 
Our family had serious fears for the in- 
tellect of this poor young saint, mad- 


238 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


dened by the fanaticism of the Jesuits. 
They sought counsel of tlie oldest and 
wisest of our house, the Bishop of Ban- 
nes. After thinking awhile, the bishop 
said : ‘ I will soon cure the young man 
of this folly ; I will make him a priest.’ ” 

“ Truly, your uncle, the bishop, was 
a wise man ; he drove out folly with 
folly. He knew well that no one had 
less reverence for the churches than 
those who have built them, and are 
their priests.” 

“ That was the opinion of my very 
worthy uncle. He said, with a sly 
laugh : ‘ When he has heard a few con- 
fessions, he will understand the ways 
of the world better ! ’ The bishop was 
right. My brother was consecrated. 
In a short time he became very tolerant 
and considerate, as a man and as a 
father confessor.” 

“ But you have not told us, marquis, 
how the fanaticism of your brothei^ 
liberated you from the tonsure ? ” said 
the king. 

“My father found I would commence 
my priestly life with as much intoler- 
ance as my brother had done. He there- 
fore proposed to me to consecrate my- 
self to the world, and, instead of pray- 
ing in the church, to fight for the cross. 
The thought pleased me, and I became 
a Knight of Malta.” 

“ Your first deed of arms was, with- 
out doubt, to seat yourself, and write 
your ‘ Lettres Juives' ” said the king ; 
“ those inspiring letters in which the 
knight of the cross mocks at Chris- 
tianity and casts his glove as a challenge 
to revealed religion.” 

“ No, sire, I began my knightly course 
oy entering the land of heathen and 
idolaters, to see if a man could be truly 
happy and contented in a land where 
there was neither Messiah nor crucifix 
— I went to Turkey.” 

“ But you carried your talisman with 
y^ou ? ”' said the Abb6 Bastiani — “ you 
wore the cross upon your mantle ? ” 


“ A remark worthy of our pious abb6,” 
said Frederick ; “ no one knows better 
the protecting power of the cross than 
the priest who founded it. Tell us, 
marquis, did your talisman protect you ? 
Did you become an apostate to the true 
faith ? ” 

“ Sire, I wished first to see their tem- 
ples and their mode of worship, before 
I decided whether I would be an un- 
believing believer or a believing unbe- 
liever.” 

“I think,” said Voltaire, “you have 
never been a believer, or made a con- 
vert ; you have made nothing but 
debts.” 

“ That is, perhaps, because I am not 
a great writer, and do not understand 
usury and speculation,” said D’Argens, 
quietly. “ Besides, no com’tesan made 
me her heir, and no mistress obtained 
me a pension ! ” 

“ Look now,” said the king, “ our 
good marquis is learning from you, 
Voltaire ; he is learning to scratch and 
bite.” 

“Yes,” said Voltaire; “there are 
creatures whom all men imitate, even 
in their vile passions and habits ; per- 
haps they take them for virtues.” 

The face of the marquis was suffused ; 
he rose angrily, and was about to an- 
swer, but the king laid his hand upon his 
arm. “ Do not reply to him ; you know 
that our great poet changes himself 
sometimes into a wicked tiger, and 
does not understand the courtly language 
of men. Do not regard him, but go on 
with your story.” 

The king drew back his hand sud- 
denly, and, seemingly by accident, 
touched the silver salt-cellar ; it fell' 
and scattered the salt upon the table. 
The marquis uttered a light cry, and 
turned pale. 

“ Alas I ” cried the king, with well- 
affected terror, “ what a misfortune ! 
Quick, quick, my friends I let us use an 
antidote against the wiles of the demoiiSt 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


our good marquis maiutains 
spring always from an overturned salt- 
cellar. Quick, quick I take each of you 
a pinch of salt, and throw it up into the 
burners of the chandeliers ; listen how 
it crackles and splutters ! These are 
the evil spirits in hell-fire, are they not, 
marquis ? Now let each one take 
another pinch, and throw it, laughing 
merrily, over the left shoulder. You, 
Voltaire, take the largest portion, and 
cast it from you ; I think you have al- 
ways too much salt, and your most 
beautiful poems are thereby made un- 
palatable.” 

“ Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of 
my wit. No one remembers that the 
tears which have bathed my face have 
fallen upon my lips, and become crystal- 
lized into biting sarcasms. Only the 
wretched and sorely tried are sharp of 
wit and bitter of speech.” 

“Not so,” said La Mettrie; “these 
things are the consequence of bad diges- 
tion. This machine is not acted upon 
by what you poets call spirit, and I call 
brain; it reacts upon itself. When a 
man is melancholy, it comes from his 
stomach. To be gay and cheery, to 
have your spirits clear and fresh, you 
have nothing more to do than to eat 
heartily and have a good digestion. 
Moli^re could not have written such 
glorious comedies if he had fed upon 
sour krout and old peas, instead of the 
woodcock, grouse, and truffles which 
fell to him from King Louis’s table. 
Man is only a machine, nothing more.” 

“ La Mettrie, I will give you to-mor- 
row nothing but grouse and truffles to 
eat : woe to you, then, if the day after 
you do not write me just such a comedy 
as Moli^re’s ! But we entirely forget 
that the marquis owes us the .conclu- 
sion of his story ; we left him a Knight 
of Malta, and we cannot abandon him 
in this position ; that would be to con- 
demn him to piety and virtue. Go on, 
dear marquis, w^e have thrown the salt 


239 

and banished the demons — go on, then, 
with your history.” 

“Well,” said the marquis, “ to relate 
it is less dangerous than to live through 
it. I must confess, however, that the 
perils of life have also their charms. I 
wished, as I had the honor to say to you, 
to witness a religious service in the great 
mosque at Constantinople, and by my 
prayers, supported by a handful of gold- 
pieces, I succeeded in convincing the 
Turk, w'ho had the care of the key to 
the superb Sophia, that it was not an 
unpardonable sin to allow an unbeliev- 
ing Christian to witness the holy wor- 
ship of an unbelieving Mussulman. In- 
deed, he risked nothing but the bas- 
tinado ; while I, if discovered, would be 
given over to the hangman, and could 
only escape my fate by becoming a Mus- 
sulman.” 

“What an earnest and profitable 
Christian Holy Mother Church would 
thus have lost in the author of Les 
Lettres Juives ! ” said Frederick, laugh- 
ing. 

“But what an exquisite harem the 
city of Constantinople would have 
won ! ” cried Voltaire. 

“ What a happiness for you, my lord- 
marshal, that your beautiful MohammcK 
dan was not then born ; the marquis 
would without doubt have bought her 
from you ! ” 

“ If Zuleima will allow herself to be 
bought, there will be nothing to pay,” 
said the lord-marshal, with a soft smile. 

“ You are right, my lord,” said the 
marquis, wdth a meaning side glance at 
Voltaire, “you are right; nothing is 
more despicable than the friendship 
which can be purchased.” 

“ You succeeded, however, in bribing 
the good Mussulman,” said Algarotti, 
“ and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness 
of witnessing their worship.” 

“Yes, the night before a grand 
my Turk led me to the mosque, and hid 
me behind a great picture which was 


240 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


placed before one of the doors of the 
tribune. This was seemingly a safe 
hiding-place. The tribune was not 
used, and years had passed since the 
door liad been opened. It lay too, upon 
the southern side of the mosque, and 
you know that the worshippers of Mo- 
hammed must ever tarn their faces 
toward Mecca, that is, to the morning 
sun ; I was sure, therefore, that none of 
these pious unbelievers would ever look 
toward me. From my concealment I 
could with entire comfort observe all 
that passed ; but I made my Turk most 
unhappy in the eagerness of my curios- 
ity. I sometimes stepped from behind 
my picture, and leaned a little over tlie 
railing. My poor Mussulman entreated 
me with such a piteous mien, and pointed 
to the soles of his feet with such an- 
guish, that I was forced to take pity on 
him and withdraw into my conceal- 
ment. But at last, in spite of the 
solemnities, and my own ardent piety, 
the animal was roused within and over- 
came me. I was hungry ! and as I had 
expected this result, I had placed a 
good bottle of wine and some ham and 
fresh bread in my pocket. I now took 
them out, spread my treasures upon the 
floor, and began to breakfast. The Turk 
looked at me with horror, and he would 
not have been surprised if the roof of 
the holy mosque had fallen upon the 
Christian hound who dared to desecrate 
it by drinking wine and eating ham 
within its precincts, both of which were 
strictly forbidden by the prophet. But 
the roof did not fall, not even when I 
forced my Mussulman , to eat ham and 
drink wine with me, by threatening to 
show myself openly if he refused. lie 
commenced his unholy meal with dark 
frowns and threatening glances, ever 
looking up, as if he feared the sword 
of the prophet would cleave him asunder. 
Soon, however, he familiarized himself 
wdth his sin, and forgot the holy cere- 
monies which were being solemnized. 


When the service was over, and all 
others had left the mosque, he prayed 
me to wait yet a little longer, and as 
the best of friends, we flnished the rest 
of my bacon and drank the last drop 
of my wine to the health of the prophet 
laughing merrily over the dangers we 
had escaped. As at last we were about 
to separate, my good Turk was sad and 
thoughtful, and he confessed to me that 
he had the most glowing desire to be- 
come a Christian. The bacon and wine 
had refreshed him marvellously, and he 
was enthusiastic for a religion which 
ofiered such glorious food, not only for 
the soul, but for the body. I was too 
good a Christian not to encourage his 
holy desires. I took him into my ser- 
vice, and when we had left Turkey, and 
f(}und ourselves on Christian soil, my 
Mussulman gratified the thirst of his 
soul, and became a son of Holy Mother 
Church, and felt no remorse of con 
science in eating ham and drinking wine 
So my visit to the holy mosque was rich 
in blessed consequences ; it saved a soul, 
and my wine and my ham plucked a 
man from the hell-fire of unbelief. That 
is, I believe, the only time T ever suc- 
ceeded in making a proselyte.” 

“ The salvation of that soul will free 
you from condemnation and insure your 
own eternal happiness. When you come 
to die, marquis, you dare say, ‘ I have 
not lived in vain, I have won a soul to 
heaven.’ ” 

“Provided,” cried Voltaire, “that the 
bacon with which you converted the 
Turk was not part of one of the beasts 
into which the devils were cast, as is 
written in the Holy Scriptures. If this 
was so, then the newly-baked Christian 
has certainly eaten of everlasting dam- 
nation.” 

“ Let us hope that this is not so,” 
said Frederick; “and now, my lord- 
marshal, it is your turn to give us a 
piquant anecdote ; or, if you prefer it, 
an heroic deed from your life, so rich in 


241 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


virtue, magnanimity, truth, and con- 
stancy. Ah, messieurs, let us now be 
thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and 
exalt our hearts. A virtuous man is 
about to speak : truly virtue is a holy 
goddess loved by few, to whom few 
altars are erected, and who has few 
priests in her service. My lord-marshal 
is consecrated to her altar; you may 
well believe this when I assure you of 
it — I, who have been so often deceived, 
and often tempted to believe no longer 
in the existence of virtue. My noble 
Keith has forced me to be credulous. 
This faith comforts me, and I thank 
him.” 

With a glance of inexpressible love 
he gave his hand to his friend, who 
pressed it to his breast. The faces of 
all present were grave, almost stern. 
The words of the king were a reproach, 
and they felt wounded. Frederick 
thought not of them ; he looked alone 
upon the noble, handsome face of Lord 
Keith not remembering that the love 
and consideration manifested for him 
might excite the envy and jealousy of 
his other friends. 

“ Now, my lord, will you commence 
your history, or are we too impure and 
sinful to listen to any of the holy myste- 
ries of your pure life ? ” 

“ Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in 
my simple life ; it lies like an open book 
before the eyes of my king, and, indeed, 
to all the world.” 

“ In that pure book I am sure that 
all can learn wisdom and experience,” 
said Frederick. “ It is a book of rarest 
value, in which every nobleman can 
leam how to be faithful to his king in 
dire misfortune and to the gates of 
deatli. Ah, my lord, there are few men 
like yourself, who can count it as im- 
perishable fame to have been condemned 
to the scaffold. The Pretender must, 
indeed, be a most noble prince, as you 
were willing to give your life for him.” 

“ He was my rightful king and lord, 
16 


and I owed him allegiance. That I 
was condemned for him, and pardoned, 
and banished from England, I cannot 
now consider a misfortune, as I have 
thereby enjoyed the great happiness of 
being near your majesty. But you 
must not think too highly of my con- 
stancy to ‘ the Pretender ; ’ it was not 
pure loyalty, and if I carelessly and 
rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, 
it was because the world had but little 
value for me. In the despair and an- 
guish of my heart I should have called 
Death a welcome friend. Had I been 
happier I should have been less brave.” 

‘\And will you tell us, my lord, why 
you were unhappy ? ” 

“ Sire, mine is a simple little history, 
such as is daily acted out in this weary 
world. We are all, however, proud to 
think that none have suffered as we 
have done. There are many living 
hearts covered as with a gravestone, 
under which every earthly happiness is 
shrouded, but the world is ignorant and 
goes laughing by. My heart has bled 
in secret, and my happiness is a re- 
membrance ; my life once promised to 
be bright and clear as the golden morn- 
ing sun. The future beckoned to me 
with a thousand glorious promises, and 
greeted me with winning, magic smiles. 
I saw a young, lovely, innocent, modest 
maiden, like a spring rose, with heav- 
en’s dew still hanging untouched upon 
its soft leaves. I saw and loved; it 
seemed to me God had sent me in her 
His most wondrous revelation. I loved, 
I worshipped her. She was the daugh- 
ter of a distinguished French noble. I 
went to Paris, a young and modest 
man, highly commended to many in- 
fluential and powerful families of the 
court. We met daily ; at first with 
wonder and surprise ; then, with deep 
emotion, we heard each other’s voices 
without daring to speak together ; and 
then, at last, I no longer dared to uttei 
a word in her presence, because my 


242 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


voice trembled and I could not control 
it One day, as we sat silently next 
each other in a large assembly, I mur- 
mured in low, broken tones ; ‘ If I 
dare to love you, would you forgive 
me ? ’ She did not look up, but she said, 
‘I should be happy.’ We then sank 
again into our accustomed silence, only 
looking from time to time into each 
other’s happy eyes. This lasted six 
weeks, six weeks of silent but inexpressi- 
ble happiness. At last I overcame my 
timidity and made known the sweet 
mystery of my love. I demanded the 
hand of my Victoire from her father ; he 
gave a cheerful consent, and led me to 
my beloved. I pressed her to my heart, 
drunk with excess of joy. At this mo- 
ment her grandmother entered with a 
stern face and scornful glance. She 
asked if I was a Protestant. This fear- 
ful question waked me from my dream 
of bliss. In the rapture of the last few 
months I had thought of nothing but 
my love. Love had become my religion 
and I needed no other influence to lead 
me to worship God. But this, alas, was 
not sufficient I I declared myself a 
Protestant. Victoire utter a cry of an- 
guish, and sank insensible into her 
father’s arms. Tw^o days afterward I 
left France. Victoire would not see 
me, and refused my hand. I returned 
to England, broken-hearted, desperate, 
almost insane. In this delirium of grief 
I joined the Pretender,’ and undertook 
for him and his cause the wildest and 
most dangerous adventures, which end- 
ed, at last, in my being captured and 
condemned to the block. This, your 
majesty, was the only love of my life. 
You see I had, indeed, but little to 
relate.” 

Frederick said nothing, and no one 
dared to break the silence. • Even Vol- 
taire repressed the malicious jest which 
played upon his lip, and was forced to 
content himself with a mocking smile. 

‘^What were the words that your 


father spoke when he sent you forth as 
a man into the world? I think you 
once re23eated them to me,” said Fred- 
erick. 

“ Quand vos yeux, en naissanfc, s’ouvraient ^ la 
lumi^re, 

Chacun voassouriait, mon fils, et vous pleuriez. 

Vivez si bien, qu’un jour, avotre derni^reheure, 

Chacun verse des pleurs, et qu’on vous voio sou- 
rire.” 

“You have fulfilled your father’s 
wish,” said the king. “ Y'ou have so 
lived, that you can smile when all others 
are weeping for you, and no man -who 
has loved can forget you. I am sure 
your Victoire will never forget you. 
Have you not seen her since that first 
parting ? ” 

“ Y'es, sire, I have seen her once again, 
as I came to Prussia, after being ban- 
ished forever from England. Ah, sire, 
that was a happy meeting after twenty 
years of separation. The pain and grief 
of love were over, but the love remained. 
We confessed this to each other. In the 
beginning there was suffering and sor- 
row, then a sweet, soft remembrance of 
our love, for we had never ceased to 
think upon each other. It seems that 
to love faithfully and eternally it is only 
necessary to love truly and honorably, 
and then to separate. Custom and 
daily meeting cannot then brush the 
bloom from love’s light wdngs ; its 
source is in heaven, and it returns to 
the skies and shines forever and inextin- 
guishable a star over our heads. When 
I looked again upon Victoire she had 
been a long time married, and to the 
world she had, perhaps, ceased to be 
l^eautiful. To me she will be ever 
lovely ; and as she looked upon me, it 
seemed to me that the clouds and shad- 
ows had been lifted from my life, and my 
sun was shining clear. But, sire, all 
this has no interest for you. How ten- 
derly I loved Victoire you will know, 
when I tell you that the only poem my 
unpoetical brain has ever j)roduced vvae 
written for her.” 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


243 


“ Let us hear it, my lord,” said the 
king. 

“If your majesty commands it, and 
Voltaii-e will forgive it,” said the. lord- 
marshal. 

“ I forgive it, my lord,” cried Vol- 
taire. “ Since I listened to you I live 
in a land of wonders and soft enchant- 
ments, whose existence I have never 
even guessed, and upon whose bloom- 
ing, perfumed beauty I scarcely dare 
open my unholy eyes. The fairy tales 
of my dreamy youth seem now to be 
true, and I hear a language which we, 
poor sons of France, living under the 
regency of the Duke of Orleans, have 
no knowledge of. I entreat you, my 
lord, let us hear your poem.” 

Lord Keith bowed, and, leaning back 
in his chair, in a full, rich voice, he 
recited the following verses : 

“ ‘ Tin trait laiic 6 par caprice 

M’atteignit dans mon printemps ; 

J’en porte la cicatrice 

Encore, sous mcs cheveux blancs. 

Craignez les maux qu'amour cause, 

Et plaignez un insens 6 
Qui n’a point cueilli la rose, 

Et qui repine a bless 6 .’ * 

And now,” said Lord Keith rap- 
idly, wishing to interrupt all praise and 
all remark as to his poem, “ I have yet 
a confession to make, and if you have 
not laughed over my verses, you will 
surely laugh at what I now state. Out 
of love for my lost mistress, I became 
a Catholic. I thought that the faith, 
to which my Victoire offered up her 
love, must be the true religion in 
which all love was grounded. I 
wished to be hers in spirit, in life, and 
in death. In spirit, in truth, I am a 
Catholic ; and now, gentlemen, you 
may laugh.” 

“ Sublime ! ” whispered Voltaire. 

“ No one will smile,” said the king, 
sternly. “ Joy and peace to him who 
.s a believer, and can lay his heart 


upon the cross, and feel strengthened 
and supported by it. He will not wan- 
der in strange and forbidden paths, as 
we poor, short-sighted mortals often 
do. Will you tell us the name of your 
beloved mistress, or is that a secret ? ” 

“ Sire, our love was pure and inno- 
cent; we dare avow it to the whole 
world. My beloved’s name was Victoire 
de Froulay ; she is now Marquise de 
Cr6qui.” 

“ Ah, the Marquise de Crgqui ! ” said 
Voltaire, with animation ; “ one of the 
wittiest and most celebrated women of 
Paris.” 

“ She is still living ? ” said the king, 
thoughtfully. “ Would you like to 
meet her again, my lord ? ” 

“ Yes, your majesty, for one hour, to 
say to her that I am a Catholic, and 
that we shall meet in heaven ! ” 

“ I will send you as ambassador to 
Paris, my lord, and you shall bear the 
marquise my greetings.” * 

“ Your majesty will thus be acting 
an epigram for George of England,” 
said Voltaire, laughing. “ Two of his 
noblest rebels will be cementing the 
friendship of France and Prussia. 
Lord Tyrconnel, the Irishman, is am- 
bassador from France to Prussia, and 
my Lord-Marshal Keith is to be am- 
bassador from Prussia to France. Ah, 
my lord ! how will the noble marquise 
rejoice when her faithful knight shall 
introduce to her his most beautiful 
possession — the young and lovely Mo- 
hammedan Zuleima ! How happy will 
Zuleima be when you point out to her 
the woman who loved you so fondly ! 
She will then know, my lord, that you 
also once had a heart, and have been 
beloved by a woman.” 

“ I will present my little Zuleima to 
the marquise,” said the lord-marshal; 
“ and, when I tell her that she was a 
bequest of my dear brother, who, at 

. J— 

♦ Loid Keith went to Paris, as an ambasaalor 
from Prussia, in 1751. 


♦ M 6 moirc 3 de la Marquise de Cr 6 qul. 


244 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR. 


tbe storming of Oscbakow, where he 
commanded as field-marshal, rescued 
her from the flames, she will find it 
just and kind that I gave the poor 
orphan a home and a father. I wish 
first, however, to give Zuleima a hus- 
band, if your majesty will allow it. 
The Tartar Ivan, my chamberlain, loves 
Zuleima, and she shall be his wife if 
your majesty consents.” 

“ By all means,” said Frederick ; 
“ but I fear it will be difiicult to have 
this marriage solemnized in Berlin. 
Your Tartar, I believe, has the honor to 
be heathen.” 

“ Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian,” 

“ A fire-worshipper, then,” said Fred- 
erick. “ Well, I propose that Voltaire 
shall bless this marriage ; where fire is 
worshipped as a god, Voltaire, the man 
of fire and flame, may well be priest.” 

“ Ah, sire, I believe we are all Per- 
sians ; surely, we all w'orship the light, 
and turn aside from darkness. You 
are to us the god Ormuzd, from whom 
all light proceeds ; and every priest is 
for us as Akriman, the god of darkness. 
Be gracious to me, then, your majesty, 
and do not call upon me to play the 
role of priest even in jest. But why 
does this happy son of the heathen 
require a priest ? Is not the sun-god 
Ormuzd himself present? With your 
majesty’s permission, we will place the 
loving pair upon the upper terrace of 
Sans-Souci, where they will be baptized 
in holy fire by the clear rays of the 
mid-day sun. Then the divine Mari- 
anna, Cochois, and Denys will perform 
some mystical dance, and so the mar- 
riage will be solemnized according to 
Persian rites and ceremonies.” 

“ And then, I dare hope your majes- 
ty wull give a splendid w'edding-feast, 
where costly wines and rich and rare 
viands will not fail us,” said La Met- 
trie. 

“ Look, now, how his eyes sparkle 
with anticipated delights 1 ” cried the 


king. “ La Mettrie would consent tc 
wed every woman in the world if he 
could thereby spend his whole life in 
one .continuous wedding-feast ; but 
listen, sir, before you eat again, you 
have a story to relate. Discharge this 
duty at once, and give us a piquant an- 
ecdote from your gay life.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE CONFroENTIAL DINNER. 

“ Your majesty desires a piquant an 
ecdote out of my own life,” said La 
Mettrie. Is there any thing on earth 
more piquant than a truffle-pie ? Can 
any thing deserve more ardent praise, 
and fonder, sweeter remembrance, than 
this beautiful revelation of man’s genius? 
Yes, sire, a successful truffle-pie is a 
sort of revealed religion, and I am its 
devout, consecrated priest! One day 
I relinquished, for the love of it, a con- 
siderable fortune, a handsome house, 
and a very pretty bride, and I confess 
that even now a truffle-pie has more 
irresistible charms for me than any 
bride, even though richly endowed.” 

“And was there ever a father mad 
enough to give his daughter to the 
‘ homme machine f ’ ” said the kino- 

“ Sire, I had just then written my 
‘Penelope.’ Monsieur van Swiet, of 
Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been 
for weeks confined to his bed by a cold, 
read it, and laughed so heartily over 
the mockery and derision at the gentle- 
men doctors, that he fell into a profuse 
perspiration — a result which neither the 
art of the physicians nor the prayers of 
the priests had been able to accomj^lish. 
The stiffness in his limbs was healed ; 
in fact, he was restored to health 1 His 
first excursion was to see me, and he 
implored me to suggest a mode by 
which he could manifest his gratitude. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


245 


' Send me every day a truffle-pie and 
a bottle of Hungarian wine,’ I replied. 
Swiet was greatly amused. ‘ I have 
something better than a truffle-pie,’ 
said he. ‘ I have a daughter who will 
inherit all my fortune. You are not 
rich in ducats, but largely endowed 
with wit. I wish that my grandchil- 
dren, who will be immensely wealthy, 
may have a father who will endow 
them richly with intellect. Wed my 
daughter, and present me with a grand- 
son exactly like yourself.’ I accepted 
this proposition, and promised the 
good Van Swiet to become his son-in- 
law in eight days ; to dwell with him 
in his house, and to cheer and enliven 
him daily for a few hours after dinner, 
with merry, witty conversation, that his 
liver might be kept in motion, and his 
digestion improved.” 

“ Just think of this tender Hollander, 
this disinterested father, who selects a 
husband for his daughter in order to 
improve his digestion ! ” 

“Did you not see your bride before 
the wedding? Perhaps she was a 
changeling, whom the father wished to 
get rid of in some respectable manner, 
and therefore gave her to you.” 

“ I saw my bride, sire, and indeed 
Esther was a lovely girl, who had but 
one fault — she did not love me. She 
had the naivete to tell me so, and in- 
deed to confess that she ardently loved 
another, a poor clerk of her father’s 
who, when their love was discovered, a 
short time before, had been turned out 
of the house. They loved each other 
not the less glowingly for all this. I 
shrugged my shoulders, and recalled 
the wish of her father, and my promise 
to him. But when the little Esther im- 
plored me to refuse her hand, and 
plead with her father for her beloved, I 
.aughed and jested no longer, but be- 
gan to look at the thing gravely. I 
did go to her father, and informed him 
jf all that had passed. He listened to 


me quietly, and then asked me, vith a 
fearful grimace, if I preferred prison 
fare to truffle-pie, every day, at my 
own table. You can imagine that I 
did not hesitate in my choice. 

“ ‘ Well, then ’ said my good Swiet, 
‘ if you do not wed my daughter, I will 
withdraw my protecting hand from 
you, and your enemies will find a means 
to cast you into prison. A new book, 
“ B Homme Machine^''' has just appeared, 
and every man swears it is your pro- 
duction, though your name is not af- 
fixed to the title-page. The whole 
city, not only the priests but the world- 
lings, are enraged over this book. 
They declare it is a monster of unbelief 
and materialism. If, in spite of all this, 
I accept you as my son-in-law, it is be- 
cause I wish to show the world that I 
despise it, and am not in the slightest 
degree influenced by its prejudices and 
opinions, but am a bold, independent 
freethinker. Decide, then! Will you 
marry my daughter and eat truffle-pie 
daily, or will you be cast into pris- 
on?’ 

“ ‘ I will marry your daughter ! I 
swear that in eight days she shall be 
my wife 1 ’ 

“ Hen van Swiet embraced me 
warmly, and commenced his prepara- 
tions for the wedding immediately. 
Esther, however, my bride, never spoke 
tome; never seemed to see me. Her 
eyes were swollen, and she was half- 
blind from weeping. Once we met 
alone in the saloon. She hastened to 
leave it ; but, as she passed by me, she 
raised her arms to heaven, then ex- 
tended them threateningly toward me. 
‘You are a cruel and bad man. You 
will sacrifice a human soul to your greed 
and your irresistible and inordinate de- 
sires ! If God is just you will die of a 
truffle-pie 1 I say not that you will 
yield up your spirit, for you have none ! 
You will, you must die like a beast — 
from beastly gluttony ! ’ ” 


^46 


BERLIN AND SANS-SODCI ; OR, 


“ The maiden possessed the wisdom 
pf a sibyl,” said the king, “ and I fear 
she has prophesied correctly as to your 
sad future. Hate has sometimes the 
gift of prophecy, and sees the future 
clearly, while Love is blind. It ap- 
pears to me your Esther did not suffer 
from the passion of love.” 

“No, sire, she hated me. But her 
lover, the young Mieritz, did not share 
this dislike. He seemed warmly at- 
tached to me; was my inseparable 
companion ; embraced me with tears, 
and forgave me for robbing him of his 
beloved, declaring that I was more 
worthy of her than himself. He went 
so far in his manifestations of friend- 
ship as to invite me to breakfast on the 
morning of my weddmg-day, at w^hich 
time he wished to present me with 
something sumptuous he had brought 
from Amsterdam. I accepted the in- 
vitation, and as the wedding ceremony 
was to take place at twelve o’clock, in 
the cathedral, we were compelled to 
breakfast at eleven. I was content. I 
thought I could better support the 
wearisome ceremony if sustained by the 
fond remembrance of the luxurious 
meal I had just enjoyed. Our break- 
fast began punctually at eleven, and I 
assure your majesty it was a rare and 
costly feast. My young friend Mie- 
ritz declared, however, that the dish 
which crowned the feast, was yet to 
come. At last he stepped to the 
kitchen himself to bring this jewel of 
his breakfast. With a mysterious 
smile he quickly returned, bringing 
upon a silver dish a smoking pie. A 
delicious fragrance immediately per- 
vaded the whole room — a fragrance 
which then recalled the hour most rich 
in blessing of my whole life. Beside 
myself — filled with prophetic expecta- 
tion — I rushed forward and raised the 
top crust of the pie. Yes, it was there ! 
— it met my ravished gaze I — the pie 
which I had only eaten once, at the 


table of the Duke de Grammonll 
Alas ! I lost the good duke at the bat- 
tle of Fontenoy, and the great mystery 
of this pasty went down with him into 
the hero’s grave. And now that it was 
exhumed, it surrounded me with its 
costly aroma; it smiled upon me with 
glistening lips and volujjtuous eyes. I 
snatched the dish from the hands of my 
friend, and placed it before me on the 
table. At this moment the clock struck 
twelve. 

“ ‘ JMiserable wretch ! ’ I cried, ‘ you 
biing me this pie, and this is the hour 
of my marriage ! ’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ said Mieritz, with the cool 
phlegm of a Hollander, ‘ let us go first 
to the wedding, and then this pasty can 
be warmed up.’ 

“ ‘Warmed up ! ’ roared I ; ‘ warm up 
this pie, whose delicious odor has al- 
ready brought my nose into its magic 
circle ! Can you believe I would out- 
live such a vandalism, that I would 
consent to such sacrilege ? To warm a 
pie 1 — it is to rob the blossom of its 
fragrance, the butterfly of the purple 
and the azure of its wings, beauty of 
its innocence, the golden day of its 
glory. No, I will never be guilty of 
such deadly crime ! This pie thirsts to 
be eaten ! I will, therefore, eat it I ’ 

“ I ate it, sire, and it overpowered 
me with heavenly rapture. I was like 
the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, 
carried into the heaven of heavens. 
All the wonders of creation were com- 
bined in this heavenly food, which I 
thrust into my mouth devoutly, and 
trembling with gladness. It was not 
necessary for Mieritz to tell me that 
this pie was made of Indian birds’-nests, 
and trufiies from Perigord. I knew it. 
I felt it I This wonder of India had 
unveiled my enraptured eyes ! A new 
world was opened before me! late, 
and I was blessed 1 

“ What was it to me that messengei 
after messenger came to summon me. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


241 


to inlbrni uie that the priest stood be- 
fore the altar; that my young bride 
and her father and a crowd of rela- 
tions awaited me with impatience ? I 
cried back to them : ‘ Go ! be off with 
you! Let them wait till the judg- 
ment-day ! I will not rise from this seat 
till this dish is empty 1 ’ I ate on, 
and, while eating, my intellect was 
clearer, sharper, more profound than 
ever before I I rejoiced over this con- 
viction. Was it not a conclusive proof 
that my theory was correct, that this 
‘ Tiomme machine ’ received its intellect- 
ual fluid, its power of thought through 
itself, and not through this fabulous, 
bodiless something which metaphysi- 
cians call soul ? Was not this a proof 
that, to possess a noble soul, it was 
only necessary to give to the body 
noble nourishment? And where lies 
this boasted soul? where else but in 
the stomach ? The stomach is the soul. 
I allow it is 'the brain that thinks, but 
the brain dares only think as his ex- 
alted majesty the stomach allows ; and 
if his royal highness feels unwell, fare- 
w’ell to thought.” * 

The whole company burst out in loud 
and hearty laughter. 

“ Am I not right to call you a fou 
Jieffe f ” said the king. “ There is an 
old proverb, which says of a coward, 
that his heart lies in his stomach; 
never before have I heard the soul 
banished there. But your hymns of 
praise over the stomach and the pie 
have made you forget to finish your 
story; let us hear the conclusion ! Did 
the marriage take place ? ” 

“Sire, I had not quite finished my^ 
breakfast when the door was violently 
opened, and a servant rushed in and 
announced that the good Van Swiet 
had had a stroke of apoplexy in the 
cathedral. The foolish man declared 
that rage and indignation over my con- 


duct had produced this fearful result ■ 
I am, myself, however, convinced that 
it was the consequence of a good rich 
breakfast and a bottle of Madeira wine ; 
this disturbed the circulation of the 
blood, and he was chilled by standing 
upon the cold stone floor of the 
church. Be that as it may, poor Swiet 
was carried unconscious from the 
church to his dwelling, and in a few 
hours he was dead 1 Esther, his daugh- 
ter and heii’, was unfilial enough to 
leave the wish of her father unfulfilled. 
She would not acknowledge our contract 
to be binding, declared herself the bride 
of the little Mieritz, and married him 
in a few months. I had, indeed, a 
legal claim upon her, but Swiet was 
right when he assured me that so soon 
as he withdrew his protection from me, 
the whole pack of fanatical priests and 
weak-minded scholars would fall upon 
and tear me to pieces, unless I saved 
myself by flight. So I obeyed your 
majesty’s summons, took my pilgrim- 
staff, and wandered on, like Ahasuerus.” 

“ What ! without taking vengeance 
on the crafty Mieritz, who, it is evi- 
dent, had carried out successfully a 
well-considered strategy with his pie ? ” 
said the king. “ You must know that 
was all arranged : he caught you with 
his pie, as men catch mice with cheese.” 

“ Even if I knew that to be so, your 
majesty, I should not quarrel with him 
on that account. I should have only 
said to my pie, as Holofernes said to 
Judith ; ‘ Thy sin was a great enjoy- 
ment, I forgive you for slaying me 1 ’ 
For such a pie I would again sacrifice 
another bride and another fortune ! ” 

“ And is there no possible means to 
obtain it ? ” said the king. “ Can you 
not obtain the receipt for this wonder- 
ful dish, which possesses the magic 
power to liberate young women from 
intolerable men, and change a miser into 
a spendthrift who thrusts his whole 
fortune down his throat ? ” 


* La Mettrie’s own words. 


248 


BERLI^ AND SANS-S'OUCI; OR, 


“ There is a prospect, sire, of securing 
it, but you cannot be the first to profit 
by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my 
history, opened a diplomatic corre- 
spondence with Holland, some weeks 
ago, on this subject, and the success of 
an important *oan which France wishes 
to eftect with the house of Mieritz and 
Swiet, through the mediation of Lord 
Tyrconnel, hangs upon the obtaining 
of this receipt. If Mieritz refuses it, 
France will not make the loan. In that 
case the war, which now seems probable 
with England, will not take place.” 

“ And yet it is said that great events 
can only arise from great causes,” cried 
the king. “ The peace of the world 
now hangs upon the receipt of a truffle- 
pie, which La Mettrie wishes to ob- 
tain.” 

“ What is the peace of the world in 
comparison with the peace of our souls ? ” 
cried Yoltaire. “ La Mettrie may say 
what he will, and the worthy Abb6 
Bastiani may be wholly silent, but I be- 
lieve I have a soul, which does not lie 
in my stomach, and this soul of mine 
will never be sMisfied till your majesty 
keeps your promise, and relates one of 
those intellectual, piquant histories, 
glowing with wisdom and poesy, which 
so often flows from the lips of our Solo- 
mon ! ” 

“ It is true it is now my turn to speak,” 
said Frederick, smiling. “ I will be 
brief. Hot only the lights, but also the 
eyes of Algarotti, are burning dimly ; 
and look how the good marquis is, in 
thought, making love-winks toward his 
nightcap, which lies waiting for him 
upon his bed ! But be comforted, 
gentlemen, my story is short. Like La 
Mettrie, I will relate a miracle, in which, 
however the eyes were profited, the 
stomach had no interest. This miracle 
took place in Breslau, in the year 1747. 

“ Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, 
and the Duke Schafgotch, who some 
years before I had appointed his coad- 


jutor, was to be his successor. But the 
Silesians were not content. They de- 
clared that Duke Schafgotch was too 
fond of the joys and pleasures of the 
world to be a good priest; that he 
thought too much of the beautiful wo- 
men of this world to be able to ofier to 
the holy Madonna, the mother of God, 
the sanctified, ardent, but pure and 
modest love of a true son of the Church. 
The pious Silesians refused to believe 
that the duke was sufflciently holy to 
be their bishop. The sage fathers of 
the city of Breslau assured me that 
nothing less than a miracle could secure 
for him the love and consideration of 
the Silesians. I had myself gone to 
Silesia to see if the statement of the 
authorities was well founded, and if the 
people were really so discontented with 
the new bishop. I found their state- 
ment fully confirmed. Only a great 
miracle could incline the pious hearts 
of the Silesians to the duke. 

“ And now remark, messieurs, how 
Providence is always with the pious and 
the just — this desired miracle took place 1 
On a lovely morning a rumor was spread 
abroad, in the city of Breslau, that in 
the chapel of the Holy Mother of God a 
miracle might be seen. All Breslau — 
the loveliest ladies of the haute wlee^ 
and the poorest beggars of the street — 
rushed to the church to look upon this 
miracle. Yes, it was undeniable ! The 
hair of the Madonna, which stood in 
enticing but wooden beauty upon the 
altar, whose clothing was furnished by 
the first modistes^ and whose hair by 
the jperi'uquier — this hair, wonder- 

ful to relate, had grown ! It was nat- 
’ural that she should exercise super- 
natural power. The blind, the lame, 
the crippled, were cured by her touch. 
I myself — for you may well think that 
I hastened to see the miracle — saw a 
lame man throw away his crutch and 
dance a minuet in honor of the Madonna. 
There was a blind man who approached 


FREDERiCK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


249 


with a broad band bound over his eyes. 
Fie was led forward to this wonderful 
hair. Scarcely had the lovely locks 
touched his face, than he tore the band 
from his eyes, and shouted with ecstasy 
— his sight was restored ! Thousands, 
who were upon their knees praying in 
wrapt devotion, shouted in concert with 
him, and here and there inspired voices 
called out : ‘ The holy Madonna is con- 
tent with her new servant the bishop I 
if she were not, she would not perform 
these miracles.’ These voices fell like 
a match in this magazine of excitement. 
Men wept and embraced each other, and 
thanked God for the new bishop, whom 
yesterday they had refused. 

“In the mean time, however, there 
were still some suspicious, distrustful 
souls who would not admit that the 
growth of the Madonna’s hair was a 
testimony in favor of the bishop. But 
these stiff-necked unbelievers, these 
heartless skeptics, were at last convinced. 
Two days later this lovely hair had 
grown perceptibly; and, still two days 
later, it hung in luxurious^ length and 
fulness over her shoulders. No one 
could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin 
was pleased with her priest. It had often 
happened that hair had turned gray, or 
been torn out by the roots in rage and 
scorn. No one, however, can maintain 
that the hair grows unless we are in a 
happy and contented mood. The Ma- 
donna, therefore, was pleased. The 
wondrous growth of her hair enraptured 
the faithful, and all mankind declared 
that this holy image, cut from a pear- 
tree, was the Virgin Mary, who with 
open eyes watched over Breslau, and 
whose hair grew in honor of the new 
Bishop Schafgotch — he was now almost 
adored. Thousands of the believers 
surrounded his palace and besought his 
blessing. It was a beautiful picture of 
a shepherd and his flock. The Madonna 
no longer found it necessai-y to make her 
aair grow ; one miracle had sufficed, and 


with the full growth of her hair the arch- 
bishop had also grown into importance.” 

“ But your majesty has not yet named 
the holy saint at whose inter(iession this 
miracle was performed,” said the Mar- 
quis d’Argens. “Graciously disclose 
the name, that we may pray fo” pardon 
and blessing.” 

“ This holy saint was nij frUeuT^'^ 
said the king, laughing. “ I made him 
swear that he would never betray my 
secret. Every third day, in the twi- 
light, he stole secretly to the church, 
and placed a new wig upon the Ma- 
donna, and withdrew the old one.* 
You see, messieurs, that not only hap- 
piness but piety may hang on a hair, 
and those holy saints to whom the 
faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit 
jterruquiers who understand their cue.” 

“ And who use it as a scourge upon 
the backs of the pious penitents,” said 
Voltaire. “Ah, sire! your story is as 
wise as it is piquant — it is another 
proof that you are a warrior. You have 
won a spiritual battle with your mi- 
raculous wig, a battle against holy 
Mother Church.” 

“ By which, happily, no soldiers and 
only a few wigs were left behind. But 
see how grave and mute our very 
worthy abb6 appears — I believe he is 
envious of the miracle I performed 1 
and now it is your turn, Bastiani ; give 
us your story — a history of some of the 
lovely Magdalens you have encoun- 
tered.” 

“ Ah, sire ! wdll not your majesty ex- 
cuse me ? ” said the abbS, bowing low. 
“ My life has been the still, quiet, lonely, 
unostentatious life of a priest, and only 
the ever-blessed King Frederick Wil- 
liam introduced storm and tempest 
into’ its even course. That was, with- 
out doubt, God’s will ; otherwise this ro- 
bust and giant form which He gave me 
would have been in vain. My height 

* Authentic addition to the “ History of Fred- 
erick the Second.” 


250 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


and strengtli so enraptured tlie emissa- 
ries of the king, that in the middle of 
the service before the altar, as I was 
reading mass, they tore me away with- 
out regarding the prayers and outcries 
of my flock. I was violently borne off 
and immediately enrolled as a soldier.” * 

“A wonderful idea I ” cried Voltaire, 
“ to carry off a priest in his vestments 
and make a soldier of him ; but say, 
now, abb6, could you not, at least, have 
taken your housekeeper with you? I 
dare say she was young and pretty.” 

“ I do not know,” said Bastiani ; “ I 
am, as you know, very short-sighted, 
and I never looked upon her face ; but 
it was a great misfortune for a priest to 
be tom from the Tyrolese mountains and 
changed into a soldier. But now, I look 
upon this as my greatest good fortune ; 
by this means were the eyes of my ex- 
alted king fixed upon me ; he was gra- 
cious, and honored me with his conde- 
scending friendship.” 

“You forget there is no king heie, 
and that here no man must be flat- 
tered,” said Frederick, frowning. 

“ Sire, I know there is no king pres- 
ent, and that proves I am no flatterer. 
I speak of my love and admiration 
to my king, but not to his face. I 
praise and exalt him behind his back ; 
that shows that I love him dearly, not 
for honor or favor, but out of a pure 
heart fervently.” 

“ What happiness for your pure and 
unselfish heart, that your place of can- 
onry of Breslau brings in three thou- 
sand thalers 1 otherwise your love, 
which does not understand flattery, 
might leave you in the lurch; you 
might be hungry.” 

“ He that eats of the bread of the Lord 
shall never hunger,” said Bastiani, in a 
low and solemn voice ; “ he that will 
serve two masters will be faithful to 
neither, and may fear to be hungry.” 


* Thi^bault 


“ Oh, oh I look at our pious abb^ 
who throws off his sheep’s skin and 
turns the rough side out,” cried Vol- 
taire. “ It is written, ‘ The sheep shall 
be turned into wolves,’ and you, dear 
abbg, in your piety fulfil this proph- 
ecy. Your witty allusions are meant for 
me because I am the historian of the 
King of France, and gentleman of the 
bedchamber to the King of Prussia. 
Compose yourself. As historian to the 
King of France, I have no pension, and 
his majesty of Prussia will tell you that 
I am the most useless of servants that 
the sun of royal favor ever shone upon. 
Yes, truly, I am a poor, modest, trifling, 
good-for-nothing creature ; and if his 
majesty did not allow me, from time 
to time, to read his verses and re- 
joice in their beauty, and here and 
there to add a comma, I should be 
as useless a being as that Catholic 
priest stationed at Dresden, at the court 
of King Augustus, who has nothing to 
do — ^no man or woman to confess — 
there, as here, every man being a Lu- 
theran. Algarotti told me he asked him 
once how he occupied himself. The 
worthy abb6 answered : ‘ lo sono il cat- 
tolica disua maestd.^ So I will call my- 
self, *‘11 pedagogue di sua maestdl * Like 
yourself, I serve but one master.” 

“ Alas ! I fear my cattolica will not 
linger long by me,” said the king. “ A 
man of his talent and worth cannot 
content himself with being canon of 
Breslau. No, Bastiani, you will, with- 
out doubt, rise higher. You will be- 
come a prelate, an eminence ; yes, you 
will, perhaps, wear the tiara. But what 
shall I be when you have mounted this 
glittering pinnacle — ^when you have be- 
come pope? I wager you will deny 
me your apostolic blessing ; that you 
will not even allow me to kneel and 
kiss your slipper. If any man should 
dare to name me to you, you would nc 


♦ “(Euvres Complete*' le Voltaire,” p. 376 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


251 


longer remember this unselfish love, 
which, without doubt, you feel passion- 
ately for me at this moment. Ah I I 
see you now rising from St. Peter’s 
chair with apostolic sublimity, and ex- 
claiming with praiseworthy indigna- 
tion : ‘ How ! this heretic, this unclean, 
this savage from hell ! I curse him. I 
condemn him. Let no man dare even 
to name him.’ ” 

“ Grace, grace, sire 1 ” cried the abb6, 
holding his hands humbly, and looking 
up at the king. 

The other gentlemen laughed hear- 
tily. Tbe king was inexorable. The 
specious holiness and hypocrisy which 
the abbg had brought upon the stage 
incensed him, and he was resolved to 
punish it. 

“Now, if you were pope, and I am 
convinced you will be, I should, without 
doubt, go to Rome. It is very impor- 
tant for me to ascertain, while I have 
you here, what sort of a reception you 
would accord me? So, let us hear. 
When I appear before your holiness, 
what will you say to me ? ” 

The abbs, who had been sitting 
with downcast eyes; and murmuring 
from time to time in pleading tones, 
“Ah, sire ! ah, sire I ” now looked up, 
and a flashing glance fell upon the 
handsome face of the king, now glow- 
ing with mirth. 

“ Well?” repeated the king, “what 
would you say to me ? ” 

“ Sire,” said Bastiani, bowing rever- 
ently, “ I would say, ‘ Almighty eagle, 
cover me with your wings, and protect 
me from your own beak.’ ” * 

“That is an answer worthy of your 
intellect,” said the king, smiling, “ and 
m consideration of it I will excuse you 
from relating some little history of your 
life. — Now, Duke Algarotti, your time 
has come. You are the last, and no doubt 
you will conclude the evening worthily.” 


“Sire, my case is similar toBastiani’a 
There has been no mystery in my life; 
only that which seemed miraculous foi 
a priest was entirely natural and simple 
in my case. I have travelled a great 
deal, have seen the world, known men ; 
and all my experience and the feelings 
and convictions of my heart have at 
last laid me at the feet of your majesty. 
I am like the faithful, who, having been 
healed by a miracle, hang a copy of the 
diseased member upon the miraculous 
image which cured them. My heart 
was sick of the world and of men ; your 
majesty healed it, and I lay it thank- 
fully and humbly at your feet. This is 
my whole history, and truly it is a won- 
derful one. I have found a manly king 
and a kingly man.” * 

“ Truly such a king is the wonder of 
the world,” said Yoltaire. “ A king 
who, being a king, is still a man, and 
being a man is still a noble king. I be- 
lieve the history of the world gives few 
such examples. If we search the rec- 
ords of all people, we will find that all 
their kings have committed many crimes 
and follies, and but few great, magnani- 
mous deeds. No, no ! let us never 
hope to civilize kings. In vain have 
men sought to soften them by the help 
of art ; in vain taught them to love it 
and to cultivate it. They are always 
lions, who seemed to be tamed when 
perpetually flattered. They remain, in 
truth, always wild, bloodthirsty, and 
fantastic. In the moment when you 
least expect it, the instinct awakens, 
and we fall a sacrifice to their claws or 
their teeth ” f 

The king, who, up to this time, had 
listened, with a smiling face, to the pas- 
sionate and bitter speech of Yoltaire, 
now rose from his seat, and, pointing 
his finger threateningly at him, said, 
good-humoredly; “Still, still, mon- 
sieur ! Beware ! I believe the king 


• Baatiani’s own worcs.— See Tbiebaalt, p. 48. 


♦Algarotti’s own M'ords. 


+ Tbiebauit. 


252 


BERLIN A.ND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


comes ! Lower your voice, Voltaire, that 
he may not hear. If he heard you, he 
might consider it his duty to be even 
worse than yourself. * Besides, it is 
late. Let us not await the coming of 
“^he king, but withdraw very quietly. 
Good-night, messieurs.” 

With a gracious but proud nod of 
his head, he greeted the company and 
withdrew. 


CHAPTER V. 

ROME SAUVflE. 

The whole court was in a state of 
wild excitement. A rare spectacle 
was preparing for them — something 
unheard of in the annals of the Berlin- 
ers. Voltaire’s new drama of “ Catiline,” 
to which he had now given the name 
of “ Rome Saved,” was to be played in 
the royal palace, in a private theatre, 
gotten up for the occasion, and the act- 
ors and actresses were to be no common 
artistes^ but selected from the highest 
court circles. Princess Amelia had the 
role of Aurelia, Prince Henry of Julius 
Caesar, and Voltaire of Cicero. 

The last rehearsal was to take place 
early that morning. Voltaire had 
shown himself in his former unbridled 
license, his biting irony, his cutting 
sarcasm. Not an actor or actress es- 
caped his censure or his scorn. The 
poor poet D’Arnaud had been the spe- 
cial subject of his mocking wit. D’Ar- 
naud had once been Voltaue’s favorite 
scholar, and he had commended him 
highly to the king. He had the mis- 
fortune to please Frederick, who had 
addressed to him a flattering poem. 
For this reason Voltaire hated him, 
and sought continually to deprive him 
of Frederick’s favor and get him ban- 
ished from court. 


* The kinsr ? own w jrds. 


This morning, for the first time, there 
was open strife between them, and the 
part which D’Arnaud had to play in 
“ Home Sauvee ” gave occasion for the 
difficulty. D’Amaud, it is true, had 
but two words to say, but his enuncia- 
tion did not please Voltaire. He de- 
clared that D’Amaud uttered them in- 
tentionally and maliciously with cold- 
ness and indifierence. 

D'Arnaud shrugged his shoulders and 
said a speech of two words did not admit 
of power or action. He asked what 
declamation could possibly do for two 
insignificant words, but make them 
ridiculous. 

This roused Voltaire’s rage to the 
highest pitch. “ And this utterance of 
two words is then beyond your ability ? 
It appears you cannot speak two words 
with proper emphasis ! ” * 

And now, with fiery eloquence, he 
began to show, that upon these words 
hung the merit of the drama ; that this 
speech was the most important of all ! 
With jeers and sarcasm he drove poor 
D’Amaud to the wall, who, breathless, 
raging, choking, could find no words 
nor strength to reply. He was dumb, 
cast down, humiliated. 

The merry laughter of the king, who 
greatly enjoyed the scene, and the 
general amusement, increased the pain 
of his defeat, and made the triumph of 
Voltaire more complete. 

At last, however, the parts were well 

* In a letter to Madame Denis, Yoltaire wrote: 

“ Tout le monde me reproche que le roi a fait des 
vers pour d’Arnaud, des vers qui ne sont pas ce qu’il 
^ fait de mieux ; mais sonejcz qu’k quatre cent lieues 
de Paris il est bien difficile de savoir si un homme 
qu’on lui recommande a du m6rite ou non ; de plus 
c’est toujours des vers, et bien ou mal appliques ils 
prouvent que le vainqueur de PAutriche aime lo' 
belles-lettres que j’aime de tout mon coeur. D’ail 
leurs D’Arnaud est un bon diable, qui pai*-ci par-E 
ne laisse pas de rencontrer de bons tirades. II a du 
gout, il se forme, et s’il aime qu’il se ddforme il n’y 
a pas grand mal. En un mot, la petite m^prise du 
Kol de Prusse n’empCche pas qu’il ne soit le plus 
slngr lier de toue les hommes.” — Voyez “ CEuvres 
Completes.” 


f’REDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


253 


.earned, and even Yoltaire was content 
with his company. This evening the 
entire court was to witness the perform- 
ance of the drama, which Yoltaire called 
his master-work. 

Princess Amelia had the 'r-Ole of Au- 
relia. She had withdrawn to her rooms, 
and had asked permission of the queen- 
mother to absent herself from dinner. 
Her part was difficult, and she needed 
preparation and rest. 

But the princess was not occupied 
with her role^ or with the arranging of 
her toilet. She lay stretched upon the 
divan, and gazed with tearful eyes upon 
the letter which she held in her trem- 
bling hands. Mademoiselle von Haak 
was kneeling near her, and looking up 
with tender sympathy upon the prin- 
cess. 

“Wliat torture, what martyrdom I 
suffer ! ” said Amelia. “ I must laugh 
while my heart is filled with despair ; I 
must take part in the pomps fmd. fetes 
of this riotous court, while thick dark- 
ness is round about me. No gleam of 
light, no star of hope, do I see. Oh, 
Ernestine, do not ask me to be calm and 
ttilent ! Grant me at least the relief of 
giving expression to my sorrow.” 

“ Dear princess, why do you nourish 
your grief ? Why will you tear open 
the wounds of your heart once more ? ” 

“ Those wounds have never healed,” 
cried Amelia, passionately. “ No ! they 
have been always bleeding — always 
painful. Do you think so pitifully of 
me, Ernestine, as to believe that a few 
years have been sufficient to teach me 
to forget ? ” 

“ Am I not also called upon to learn 
to forget?” cried Ernestine, bitterly. 

Is not my life’s happiness destroyed ? 
Am I not eternally separated from my 
beloved ? Alas ! princess, you are much 
iiappier than I ! You know where, at 
hast in thought, you can find your un- 
happy friend. Not the faintest sound 
in the distance gives answer to my wild 


questionings. My thoughts are wan- 
dering listlessly, wearily. They know 
not where to seek my lover — whether 
he lies in the dark fortress, or in the 
prison-house of the grave.” 

“It is true,” said Amelia, thought- 
fully; “our fates are indeed pitiable! 
Oh, Ernestine, what have I not suffered 
in the last five years, during which 1 
have not seen Trenck ? — ^five years of 
self-restraint, of silence, of desolation ! 
How often have I believed thdit I could 
not support my secret griefs — ^that death 
must come to my relief I How often, 
with rouged cheeks and laughing lips, 
conversing gayly with the glittering 
court circle whose centre my cruel 
brother forced me to be, have my troub- 
led thoughts wandered far, far away to 
my darling ; from whom the winds 
brought me no message, the stars no 
greeting ; and yet I knew that he lived, 
and loved me still ! If Trenck were 
dead, he would appear to me in spirit. 
Had he forgotten me, I should know it ; 
the knowledge would pierce my heart, 
and I should die that instant. I know 
that he has written to me, and that all 
his dear letters have fallen into the hands 
of the base spies with which my brother 
has surrounded me. But I am not mad : 
I will be calm ; a day may come in 
which Trenck may require my help. I 
will not slay myself; some day I may 
be necessary to him I love. I have long 
lived, as the condemned in hell, who, 
in the midst of burning torture, open 
both eyes and ears waiting for the mo- 
ment when the blessed Saviour will 
come for their release. God has at last 
been merciful ; He has blinded the eyes 
of my persecutors, and this letter came 
safely to my hands. Oh, Ernestine, 
look ! look ! a letter from Trenck I He 
loves me — he has not forgotten me — he 
calls for me ! Oh, my God ! my God ! 
why has fate bound me so inexorably ? 
Why was I born to a throne, whose 
splendor has not lighted my path, but 


254 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


cast me 1 j the shadow of death ? Why 
am I not poor and obscure ? Then I 
might hasten to my beloved when he 
calls me. I might stand by his side in 
his misfortunes, and share his sorrows 
and his tears.” 

“Dear princess, you can alleviate his 
fate. Look at me I I am poor, obscure, 
and dependent, and yet I cannot hasten 
to my beloved ; he is in distress, and 
yet he does not call upon me for relief. 
He knows that I cannot help him. You, 
princess, thanks to your rank, have 
power and influence. Trenck calls you, 
and you are here to aid and comfort.” 

“ God grant that I may ! Trenck 
implores me to turn to my brother, and 
ask him to interest the Prussian embas- 
sy in Vienna in liis favor ; thereby hop- 
ing to put an end to the process by 
which he is about to be deprived of 
his only inheritance — the estate left 
him by his cousin, the captain of the 
pandours. Alas ! can I speak with my 
brother of Trenck ? He knows not that 
for five years his name has never passed 
my lips; he knows not that I have 
never been alone with my brother the 
king for one moment since that event- 
ful day in which I promised to give 
him up forever. We have both avoid- 
ed an interview ; he, because he 
shrank from my prayers and tears, and 
I, because a crust of ice had formed 
over my love for him, and I would not 
allow it to melt beneath his smiles and 
kindly words. I loved Trenck with 
my whole heart, I was resolved to be 
faithful to him, and I was resentful tow- 
ard my brother. Now, Ernestine, I 
must overcome myself, I must speak 
with the king; Trenck needs my ser- 
vices, and I will have courage to plead 
for him.” 

“ What will your highness ask ? 
Think well, princess, before you act. 
Who knows but that the king has en- 
tirely forgotten Trenck? Perhaps it 
were best so. You should not point 


out to the angry lion the insect which 
has awakened him, he will crush it in 
his passion. Trenck is in want ; send 
him gold — gold to bribe the men of 
law. It is well known that the coun- 
sellors-at-law are dull-eyed enough to 
mistake sometimes the glitter of gold 
for the glitter of the sun of justice. 
Send him gold, much gold, and he will 
tame the tigers who lie round about the 
courts of justice, and he will wir^ his 
suit.” 

Princess Amelia shrugged her shoub 
ders contemptuously. “ He calls upon 
me for help, and I send him nothing 
but empty gold ; he asks for my assist- 
ance, and I play the coward and hold my 
peace. No, no ! I will act, and I wiR 
act to-day ! You know that only after 
the urgent entreaty of the king, I consen- 
ted to appear in this drama. While my 
brother pleaded with me, he said, with 
his most winning smile, ‘ Grant me this 
favor, my sister, and be assured that 
the first petition you make of me I will 
accord cheerfully.’ Now, then, I will 
remind him of this promise; I will 
plead for Trenck, and he dare not re- 
fuse. Oh, Ernestine! I know not sure- 
ly, but it appears to me that for some 
little time past the king loves me more 
tenderly than heretofore ; his eye rests 
upon nie with pleasure, and often it 
seems to me his soft glance is imploring 
my love in return. You may call me 
childish, foolish : but I think, some- 
times, that my silent submission has 
touched his heart, and he is at last dis- 
posed to be merciful, and allow me to 
be happy — ^liappy, in permitting me to 
flee from the vain glory of a court ; in 
forgetting that I am a princess, and in 
remembering only that I am a woman, 
to whom God has given a heart capa- 
ble of love.” Amelia did hot see the 
melancholy gaze with which her friend 
regarded her; she was full of ardor 
and enthusiasm, and with sparkling 
eyes and throbbing breast she sprang 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


255 


from the divan and cried out, “ Yes, it 
is so ! my brother will make me hap- 
py 1 ” 

“ Alas, princess, do not dare to rely 
upon so false a hope ! Never will the 
king consent that you shall be happy 
beneath your royal rank 1 ” 

“ Tell me now, Ernestine,” said Ame- 
lia, with a smile, “ is not the reigning 
Margravine of Baireuth as high in rank 
as I am ? ” 

“ Yes, your highness,” said Ernes- 
tine, with surprise, “ for the reigning 
Margravine of Baireuth is your exalt- 
ed sister.” 

“ I do not speak of her, but of the 
widow of the former margrave ; she has 
also reigned. Well, she has just mar- 
ried the young Duke Hobitz. The 
king told me this yesterday, with a 
merry laugh. The little Duchess of 
Hobitz is his aunt, and I am his sis- 
ter ! ” 

“ If the king had had power to con- 
trol his aunt, as he has to control his 
sister, he would not have allowed this 
marriage.” 

Amelia heard, but she did not be- 
lieve. With hasty steps and sparkling 
eyes she walked backward and forward 
in her room ; then, after a long pause, 
she drew near her friend, and, laying 
her hands upon her shoulders, she said : 
“ You are a good soul and a faithful 
friend ; you have ever had a patient 
and willing ear for all my complaints. 
Only think now how charming it will 
be when I come to tell you of my great 
happiness^ And now, Ernestine, come, 
you must go over my part with me 
once more, and then arrange my toilet. 
I will be lovely this evening, in order to 
please the king. I will play like an 
artiste^ in order to touch his cold heart. 
If I act my part with such truth and 
burning eloquence that he is forced to 
weep over the sorrows of the wretched 
and loving woman whom I represent, 
will not his heart be softened, will he 


not take pity upon my blasted life? 
The tragic part I play will lend me 
words of fire to depict my own agony. 
Come, then, Ernestine, come ! I must 
act well my tragedy — must win the 
heart of my king ! ” 

The princess kept her word; she 
played with jDower and genius. Words 
of passion and of pain flowed like a 
stream of lava from her lips ; her oaths 
of faith and eternal constancy, her 
wild entreaties, her resignation, her 
despair, were not the high-flown, pom- 
pous phrases of the tragedian, but truth 
in its omnipotence. It was living pas- 
sion, it was breathing agony; and, 
with fast-flowing tears, with the pallor 
of death, she told her tale of love; 
and in that vast saloon, glittering with 
jewels, filled with the high-born, the 
brave, the beautiful, nothing was heard 
but long-drawn sighs and choking 
sobs. 

Queen Elizabeth Christine forgot all 
etiquette in the remembrance of her 
own sad fate so powerfully recalled. 
She covered her face with her hands, 
and bitter tears fell over her slender 
fingers. The queen-mother, surprised 
at her own emotion, whispered lightly 
that it was very warm, and while fan- 
ning herself she sought to dry her se- 
cret tears unnoticed. 

Even the king was moved ; his eyes 
were misty, and indescribable melan- 
choly played upon his lips. Voltaire 
was wild with rapture ; he hung upon 
every movement, every glance of Ame- 
lia. Words of glowing praise, thanks, 
admiration, flowed from his lips. He 
met the princess behind the scenes, and 
forgetting all else he cried out, with 
enthusiasm : “ You are worthy to be an 
actress, and to play in Voltaire’s trage- 
dies ! ” 

The princess smiled and passed on 
silently — what cared she for Voltaire’s 
praise ? She knew that she had gained 
her object, and that the king’s heart 


256 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


was softened. This knowledge made 
her bright and brave ; and when at the 
close of the drama the king came for- 
ward, embraced her with warmth, and 
thanked her in fond and tender words 
for the rich enjoyment of the evening, 
due not only to the great poet Voltaire, 
but also to the genius of his sister, she 
remmded him smilingly that she had a 
favor to ask. 

“ I pray you, my sister,” said Frederick, 
gayly, “ ask something right royal from 
me this evening — I am in the mood to 
grant all your wishes.” 

Amelia looked at him pleadingly. 
“ Sire,” said she, “ appoint an hour to- 
morrow morning in which I may come 
to you and make known my request. 
Remember, your majesty has promised 
to grant it in advance.” 

The king’s face was slightly clouded. 
“ This is, indeed, a happy coincidence,” 
said he. “ It was my intention to ask 
an interview with you to-morrow, and 
now you come forward voluntarily to 
meet my wishes. At ten in the morning 
I shall be with you, and I also have some- 
thing to ask.” 

“ I will then await you at ten 
o’clock, and make known my request.” 

“And when I have granted it, my 
sister, it will be your part to fulfil my 
wishes also.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A woman’s heart. 

The Princess Amelia lay the whole 
of the following night, with wide-open 
eyes and loudly-beating heart, pale and 
breathless upon her couch. No soft 
slumber soothed her feverish-glowing 
brow ; no sweet dream of hope dissi- 
pated the frightful pictures drawn by 
her tortured fantasy. 

“ What is it ? ” said she, again and 
again — “ what is it that the king will I 


ask of me ? what new mysterious hor- 
ror rises uj) threateningly before me, 
and casts a shadow upon my future ? ” 

She brought every word, every act 
of the previous day in review before 
her mind. Suddenly she recalled the 
sad and sympathetic glance of her 
maid of honor : the light insinuations, 
the half-uttered words which seemed to 
convey a hidden meaning. 

“ Ernestine knows something that she 
will not tell me,” cried Amelia. At 
this thought her brow was covered 
with cold perspiration, and her limbs 
shivered as if with ague. She reached 
out her hand to ring for Fraulein von 
Haak; then suddenly withdrew it, 
ashamed of her own impatience. 
“ Wliy should I wish to know that 
which I cannot change ? I know that 
a misfortune threatens me. I will 
meet it with a clear brow and a bold 
heart,” 

Amelia lay motionless till the morn- 
ing. When she rose from her bed, her 
features wore an expression of inexora- 
ble resolve. Her eyes flashed as boldly, 
as daringly, as her royal brother Fred- 
erick’s when upon the battle-field. She 
dressed herself carefully and tastefully, 
advanced to meet her ladies with a 
gracious greeting, and chatted calmly 
and cheerfully with them on indifferent 
subjects. At last she was left alone 
with Fraulein von Haak. She stepped 
in front of her, and looked in her eyes 
long and searchingly. 

“I read it in your face, Ernestine, 
but I entreat you do not make it known 
in words unless my knowledge of the 
facts would diminish my danger.” 

Ernestine shook her bead sadly. 
“No,” said she, “your royal highness 
has no ]jower over the misfortune that 
threatens you. You are a princess, and' 
must be obedient to the will of the 
king.” 

“ Good ! ” replied Amelia, “ we will 
see if my brother has power to subdue 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


257 


my will. Now, Ernestine, leave me ; I 
am expecting the king.” 

Scarcely had her maid withdrawn, 
when the door of the anteroom was 
opened, and the king was announced. 
The princess advanced to meet him 
smilingly, but, as the king embraced 
her and impressed a kiss upon her 
brow, she shuddered and looked up at 
him searchingly. She read nothing in 
his face but the most heart-felt kindli- 
ness and love. 

“ If he makes me miserable, it is at 
least not his intention to do so,” thought 
she. — “ Now, my brother, we are alone,” 
said the princess, taking a place near 
the king upon the divan. ‘‘ And now 
allow me to make known my request at 
once — remember you have promised to 
grant it.” 

The king looked with a piercing 
glance at the sweet face now trembling 
with excitement and impatience: — 
“ Amelia,” said he, “ have you no ten- 
der word of greeting, of warm home- 
love to say to me ? Do you not know 
that five years have passed since we 
have seen each other alone, and enjoyed 
that loving and confidential intercourse 
which becomes brothers and sisters ? ” 

“ I know,” said Amelia, sadly, “ these 
five years are written on my counte- 
nance, and if they have not left wrin- 
kles on my brow, they have pierced my 
heart with many sorrows, and left 
their shadows there ! Look at me, my 
brother — am I the same sister Ame- 
lia ? ” 

No,” said the king, “ no ! You are 
pallid — your cheeks are hollow. But 
it is strange — I see this now for the 
first time. You have been an image of 
youth, beauty, and grace, up to this 
hour. The fatigue of yesterday has ex- 
hausted you — that is all.” 

“ No, my brother, you find me pallid 
ana hollow-eyed to-day, because you 
see me without rouge. I have to-day 
for the first time laid aside the mask of 
17 


rosy youth, and the smiling indifference 
of manner with which I conceal my 
face and my heart from the world. 
You shall see me to-day as I really am ; 
you shall know what I have suffered. 
Perhaps then you will be more willing 
to fulfil my request ? Listen, my 
brother, I — ” 

The king laid his hand softly upon 
her shoulder. “Stop, Amelia; since 
I look upon you, I fear you will ask 
me something not in my power to 
grant.” 

“You have given me your promise, 
sire.” 

“I will not withdraw it; but I ask 
you to hear my prayer before you 
speak. Perhaps it may exert an influ- 
ence — ^may modify your request. I al- 
low myself, therefore, in consideration 
of your own interest, solely to beg that 
I may speak first.” 

“You are king, sire, and have only 
to command,” said Amelia, coldly. 

The king fixed a clear and piercing 
glance for one moment upon his sister, 
then stood up, and, assuming an ear- 
nest and thoughtful mien, he said : “ I 
stand now before you, princess, not as a 
king, but as the ambassador of a king. 
Princess Amelia, through me the King 
of Denmark asks your hand ; he wishes 
to wed you, and I have given my con- 
sent. Your approval alone is wanting, 
and I think you will not refuse it.” 

The princess listened with silent and 
intrepid composure; not a muscle of 
her face trembled ; her features did not 
lose for one moment their expression of 
quiet resolve. 

“ Have you finished, sire ? ” said she, 
indifferently. 

“ I have finished, and I await your re- 
ply.” 

“ Before I answer, allow me to make 
known my own request. Perhajis what 
I may say may modify your wishes. 
You will, at least, know if it is proper 
for me to accept the hand of the King 


258 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


Df Denmark. Does your majesty allow 
me to speak ? ” 

“ Speak,” said the king, seating him- 
self near her. 

After a short pause^ Amelia said, in 
an earnest, solemn voice : “ Sire, I pray 
for pardon for the Baron Frederick von 
Trenck.” Yielding to an involuntary 
agitation, she glided from the divan 
upon her knees, and, raising her 
clasped hands entreatingly toward her 
brother, she repeated : “ Sire, I pray 
for pardon for Baron Frederick von 
Trenck ! ” 

The king sprang up, dashed back the 
hands of his sister violently, and rushed 
hastily backward and forward in the 
room. 

Amelia, ashamed of her own humil- 
ity, rose quickly from her knees, and, as 
if to convince herself of her own daring 
and resolution, she stepped immediate- 
ly in front of the king, and said, in a 
loud, firm voice for the third time : 
“Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron 
Frederick von Trenck. He is wretched 
because he is banished from his home ; 
he is in despair because he receives no 
justice from the courts of law, it being 
well known that he has no protector to 
demand his rights. He is poor and al- 
most hopeless because the courts have 
refused him the inheritance of his 
cousin, the captain of the pandours, 
whose enemies have accused him since 
his death, only while they lusted for 
his millions. His vast estate has been 
confiscated, under the pretence that it 
was unlawfully acquired. But these 
accusations have not been established ; 
and yet, now that he is dead, they re- 
fuse to give up this fortune to the 
rightful heir, Frederick von Trenck. 
Sire, I i^ray that you will regard the in- 
terests of your subject. Be graciously 
pleased to grant him the favor of your 
intercession. Help him, by one pow- 
erful word, to obtain possession of his 
rights. Ah, sir6, you see well how mod- 


est, how faint-hearted I have become. I 
ask no longer for happiness! I beg 
for gold, and I think, sire, we owe him 
this pitiful reparation for a life’s hap- 
piness trodden under foot.” 

Frederick by a mighty effort suc- 
ceeded in overcoming his rage. He 
was outwardly as calm as his sister ; but 
both concealed under this cool, indif- 
ferent exterior a strong energy, an un- 
faltering purpose. They were quiet 
because they were inflexible. 

“ And this is the favor you demand 
of me ? ” said the king. 

“The favor you have promised to 
grant,” said Amelia. 

“ And if I do this, will you fulfil my 
wish ? Will you become the wife of 
the King of Denmark ? Ah, you are 
silent. Now, then, listen. Consent to 
become Queen of Denmark, and on the 
day in wdiich you pass the boundary of 
Prussia and enter your own realm as 
queen, on that day I will recall Trenck 
to Berlin, and all shall be forgotten. 
Trenck shall again enter ray guard, and 
my ambassador at Vienna shall appear 
for him in court. Decide now, Ame- 
lia — will you be Queen of Denmark? ” 

“ Ah sire, you offer me a cruel alter- 
native. You wish me to purchase a fa- 
vor which you had already freely and 
unconditionally granted.” 

“ You forget, my sister, that I entreat 
where I have the right to command. 
It will be easy to obey when through 
your obedience you can make another 
happy. Once more, then, wdll you ac- 
cept my proposition ? ” 

Amelia did not answer immediately. 
She fixed her eyes steadily upon the 
king’s face; their glances met firmly, 
quietly. Each read in the eyes of the 
other inexorable resolve. 

“ Sire, I cannot accept your proposi- 
tion; I cannot become the wife of the 
King of Denmark.” 

The king shrank back, and a dark 
cloud settled upon his brow. He pressed 



Sire, I pray for pardon for the Baron Frederick von Trenck. 






I. 





FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


259 


bis hand nervously upon the arm-chair 
near which he stood, and forced himself 
to appear calm. “And why can you 
not become the wife of the King of 
Denmark ? ” 

“Because I have sworn solemnly, call- 
ing upon God to witness, that I will 
never become the wife of any other man 
than him whom I love — because I con- 
sider myself bound to God and to my 
conscience to fulfil this oath. As I can- 
not be the wife of Trenck, I will remain 
unmarried.” 

And now the king was crimson with 
rage, and his eyes fiashed fiercely. 
“ The wife of Trenck ! ” cried he ; “ the 
wife of a traitor 1 Ah, you think still 
of him, and in spite of your vow — in 
spite of your solemn oath — you still 
entertain the hope of this unworthy 
alliance I ” 

“ Sire, remember on what conditions 
my oath was given. You promised me 
Trenck should be free, and I swore to 
give him up — never even to write to him. 
Fate did not accept my oath. Trenck 
fled before you had time to fulfil your 
word, and I was thus released from my 
vow ; and ypt I have never written to 
him — ^have heard nothing from him. 
Ko one knows better than yourself that 
I have had no word from him.” 

“ So five years have gone by without 
his writing to you, and yet you have 
the hardihood to-day to call his name ! ” 

“ I have the courage, sire, because I 
know well Trenck has never ceased to 
love me. That I have received no 
letters from him does not prove that he 
has not written ; it only proves that I 
am surrounded by watchful spies, who 
do not allow his letters to reach me.” 

“Ah,” said the king, with a con- 
temptuous shrug of the shoulders, “ you 
are of opinion that I have suppressed 
these letters ? ” 

“ Yes, I am of that opinion.” 

“ You deceive yourself, then, Amelia. 
I have not suiTOunded you with spies ; 


I have intercepted no letters. YouJook 
at me incredulously. I declare to you 
that I speak the truth. Now you can 
comprehend, my sister, that your heart 
has deceived you — you have squandered 
your love upon a wretched object who 
has forgotten you.” 

“ Sire ! ” cried Amelia, with flaming 
eyes, “ no abuse of the man I love ! ” 

“ You love him still ! ” said the king, 
white with passion, and no longer able 
to control his rage — “ you love him still ! 
You have wept and bewailed him, while 
he has shamefully betrayed and mocked 
at you. Yes, look on me, if you will, 
with those scornful, rebellious glances — 
it is as I say ! You must and shall 
know all ! I have spared you until 
now ; I trusted in your own noble 
heart ! I thought that, driven by a 
storm of passion, it had, like a proud 
river, for one moment overstepped its 
bounds; then quietly, calmly resumed 
that course which nature and fate had 
marked out for it. I see now that I 
have been deceived in you, as you have 
been deceived in Trenck 1 I tell you 
he has betrayed you ! He, formerly a 
Prussian ofiicer, at the luxurious and 
debauched court of Petersburg, has not 
only betrayed you, but his king. At 
the table of his mistress, the wife of 
Bestuchef, he has shown your picture 
and boasted that you gave it to him. 
The Duke of Goltz, my ambassador at 
the Kussian court, informed me of this ; 
and look you, I did not slay him! I 
did not demand of the Empress Anne 
that the Prussian deserter should be 
delivered up. I remembered that you 
had once loved him, and that I had 
promised you to be lenient. But I have 
had him closely watched. I know all 
his deeds ; I am acquainted with all his 
intrigues and artifices. I know he has 
had a love-affair with the young Count- 
ess Narischkin — that he continued his 
attentions long after her marriage with 
General Bondurow. Can you believe. 


m 


BERLIN AND SANS^OUCt; OR. 


my sister, that he remembered the 
modest, innocent oaths of love and con- 
stancy he had exchanged with you 
vrhile enjoying himself in the presence 
of this handsome and voluptuous young 
woman ? Do you believe that he re- 
called them when he arranged a plan 
of flight with his beloved, and sought 
a safe asylum beyond the borders of 
Kussia ? Do you believe that he thought 
of you when he received from this ill- 
regulated woman her diamonds and all 
the gold she possessed, in order to 
smooth the way to their escape ? ” 

“ Mercy, mercy! ” stammered Amelia, 
pale and trembling, and sinking upon 
a seat. “Cease, my brother; do you 
not see that your words are killing me ? 
Have pity upon me ! ” 

“ No ! no mercy 1 ” said the king ; 
“you must and you shall know all, in 
order that you may be cured of this un- 
holy malady, this shameful love. You 
shall know that Trenck not only sells 
the secrets of politics, but the secrets of 
love. Every thing is merchandise with 
him, even his own heart. He not only 
loved the beautiful Bondurow, but he 
loved her diamonds. This young wo- 
man died of the small-pox, a few days 
before the plan of flight could be fully 
arranged. Trenck, however, Ijecame 
her heir ; he refused to give back the 
brilliants and the eight thousand rubles 
which she had placed in his hands.” 

“ O my God, my God I grant that I 
die ! ” cried the Princess Amelia. ' 
“But the death of his beloved,” said 
the king (without regarding the wild 
exclamations of the princess) — “ this 
death was so greatly to his advantage, 
that he soon consoled himself with the 
love of the attractive Bestuchef — this 
proud and intriguing woman who now, 
through the weakness of her husband, 
rules over Kussia, and threatens by her 
plots and intrigues to complicate the 
history and peace of Europe. She is 
neither young nor beautiful ; she is 


forty years of age, and you cannot be- 
lieve that Trenck at four-and-tw^enty 
burns with love for her. But she adores 
him ; she loves him with that mad, bac- 
chantic ardor which the Roman Em- 
press Julia felt for the gladiators, whose 
magnificent proportions she admired at 
the circus. She loved him and con- 
fessed it ; and his heart, unsubdued by 
the ancient charms, yielded to the magic 
power of her jewels and her gold. He 
became the adorer of Bestuchef; he 
worked diligently in the cabinet of the 
chancellor, and appeared to be the best 
of Russian patriots, and seemed ready to 
kiss the knout with the same devotion 
with which he kissed the slipper of the 
chancellor’s wife. At this time I re- 
solved to try his patiiotism, and com- 
missioned my ambassador to see if his 
patriotic ardor could not be cooled by 
gold. Well, my sister; for two thousand 
ducats, Trenck copied the design of 
the fortress of Cronstadt, which the 
chancellor had just received from his 
engineer.” 

“ That is impossible I ” said Amelia, 
whose tears had now ceased to flow, 
and who listened to her brother with 
distended but quiet eyes. 

“ Impossible ! ” said Frederick. “ Oh, 
my sister, gold has a magic power, to 
which nothing is impossible 1 I wished 
to unmask the traitor Trenck, and ex- 
pose him in his true colors to the chan- 
cellor. I ordered Goltz to hand him 
the copy of the fortress, drawn by 
Trenck and signed with his name, and 
to tell him how he obtained it. The 
chancellor was beside himself with rage, 
and swore to take a right Russian re- 
venge upon the traitor — he declared he 
should die under the knout.” 

Amelia uttered a wild cry, and 
clasped her hands over her convulsed 
face. 

The king laughed bitterly. “ Com- 
pose yourself— we triumphed too early : 
we had forgotten the woman ! In his 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HiS FRIENDS. 


261 


.“age the chancellor disclosed every 
thing to her, and uttered the most furi- 
ous curses and resolves against Trenck. 
She found means to warn him, and 
when the police came in the night to 
arrest him, he was not at home — he had 
taken refuge in the house of his friend 
the English ambassador, Lord Hynd- 
forth.” * 

“ Ah I he was saved, then ? ” whispered 
Amelia. 

The king looked at her in amaze- 
ment. “ Yes, he was saved. The next 
d£iy^, Madame Bestuchef found means 
to convince her credulous husband that 
Trenck was the victim of an intrigue, 
and entirely innocent of the charge 
brought against him. Trenck remained, 
therefore, the friend of the house, and 
Madame Bestuchef had the audacity to 
publicly insult my ambassador. Trenck 
now announced himself as a raging 
adversary of Prussia. He inflamed the 
lieai t of his powerful mistress with hate, 
and they swore the destruction of 
Prussia. Both were zealously engaged 
in changing the chancellor, my private 
and confldential friend, into an enemy ; 
and Trenck, the Russian patriot, entered 
the service of the house of Austria, to 
intrigue against me and my realm.! 
Bestuchef, however, withstood these in- 
trigues, and in his distrust he watched 
over and threatened his faithless wife 
and faithless friend. Trenck wmuld 
have been lost, without doubt, if a 
lucky accident had not again rescued 
him. His cousin the pandour died in 
Vienna, and, as Trenck believed that 
he had left him a fortune of some mil- 
lions, he tore his tender ties asunder. 


* Trenck’s Memoirs. 

+ Trenck himself writes on this subject : “ I would 
It that time have chan;ied my fatherland into a 
cowling wilderness’, if the opportunity had offered. 

I do not deny that from this moment I did every 
thing that was possible, in Russia, to promote the 
views of the imperial ambassador, Duke Vemis, 
who knew how to nourish the fire already kindled, 
and to make use of my services.” 1 


and hastened to Vienna to receive this 
rich inheritance, which, to his astonish- 
ment, he found to consist not in millions, 
but in law processes. This, Amelia, is 
the history of Trenck during these five 
years in which you have received no 
news from him. Can you still say that 
he has never forgotten you ? that you 
are bound to be faithful to him ? You 
see. I do not speak to you as a king, but 
as a friend, and that I look at all these 
unhappy circumstances from your stand- 
point. Treat me, then, as a friend, and 
answer me sincerely. Do you still feel 
bound by your oath ? Do you not know 
that he is a faithless traitor, and that 
he has forgotten you ? ” 

The princess had listened to the king 
with a bowed head and downcast eyes. 
Now she looked up ; the fire of inspira- 
tion beamed in her eye, a melancholy 
smile played upon her lips. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ I took my vow 
without conditions, and I will keep it 
faithfully till my death. Suppose, even, 
that a part of what you have said is 
true, Trenck is young ; you cannot ex- 
pect that his ardent and passionate 
heart should be buried under the ashes 
of the vase of tears in which our love, 
in 'its beauty and bloom, crumbled to 
dust. But his heart, however unstable 
it may appear, turns ever back faithfully 
to that fountain, and he seeks to purify 
and sanctify the wild and stormy pres- 
ent by the remembrance of the beauti- 
ful and innocent past. You say that 
Trenck forgot me in his prosperity; 
well, then, sire, in his misfortune he has 
remembered me. In his misfortune he 
has forgotten the faithless, cold, and 
treacherous letter which I wrote to him, 
and which he received in the prison of 
Glatz. In his wretchedness, he has 
written to me, and called upon me for 
aid. It shall not be said that I did not 
hear his voice — ^that I was not joyfully 
ready to serve him I ” 

“ And he has dared to write to yo'i I ” 


262 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


said the king, with trembling lips and 
scornful eye. “ Who was bold enough 
to hand you this letter ? ” 

“ Oh, sire, you will not surely de- 
mand that I shall betray my friends 1 
Moreover, if I name the messenger who 
brought me this letter, it would answer 
no purpose ; you would arrest and pun- 
ish him, and to-morrow I should find an- 
other to serve me as well. Unhappy love 
finds pity, protection, and friends, every- 
where. Sire, I repeat my request — par- 
don for Baron Trenck ! ” 

“ And I,” cried the king, in a loud, 
stem voice, “ I ask if you accept my 
proposition — if you will become the 
wife of the King of Denmark — and, 
mark well, princess, this is the answer 
to your prayer.” 

“ Sire, may God take pity on me ! 
Punish me with your utmost scorn — I 
cannot break my oath 1 You can force 
me to leave my vows unfulfilled — ^not 
to become the wife of the man I love — 
but you cannot force me to perjure my- 
self. I should indeed be forsworn if 
I stepped before the altar with another 
man, and promised a love and faith 
which my heart knows not, and can 
never know.” 

The king uttered a shrill cry of rage ; 
maledictions hung upon his lips, but he 
held them back, and, forcing himself to 
appear composed, he folded his arms, 
and walked hastily backward and for- 
ward through the room. 

The princess gazed at him in breath- 
less silence, and with loudly-beating 
heart she prayed to God for mercy and 
help ; she felt that this hour would de- 
cide the fate of her whole life. Sud- 
denly the king stood before her. His 
countenance was now perfectly com- 
posed. 

“ Princess Amelia,” said he, “ I give 
you four weeks’ respite. Consider well 
what I have said to you. Take coun- 
sel with your conscience, your under- 
standing, and your honor. In four 


weeks I will come again to you, and 
ask if you resolved to fulfil my request, 
and become the wife of the King of 
Denmark. Until that time, I will know 
how to restrain the Danish ambassador. 
If you dare still to oppose my will, I 
will yet fulfil my promise, and grant 
you the favor you ask of me. I will 
make projposals to Trenck to return to 
Prussia, and the inducements I offer 
shall be so splendid that he will not 
resist them. Let me once have him 
■ here, and it shall be my affair to hold 
fast to him.” 

He bowed to the princess and left the 
room. Amelia watched him silently, 
breathlessly, till he disappeared, then 
heaved a deep sigh and called loudly 
for her maid. 

Ernestine ! — Ernestine ! ” said she, 
with trembling lips, “ find me a faith- 
ful messenger whom I can send imme- 
diately to Vienna. I must warn Trenck ! 
Danger threatens him 1 No matter 
what my brother’s ambassador may 
offer him, with what glittering prom- 
ises he may allure him, Trenck dare 
not listen to them, dare not accept 
them I He must never return to Prussia 
— he is lost if he does so I ” 

Frederick returned slowly and silent- 
ly to his apartment. As he thought 
over the agitating scene he had just 
passed through, he murmm*ed lightly : 

“ Oh, woman’s heart ! thou ai’t like the 
restless, raging sea, and pearls and 
monsters lie in thy depths I ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

MADAME VON COCCEJI. 

The Marquis d’Argens w’as right. 
Barbaiina and her sister had left Eng;- 
land and returned to Berlin. They oc- 
cupied the same expensive and beautiful 
hotel in Behren Street.* ^ut it was no 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


OTiger surrounded by costly equipages, 
and besieg6d by gallant cavaliers. The 
elite of the court no longer came to 
wonder and to worship. 

Barbarina’s house was lonely and de- 
serted, and she herself was changed. 
She was no longer the graceful, enchant- 
ing prima donna, the floating sylph; 
she was a calm, proud woman, almost 
imposing in her grave, pale beauty ; her 
melancholy smile touched the heart, 
while it contrasted . strangely with her 
flashing eye. 

Barbarina was in the same saloon 
where we last saw her, surrounded with 
dukes and princes — worshippers at her 
shrine I To-day she was alone ; no one 
was by her side but her faithful sister 
Marietta. She lay stretched upon the 
divan, with her arms folded across her 
bosom; her head was thrown back 
upon the white, gold-embroidered cush- 
ion, and her long, black curls fell in 
rich profusion around her; with wide- 
open eyes she stared upon the ceiling, 
completely lost in sad and painful 
thoughts. At a small table by her side 
sat her sister Marietta, busily occupied 
ill opening and reading the letters with 
which the table was covered. 

And now she uttered a cry of joy, 
and a happy smile played upon her 
face. “ A letter from Milan, from the 
impressario^ Binatelli,” said. she. 

Barbarina remained immovable, aud 
still stared at the ceiling. 

“Binatelli oifers you a magniflcent 
engagement ; he declares that all Italy 
languishes with impatience to see you, 
that every city implores your presence, 
and he is ambitious to be the first to 
allure you back to your fatherland.” 

“ Did you write to him that I de- 
sired an engagement?” asked Barba- 
rina. 

“ No, sister,” said Marietta, slightly 
blushing ; “ I wrote to him as to an old 
and valued friend ; I described the rest- 
less, weary, nomadic life we were lead- 


263 

ing, and told him you had left the Lon- 
don stage forever.” 

“ And does it follow that I will there- 
fore appear in Milan? Write at once 
that I am grateful for his ofier, but 
neither in Milan nor any other Italian 
city will I appear upon the stage.” 

“ Ah, Barbarina, shall we never again 
return to our beautiful Italy?” said 
Marietta, tearfully. 

“ Did I say that, sister ? I said only, 

I would not appear in public.” 

‘ “ But, Barbarina, he entreats so ear- 

nestly, and he offers you an enormous 
salary I ” 

“ I am rich enougli. Marietta.” 

“ No ! no one is rich enough ! Money 
is power, and the more millions one 
has to spend, the more is one beloved.” 

“ What care I for the love of men ? I 
despise them all — all ! ” cried Barba- 
rina, passionately. 

“ What ! all ? ” said Marietta, with a 
meaning smile ; “ all — even Cocceji ? ” 

Barbarina raised herself hastily, and, 
leaning upon her elbow, , she gazed 
with surprise upon her sister. “You 
think, then, that I love Cocceji ? ” 

“ Did you not tell me so yourself? ” • 

“ Ah, I said so myself, did I ? ” said 
Barbarina, contemptuously, and sink- 
ing back into her former quiet position. 

“ Yes, sister, do you not remember,” 
said Marietta, eagerly; “can you not 
recall how sad you were when we left 
Berlin a year ago? You sobbed and 
wept, and looked ever backward from 
the carriage, then lightly whispered, 

‘ My happiness, my life, my love remain 
in Berlin ! ’ I asked you in what your 
happiness, your love, your life consisted. 
Your answer was, ‘ Do you not know, 
then, that I love Cocceji ? ’ In truth, 
good sister, I do not believe you ! I 
thought you left Berlin because the 
mother of Cocceji implored you to do 
so. I know you to be magnanimous 
enough to sacrifice yourself to the pray- 
ers and happiness of another, and fb* 


^64 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


this reason alone you went to London, 
where Lord Stuart Mackenzie awai+cd 
us.” 

“ Poor lord ! ” said Barbarina, thought- 
fully. “ I sinned greatly against him ! 
He loved me fondly ; he waited for me 
with constancy ; he was so truly happy 
when I came at last, as he hoped, to 
fulfil my promise, and become his 
wife ! God knows I meant to be true, 
and I swore to myself to make him 
a faithful wife ; but my will was 
weaker than my heart. I could not 
marry him, and on my wedding-day I 
fled from London. Poor Lord Stuart ! ” 

“And on that day, when, bathed in 
tears, you told me to prepare to leave 
London with you secretly; on that day 
you said to me, ‘ I cannot, no, I cannot 
wed a man I do not love. The air 
chokes me. Marietta ; I must return to 
Berlin ; he is there whom I love, whom 
I will love eternally ! ’ I said again, 
‘ Whom do you love, my sister ? ’ and 
you replied, ‘ I love Cocceji ! ’ And 
now you are amazed that I believe you ! 
Is it possible that I can doubt your 
word? Is it possible that Barbarina 
-tells an untruth to her fond and faith- 
ful sister ? that she shrouds her heart, 
and will not allow Marietta to read 
what is written there ? ” 

“ If I did that,” said Barbarina, un- 
easily, “ it was because I shrank from 
reading my own heart. Be pitiful, Ma- 
rietta, do not lift the veil ; allow my 
poor heart to heal its wounds in peace 
and quiet.” 

“ It cannot heal, sister, if we remain 
here,” said Marietta, trembling with 
suppressed tears. “ Let us fly far, far 
away ; accept the ofler of Binatelli ; it 
is the call of God. Come, come, Bar- 
barina, we will return to our own Italy, 
to beautiful Rome. Remain no longer 
in this cold north, by these icy hearts ! ” 

“ I cannot, I cannot ! ” cried Barba- 
rina, with anguish. “ I have no father- 
land — ^no home. I am no longer a Ro- 


man, no longer an Italian. I am a 
wretched, homeless wanderer. Wliy 
will not my heart bleed and die ? Why 
am I condemned to live, and be con- 
scious of this torture ? ” 

“ Stop, stop, my sister ! ” cried Ma- 
rietta, wildly ; “ not another word ! 

You are right ; W’^e will not lift this 
fearful veil. Cover up your heart in 
darkness — it will heal ! ” 

“ It will heal ! ” repeated Barbarina, 
pressing Marietta to her bosom and 
weeping bitterly. 

The entrance of a servant aroused 
them both; Barbarina turned away to 
hide her weeping eyes. The servant 
announced a lady, who desired anxious- 
ly to speak with the signora. 

“ Say to her that Barbarina is unwell, 
and can receive no one.” 

In a few moments the servant re- 
turned with a card, which he handed 
to Marietta. “The lady declared she 
knew the signora would receive her 
when she saw the card.” 

“ Madame Cocceji,” said Marietta. 

Barbarina rose up hastily. 

“ Will you receive her ? ” asked Ma- 
rietta. 

“ I will receive her.” 

And now a great change passed over 
Barbarina: all melancholy, all languor 
had disappeared; her eyes sparkled, 
her cheeks glowed with an engaging 
smile, as she advanced to greet the 
proud lady who stood upon the thresh 
old. 

“Ah, generous lady, how good you 
are!” said Barbarina, in a slightly 
mocking tone. “I have but just re- 
turned to Berlin, and you gladden my 
heart again by your visit, and grant me 
the distinction and privilege of receiving 
in my house one of the most eminent 
and virtuous ladies of Berlin.” 

Madame Cocceji threw a contempt- 
uous glance upon the beautiful young 
woman who dared to look in her face 
with such smiling composure. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIEKDS. 


265 


“ I have not come, madame, to visit 
you, but to speak to you ! ” 

“I do not see the distinction; we 
visit those with whom we wish to 
«peak.” 

“We visit those with whom we wish 
to speak, and who are trying to evade 
an interview ! I have sent to you twice, 
signora, and commanded you to come 
to me, but you have not obeyed ! ” 

“ I am accustomed to receive those 
who wish to see me at my own house,” 
said Barbarina, quietly. “ Indeed, ma- 
dame, I understand your language per- 
haps but poorly. Is it according to 
the forms of etiquette to say, ‘ I have 
commanded you to come to me ? ’ In 
my own fair land we give a finer turn to 
our speech, and we beg for the honor 
of a visit.” As Barbarina said this, she 
bowed with laughing grace to the 
proud woman, who gazed at her with 
suppressed rage. 

“This is the second time I have 
been forced to seek an interview with 
you.” 

“ The first time, madame, you came 
with a petition, and JLwas so happy as 
to be able to grant your request. May 
I be equally fortunate to-day ! With- 
out doubt you come again as a peti- 
tioner,” said Barbarina, with the cun- 
ning manner of a cat, who purrs while 
she scratches. 

Tlie proud Cocceji was wounded; 
she frowned sternly, but suppressed her 
anger. Barbarina was right — she 
came with a request. 

“ I called upon you a year ago,” said 
she, “ and implored you to cure my son 
of that wild love which had fallen 
upon him like the fever of madness — 
which made him forget his duty, his 
rank, 'liis parents. I besought you to 
leave Berlin, and withdraw from his 
sight that magical beauty which had 
seduced him.” 

“And I declared myself ready to 
grant your petition,” interrupted Barba- 


riua. “ Yes, I conformed myself to your 
wishes, and left Berlin, not, however, 
I confess, to do you a service, but be- 
cause I did not love your son ; and there 
is nothing more dull and wearisome 
than to listen to protestations of love 
that you cannot return. But look 
you, gracious lady, that is a misfortune 
which pursues me at every step. I 
left Berlin to escape this evil, and fled 
to London, to find there the same old 
story of a love I could not return. I 
fled then from London, to escape the 
danger of becoming the wife of Lord 
Stuart McKenzie.” 

“ Wliy did you return to Berlin ? ” 
said Madame Cocceji, in an imperious 
tone. 

Barbarina looked up surprised: — 
“Madame,” said she, “for that step I 
am accountable to no one.” 

“ Yes, you are accountable to me ! ” 
cried Madame Cocceji, enraged to the 
utmost by Barbarina’s proud compos- 
ure. “You are accountable to me — 
me, the mother of Cocceji! You have 
seduced him by your charms, and 
driven him to madness. He defies his 
parents and the anger of his king, and 
yields himself up to this shameful pas- 
sion, which covers his family with dis- 
grace.” 

Barbarina uttered a cry of rage, and 
advanced a few steps. “ Madame,” 
said she, laying her hand upon the arm 
of Madame Cocceji, “ you have called 
this love shameful. You have said 
that an alliance with me would dis- 
grace your family. Take back your 
words, I pray you ! ” 

“ I retract nothing. I said but the 
truth,” cried Madame Cocceji, freeing 
herself from Barbarina. 

“Take back your words, madame, 
for your own sake ! ” said Barbarina, 
threateningly. 

“ I cannot, and will not ! ” she re- 
plied, imperiously, “ and if your pride 
and arrogance have not completelv 


266 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


blinded you, in your heart you will 
confess that I am right. The dancer 
Barbarina can never be the daughter of 
the Coccejis. That would be a mock- 
ery of all honorable customs, would 
cast contempt upon the graves of our 
ancestors, and bring shame upon our 
nobility. And yet my unhappy son 
dares think of this dishonor. In his 
insane folly he rushed madly from my 
presence, uttering words of rage and 
bitter reproach, because I tried to show 
him that this marriage was impossible.” 

“Ah, I love him for this 1 ” cried Bar- 
barina, with a genial smile. 

Without regarding her, Madame 
Cocceji went on: “Even against his 
father he has dared to oppose himself. 
He defies the anger of his king. Oh, 
signora, in the anguish of my soul I 
turn to you ; have j)ity with me and 
with my most unhappy son I He is 
lost ; he will go down to the grave dis- 
honored, if you do not come to my 
help ! If, indeed, you love him, your 
love will teach you to make the offer- 
ing of self-sacrifice, and I will bless 
you, and forgive you all the anguish 
you have caused me. If you love him 
not, you will not be so cruel as to bury 
the happiness and honor of a whole 
family because of your lofty ambition 
and your relentless will. Hear my 
prayer — leave this city, and go so far 
away that my son can never follow, 
never reach you I ” 

“Then I must go into my grave,” 
said Barbarina ; “ there is no other 
refuge to which, if he truly loves, he 
cannot follow me. I, dear madame, 
cannot, like yourself, move unknown 
and unregarded through the world. 
My fame is the herald which announces 
my presence in every land, and every 
city offers me, with bended knees, the 
keys of her gates and the keys of her 
heart. I cannot hide myself. Nothing 
is known of the proud and noble fam- 
ily of the Cocceji ontside of Prussia ; 


but the wide, wide world knows of the 
Barbarina, and the laurel- wreaths wit., 
which I have been crowned in eveiy 
land have never been desecrated by an 
unworthy act or an impure thought. 
There is nothing in ray life of which I 
repent, nothing for which I blush or 
am ashamed ! And yet you have dared 
to reproach me — you have had the au- 
dacity to seek to humiliate me in my 
own house.” 

“You forget with whom you have 
the honor to sj^eak.” 

“ You, madame, were the first to for- 
get yourself; I follow your example. I 
suppose Madame Cocceji know^s and 
does ever that which is great and 
right. I said you had vilified me in 
my own house, and yet you ask of me 
an act of magnanimity ! Why should 
I relinquish your son’s love ? ” 

“ Why ? Because there remains even 
yet, perhaps, a spark of honorable feel- 
ing in your bosom. Because you know 
that my family will never receive you, 
but will curse and abhor you, if you 
dare to entice my son into a marriage. 
Because you know that the Prussian 
nobles, the king himself, are on my 
side. The king, signora, no longer fa- 
vors you ; the king has promised us his 
assistance. The king will use every 
means of grace and power to prevent a 
marriage, which he himself has written 
to me will cover my son with dis- 
honor ! ” * 

“ That is false ! ” cried Barbarina. 

“ It is true I and it is true that the 
king, in order to protect the house of 
Cocceji from this shame, has given my 
husband authority to arrest my son and 
cast him into prison, provided my 
prayers and tears and menaces should 
be of no avail ! If we fail, we will 
make use of this authority, and give 
him over to General Hake. + Think 
well what you do — do not drive us to 

* Schneider, “ History of the Opera in JJerlin.” 

t Ibid. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT ASD HIS FRIENDS. 


267 


extremity, I say there is a point at 
which even a mother’s love will fail, 
and the head of our house will act with 
all the sternness which the law and the 
king permit. Go, then. Signora Barba- 
rina — bow your proud head — leave 
Berlin. Return to your own land. I 
repeat to you, do not drive us to ex- 
tremity I ” 

Barbarina listened to this with cool 
and mocking composure. Not a mus- 
cle of her face moved — she was indeed 
striking in her majesty and her beauty. 
Her imposing bearing, her pallid but 
clear complexion, her crimson, tightly- 
compressed lips, her great, fiery eyes, 
which spoke the scorn and contempt 
her proud lips disdained to utter, made 
a picture never to be forgotten. 

“Madame,” said she, slowly, empha- 
sizing every word, “ you have, indeed, 
driven me to extremity. It was not 
my intention to marry your son. But 
your conduct has now made that a 
point of honor. Now, madame, I will 
graciously yield to the passionate en- 
treaties of your son, and I will wed 
him.” 

“That is to say, you will force my 
husband to make use of the power the 
king has given him ? ” 

Barbarina shrugged her shoulders 
contemptuously. “Arrest your son, 
and cast him into prison, you will 
thereby add a new celebrity to your 
name, and quench the last spark of 
piety and obedience in his heart. 
Love has wings, and will follow him 
everywhere, and will waft him to the 
altar, where he will wed Barbarina. 
Neither your curse, nor your arrest, nor 
the will of the king, will now protect 
him. Before six months are over, will 
Barbarina the dancer be the wife of 
Cocceji.” 

“ Never,' never shall that be ! ” cried 
Madame Cocceji, trembling with rage. 

“ That will be ! ” said Barbarina, 
smiling sadly, and bending low. 


“ And now, madame, I think you have 
attained the object of your visit, and 
we have nothing more to say to each 
other. It only remains for me to com- 
mend myself to your grace and cour- 
tesy, and to thank you for the honor 
of your visit. Allow me to call my 
servant, to conduct you to your car- 
riage.” 

She rang and commanded the servant 
to open the folding doors, and carry 
the large muff of the countess to the 
carriage. Madame Cocceji was pale 
with rage. She wished to remain in- 
cognito, and now her name had been 
called before the servant. All Berlin 
would know before night that she had 
visited Barbarina 1 

“Give me my muff,” she said, impa- 
tiently to the servant ; “ it is not neces- 
sary you should carry it. I came on 
foot.” 

“ On foot ? ” said Barbarina, laughing 
merrily. “Truly, you wished to re- 
main incognito, and you would not 
leave your equipage with its coat-of- 
arms, standing before my door! I 
thank you once more for the honor of 
your visit, and commend myself to you 
with the glad wish that we may meet 
again.” 

“ Never more ! ” said Madame Coc- 
ceji, casting a withering look upon the 
gay dancer, and hastening Horn the 
room. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

VOLTAIRE. 

Voltaire was now a continuous 
guest of King Frederick. The latter 
had written a letter to Louis the Fif- 
teenth, and begged him to relinquish 
his subject and historian, and this re- 
quest was supposed to be acceded to. 
Besides this, the king, who was evei 
thoughtful of the happiness and com 


268 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


fort of his friends, had proposed to 
Madame Denis, Voltaire’s beloved 
niece, to follow her uncle to Berlin, 
dwell in the royal castle at Potsdam, 
and accept from him an annuity of four 
thousand francs. 

Voltaire himself besought her to 
come. He wrote to her that, as she 
had lived contentedly with her husband 
in Landau, she could surely be happy 
in Berlin and Potsdam. Berlin was 
certainly a much more beautiful city 
than Landau, and at Potsdam they 
could lead an agreeable and uncere- 
monious life. “ In Potsdam there are 
no tumultuous feasts. My soul rests, 
dreams, and works. I am content to 
find myself with a king who has 
neither a court nor a ministry. Truly, 
Potsdam is infested by many whis- 
kered grenadiers, but, thank Heaven, I 
see little of them. I work peacefully 
in my room, while the drums beat 
without. I have withdrawn from the 
dinners of the king; there were too 
many princes and generals there. I 
could not accustom myself to be always 
ms-d-vis with a king and en ceremonie. 
But I sup with him — the suppers are 
shorter, gayer, and healthier. I would 
die with indigestion in three mouths if I 
dined every day in public with a king.” * 

Madame Denis, however, seemed to 
doubt the happy life of Berlin and 
Potsdam. She wrote, declining the 
proposition, and expressing her fears 
that Voltaire would himself soon re- 
pent that he had left beautiful, glitter- 
ing Paris, the capital of luxury and 
good taste, and taken refuge in a bar- 
baric land, to be the slave of a king, 
while, in Paris, he had been the king 
of poetry. 

Voltaire had the audacity to bring 
this letter to the king — perhaps to 
wound him, perhaps to draw from him 
further promises and assurances. 


Frederick read the lettei ; his brow 
did not become clouded, and the 
friendly smile did not vanish from his 
lips. When he had read it to the end, 
he returned it, and his eyes met the 
distrustful, lowering glance of Voltaire 
with an expression of such goodness 
and candor that the latter cast his eyes 
ashamed to the ground. 

“If I were Madame Denis,” said 
Frederick, “I would think as she 
does ; but, being myself, I view these 
things ditferently. I would be in de- 
spair if I had occasioned the unhappi- 
ness of a friend ; and it will not be 
possible for me to allow trouble or 
sorrow to fall upon a man whom I es- 
teem, whom I love, and who has sac- 
rificed for me his fatherland and all 
that men hold most dear. If I could 
believe that your residence here could 
be to your disadvantage, I would be the 
first to counsel you to give it up. I know 
I would think more of your happiness 
than I would of the joy of having you 
wdth me. We are philosophers. What 
is more natural,. more simple, than that 
two philosophers, who seem made for 
each other — who have the same studies, 
the same tastes, the same mode of 
thinking— should grant themselves the 
satisfaction of living together ? I hon- 
or you as my teacher of eloquence 
and poetry ; I love you as a virtu- 
ous and sympathetic friend. What sort 
of bondage, what misfortunes, what 
changes have you to fear in a realm 
■where you are as highly honored as in 
your fatherland — -w^here you have a 
powerful friend who advances to meet 
you with a thankful heart ? I am not 
so prejudiced and foolish as to consider 
Berlin as handsome as Paris. If good 
taste has found a home in the world, T 
confess it is in. Paris. But you, Vol- 
taire, will you not inaugurate goot' 
taste wherever you are ? We have or- 
gans sufficiently developed to applaud 
you ; and, as to love, we will not allorp 


* (Euvres Completes, p. 860. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


269 


any other land superiority in that re- 
spect. I yielded to the friendship 
which bound you to the Marquise du 
Chatelet, but I was, next to her, your 
oldest friend. How, when you have 
sought an asylum in my house, can it 
ever be thought it will become your 
prison ? How, being your friend, can 
I ever become your tyrant ? I do not 
understand this. I am convinced that, 
as long as I live, you will be happy 
here. You will be honored as the father 
of literature, and you will ever find in 
me that assistance and sympathy which 
a man of your worth has a right to de- 
mand of all who honor and appreciate 
him.” * 

‘‘ Alas ! your majesty says that you 
honor me, but you no longer say that 
you love me,” cried Voltaire, who had 
listened to this eloquent and heart-felt 
speech of the king with eager impatience 
and lowering frowns. “ Yes, yes, I feel 
it ; I know it too well ! Your majesty 
has already limited me to your consid- 
eration, your regard ; but your love, your 
friendship, these are costly treasures 
from which I have been disinherited. 
But I know these hypocritical legacy- 
hunter’s, who have robbed me of that 
most beautiful portion of my inherit- 
ance. I know these poor, beggarly 
cousins, these D’Argens, these Algarot- 
tis, these La Mettries, this vainglorious 
peacock Maupertius. I — ” 

“ Voltaire,” said the king, interrupt- 
ing nim, “you forget that you speak of 
my friends, and I do not allow any one 
to speak evil of them. I will never be 
partial, never unjust! My heart is 
capable of valuing and treasuring all 
my friends, but my friends must aim to 
deserve it; and if I give them my 
neart, I expect one in return.” 

“ Friendship is a bill of exchange, by 
which you give just so much as you are 
entitled to demand in return.” 


“ Give me, then, your whole heart, 
Voltaire, and I will restore mine to 
you 1 But I fear you have no longer a 
heart ; Nature gave you but a small 
dose of this fleeting essence called 
love. She had much to do with your 
brain, and worked at that so long that 
no time remained to make the heart 
perfect ; just as she was about to pour 
a few drops of this wonderful love-es- 
sence into your heart, the cock crew 
three times for your birth, and betrayed 
you into the world. You have long 
since used up the poor pair of drops 
which fell into your heart. Your 
brain was armed for centuries, with 
power to work, to be useful, to rejoice 
the souls of others, but I fear your heart 
was exhausted in your youthful years.” 

“ Ah, I wish your majesty were right 1 ” 
cried Voltaire ; “ I should not then feel 
the anguish which now martyrs me, the 
torture of being misunderstood by the 
most amiable, the most intellectual, the 
most exalted of monarchs. Oh, sire, 
sire 1 I have a heart, and it bleeds be- 
cause you doubt of its existence ! ” 

“ I would believe you if you were a 
little less pathetic,” said the king. 
“ You not only assert, but you declaim. 
There is too little of nature and truth 
in your tone; you remind me a little of 
the stilted French tragedies, in which 
design and premeditation obscure all 
true passion ; in which love is only a 
phrase, that no one believes in, dressed 
up with the tawdry gilding of sentiment 
and pathos.” 

“Your majesty will crush me with 
your scorn and mockery 1 ” cried Vol- 
taire, whose eyes now flamed with 
auger. “You wish to make me fee? 
how powerless, how pitiful I am, 
"Where shall I find the strength to strive 
wdth you ? 1 have won no battles. 1 

have no hundred thousand men to op- 
pose to you, and no courts-martial to 
condemn those who sin against me ! ” 

“ It is tiue you have not a hundred. 


♦ The kinky’s own words — (Euvres PostLamee. 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


HO 

thousand soldiers,” said the king, “ but 
you have four-and-twenty, and with 
these four-and-twenty soldiers you have 
conquered the whole realm of spiiits ; 
with this little army you have brought 
the whole of educated Europe to your 
feet. You are, therefore, a much more 
powerful king than I am. I have, it is 
true, a hundred thousand men, but I 
dare not say that they will not run when 
it comes to the first battle. You, Vol- 
taire, have your four-and-twenty soldiers 
of the alphabet, and so well have you 
exercised them, that you must win 
every battle, even if all the kings of the 
earth were allied against you. Let us 
make peace, then, my ‘ invincible ! ’ do 
not turn this terrible army of the four- 
and-twenty, with their deadly weapons, 
against me, but graciously allow me to 
seize upon the hem of your purple robe, 
to sun myself in your dazzling rays, to 
be your humble scholar, and from you 
and your army of heroes to learn the 
secret art of winning battles with invis- 
ible troops 1 ” 

“ Your majesty makes me feel more 
and more how poor I am; even my 
four-and-twenty, of whom you speak, 
have gone over to you, and you under- 
stand, as well as I do, how to exercise 
them.” 

“ No, no ! ” said Frederick, changing 
suddenly his jesting tone for one of 
grave earnestness. “No, I will learn 
of you. I am not satisfied to be a poor- 
souled dilettante in poetry, though as- 
sured I can never be a Virgil or a Vol- 
taire. I know that the study of poetry 
demands the life, the undivided heart 
and mind. I am but a poor galley- 
slave, chained to the ship of state ; or, 
if you will, a pilot, who does not dare 
to leave the rudder, or even to sleep, 
lest the fate of the unhappy Palinurus 
might overtake him. The Muses de- 
mand solitude and rest for the soul, and 
that I can never consecrate to them. 
Often, when I have written three verses, 


I am interrupted, my muse is chilled, 
and my spirit cannot rise again into the 
heights of inspiration. I know there 
are privileged souls, who can make 
verses everywhere — in the tumult of 
court life, in the loneliness of Cirey, in 
the prisons of the Bastile, and in the 
stage-coach. My poor soul does not en- 
joy this freedom. It resembles an 
anana^ which bears fruit only in the 
green-house, but fades and withers in 
the fresh air.” * 

“ Ah 1 this is the first time I have caught 
the Solomon of the North in an un- 
truth,” cried Voltaire, eagerly. “ Your 
soul is not like the anana^ but like that 
wondrous southern tree which gener- 
ously bears at the same time fruits and 
fiowers ; which inspires and sweetly in- 
toxicates us with its fragrance, and at 
the same time strengthens and refireshes 
us by its celestial fruits. You, sire, are 
not the pupil of Apollo, you are Apollo 
himself ! ” 

The king smiled, and raising his arms 
to heaven, he exclaimed, with the mock 
pathos of a French tragedian : 

“ O Dlen 1 qiil douez les pontes 
De tant de sublime faveurs ; 

Ah, rendez vos graces parfaitos, 

Et qu’ils soient un peu moins menteurs 1 ” 

“In trying to punish me for what 
you are pleased to call my falsehood, your 
majesty proves that I have spoken the 
truth,” cried Voltaire, eagerly. “ You 
wish to show me that the fruit of your 
muse ripens slowly, and you improvise 
a charming quatrain that Moli^re him- 
self would be proud to have composed.” 

“ Eendez vos graces parfaites, 

Et qu’ils soient un peu moins menteurs 1 ” 

repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to 
Voltaii'e. “ Look you, friend, I am 
perhaps that mortal who incommodes 
the gods least with prayers and peti- 
tions. My first prayer to-day was for 


♦ The king’s own words.— (Euvres rostbomes. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


271 


you ; show, therefore, a little gratitude, 
and prove to me that the gods hear the 
earnest prayers of the faithful. Be less 
of a flatterer, and speak the simple 
truth. I desire now to look over with 
you my comiDOsitions of the last few 
days. I wish you, however, always to 
remember that when you write, you do 
so to add to the fame of your nation 
and to the honor of your fatherland. 
For myself, I scribble for my amuse- 
ment ; and I could easily be pardoned, 
if I were wise enough to burn my work 
as soon as it was finished.* When a 
man approaches his fortieth year and 
makes bad verses as I do, one might say, 
wdth Moli^re’s ‘ Misanthrope ’ — 

SI j’en faisais d’aassi m^chauts, 

Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.’ ” 

“ Your majesty considers yourself al- 
ready too old to make verses, and you 
are scarcely thirty-eight : am I not then 
a fool, worthy of condemnation, for dar- 
ing to do homage to the Muses and 
striving to make verses — I, the gray- 
haired old man who already counts 
fifty-six ? ” 

“ You have the privilege of the gods ! 
you will never grow old; and the Muses 
and Graces, though women, must ever 
remain faithful to you — you understand 
how to lay new chains upon them.” 

“ No, no, sire ! I am too old,” sighed 
Voltaire ; “ an old poet, an old lover, an 
old singer, and an old horse, are alike 
useless things — good for nothing.! 
Well, your majesty can make me a little 
younger by reading me some of your 
verses.” 

Frederick stepped to his writing- 
desk, and, seating himself, nodded to 
Voltaire to be seated also. 

‘‘You must know,” said the king, 
handing Voltaire a sheet of paper cov- 
ered with verses — “ you must know that 

* CEuvres Posthumes. 

t Voltaire’s own words.— CEuvres Postbumes, p. 

8 « 4 . 


I have come with six twin brothers, who 
desire in the name of Apollo to be 
baptized in the waters of Hippocrene, 
and the ‘ Ilenriade ’ is entreated to be 
godfather.” 

Voltaire took the paper and read the 
verses aloud. The king listened at- 
tentively, and nodded approvingly over 
Voltaire’s glowing and passionate dec- 
lamation. 

“ This is grand ! this is sublime ! ” 
exclaimed Voltaire. “ Your majesty is a 
French writer, who lives hy accident in 
Germany. You have our language 
wholly in your power.” 

Frederick raised his finger threaten- 
ingly. “ Friend, friend, shall I weary 
the gods again with my prayer ? ” 

“Your majesty, then, wishes to hear 
the whole truth ? ” 

“ The whole truth ! ” 

“Then you must allow me, sire, to 
read the verses once more. I read them 
the first time as an amateur, now I will 
read them as a critic.” 

As Voltaire now repeated the verses, 
he laid a sharp accent upon every word 
and every imperfect rhyme; scanned 
every line with stem precision. Some- 
times when he came to a false Alexan- 
drine, he gave himself the appearance of 
being absolutely unable to force his lips 
to utter such barbarisms ; and then his 
eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a 
contemptuous smile played about his 
mouth. ’ 

The king’s brow clouded. “ I under- 
stand,” said he, “ the poem is utterly 
unworthy — good for nothing. Let us 
destroy it.” 

“ Not so, sire — the poem is excellent, 
and it requires but a few days’ study 
to make it perfect. On the Venus di 
Medici no finger must be too long, no 
nail badly formed ; and what are such 
statues, with which we deck our gar- 
dens, to the monuments of the library ? 
We must, therefore, make your work 
perfect. There is infinite grace and in 


272 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


tellect in this little poem. Wliere have 
you found such treasures, sire ? How 
can your sandy soil yield such blossoms ? 
How can such charming grace and pro- 
found learning be combined?* But 
even the Graces must stand upon a sure 
footing, and here, sire, are a few feet 
which are too long. Truly, that is 
sometimes important, but the work of 
a distinguished genius should hQ per- 
fect. You work too rashly, sire — ^it is 
sometimes more easy to win a battle 
than to make a good poem. Your ma- 
jesty loves the truth so well, that by 
speaking the truth in all sincerity I 
shall best prove to you my most pro- 
found reverence. All that you do must 
Ije perfectly done; you are fully en- 
dowed with the ability necessary. No 
one must say, ‘ Gmar est supra gram- 
maticum? Oeesar wrote as he fought, 
and was in both victorious. Frederick 
the Great plays the flute like Blavet, 
why should he not also write like the 
greatest of j^oets?! But your majesty 
must not disdain to give to the beauti- 
ful sentiment, the great thought, a love- 
ly and attractive form.” 

“ Yes, you are right ! ” said Freder- 
ick; “I fail in that, but you must not 
think it is from carelessness. Those of 
my verses which you have least criti- 
cised are exactly those which have cost 
me the least effort. When the senti- 
ment and the rhyme come in competi- 
tion, I make bad verses, and am not 
happy in my corrections. You cannot 
comprehend the difficulties I have to 
overcome in making a few tolerable 
verses. A happy combination by nature, 
an irrepressible and fruitful intellect, 
made you a great poet without any 
effort of your own. I feel and acknowl- 
edge the inferiority of my talent. I 
swim about in the ocean of poetry with 
my life-preserver under my arm. I do 

♦ Voltaire’s own words — (Euvres Posthumes, p. 
329. 

t Ibid., p. 323. 


not write as well as I think. Mj ideas 
are stronger than my expressions ; and 
in this embarrassment, I am often con- 
tent if my verses are as little indifferent 
as possible, and do not expect them to 
be good.” * 

“ It is entirely in your majesty’s power 
to make them perfect. With you, sire, 
it is as with the gods — ‘ I will ! ’ and it 
is done. If your majesty will condescend 
to adorn the Graces and sylphs, the 
sages and scholars, 'who stumble about 
in this sublime poem with somewhat 
rugged feet, with artistic limbs, they 
would flutter about like graceful genii, 
and step -with majesty like the three 
kings of the East. Now let us try — we 
will write this poem again.” 

He made a long mark with a pen 
over the manuscript of the king, took 
a new sheet of paper, and commenced 
to write the first lines. He criticised 
every word with bitter humor, with 
flashing wit, with mocking irony. In- 
exorable in his censure, indifferent in 
his praise, his tongue seemed to be 
armed with arrows, every one of which 
was intended to strike and wound. 

The face of Frederick remained calm 
and clear. He did not feel that he was 
a mighty king and ruler, injured by the 
fault-finding of a common man. He 
was the pupil, with his accomplished 
teacher; and* as he really wished to 
learn, he was indifferent as to the mode 
by which his stern master would in- 
struct him. 

After this they read together a chap 
ter from the king’s Histoire de Mon 
Temps?'* A second edition was about 
to appear, and Voltaire had undertaken 
to correct it. He brought his copy 
with him, in order to give Frederick 
an account of his corrections. 

“ This book will be a masterwork, if 
your majesty will only take the pains 
to correct it properly. But has a king 


* The king’s own words, p. .S46. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AKD HIS FRIENDS. 


27S 


the time and patience? — a king who 
governs his whole kingdom alone ? 
Yes, it is this thought which confounds 
me I I cannot recover from my aston- 
ishment ; it is this which makes me so 
stem in my judgment of your writings. 
I consider it a holy duty.” 

“And I am glad you are harsh and 
independent,” said the king. “ I learn 
more from ten stern and critical words, 
than from a lengthy speech full of praise 
and acknowledgment ! But tell me, 
now, what means this red mark, with 
which you have covered one whole side 
of my manuscript ? ” 

“Sire, this red mark asks for con- 
sideration for your grandfather, King 
Frederick the First; you have been 
harsh and cruel with him I ” 

“ I dared not be otherwise, unless I 
would earn for myself the charge of 
partiality,” said the king. “ It shall 
not be said that I closed my eyes to his 
foolishness and absurdity because he 
was my grandfather. Frederick the 
First was a vain and pompous fool; 
this is the truth 1 ” 

“ And yet I entreat your grace for 
him, sire. I love this king because of 
his rojal pomp, and the beautiful mon- 
ument which he left behind him.”' 

“ Well, that was vanity, that pos- 
terity might speak of him. From van- 
ity he protected the arts ; from vanity 
and foolish pride he placed the crown 
upon his head. His wife, the great So- 
phia Charlotte, was right when she 
said of him on her death-bed: ‘The 
king will not have time to mourn for 
me ; the interest he will take in solem- 
nizing my funeral with pomp and regal 
splendor will dissipate his grief; and 
if nothing is wanting, nothing fails in 
the august and beautiful ceremony, he 
will be entirely comforted.’ * He was 
only great in little things, and there- 
fore when Sophia Charlotte received 


* Thi6bault. 
18 


from her friend Leibnitz his memoir 
‘ On the Power of Small Things,’ she 
said, smiling : ‘ Leibnitz will teach me 
to know small things ; has he forgotten 
that I am the wife of Frederick the 
First, or does he think that I do not 
know my husband ? ’ ” * 

“ Well, I pray for grace for the hus 
band on his wife’s account. Sophia 
Charlotte was an exalted and genial 
woman; you should forgive her hus- 
band all other things, because he was 
wise euough to make her his wife and 
your grandmother ! And if your majes- 
ty reproaches him for the vanity of 
making himself king, that is a vanity 
from which his descendants have ob- 
tained some right solid advantages.” 

“ The title ajDpears to me not in the 
least disagreeable ! The title is beau- 
tiful, when given by a free people, 
or earned by a prince. Frederick the 
First had done nothing to stamp him a 
king, and that condemns him.” 

“ So let it be,” said Voltaire, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, “ he is your grand- 
father, not mine. Do with him as you 
think best, sire ; I have nothing more 
to say, and will content myself with 
softening a few phrases.” t 

When he saw that Frederick’s brow 
clouded at these words, he said, with a 
sly laugh : “ Look you, how the office 
of a teacher, which your majesty forced 
upon me, makes me insolent and 
haughty ! I, who would do well to 
correct my own works, undertake to 
improve the writings of a king. I re- 
mind myself of the Abbot von Milliers. 
who has written a book called ‘ Reflec- 
tions on the Faults of Others.’ On 
one occasion he went to hear a sermon 
of a Capuchin. The monk addressed 
his audience, in a nasal voice, in the 
following manner : ‘ My dear brothers 

* Thi6bault. 

t This conversation of the king and Voltaire la 
historic. Voltaire tells it in a letter to Madam* 
Denis. 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR» 


^74 

in the Lord, I had intended to-day to 
discourse upon hell,' but at the door of 
the church I have read a bill posted 
up, “ Reflections on the Faults of 
Others.” “ Ha ! my friend,” thought 
I, “ why have you not rather made re- 
flections over your own faults ? ” I 
will therefore speak to you of the 
pride and arrogance of men ! ’ ” 

“ Well, make such reflections always 
when occupied with the History of 
Louis the Fifteenth,” said the king, 
laughing ; “ only, I beseech you, when 
you are with me, not to be converted 
by the pious Capuchin, but make your 
reflections on the faults of others 
only.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF YOLTAIEE. 

Voltaire enjoyed the rare privilege 
of speaking the truth to the king, and 
he made a cruel and bitter use of his 
opportunities in this respect. He was 
jealous and envious of the king’s fame 
and greatness, and sought to revenge 
himself by continual fault-flnding and 
criticism. He sought to mortify the 
great Frederick, who was admired and 
wondered at by all the world ; to 
make him feel and confess that he 
could never equal the renowned writer 
Voltaire. 

Frederick felt and acknowledged 
this frankly and without shame, but 
with that smiling composure and great 
self-consciousness which is ever ready 
to do justice to others, and demands at 
the same time a just recognition of its 
own claims. Voltaire might exalt him- 
self to the clouds, he could not depre- 
ciate the king. He often made him 
angry, however, and this gratified the 
malice of the great French author. 

The other friends of Frederick looked 


upon this conduct of Voltaire with re- 
gret ; and the Marquis d’Argens, whc 
was of a fine and gentle nature, soon 
saw the daily discontent of the king, 
and the wicked joy of Voltaire. 

“My friend,” said he, “the king 
wrote a poem yesterday, which he read 
aloud to me this morning. He declares 
that there is one bad rhyme in his 
poem, and that it tortures him. I 
tried in vain to reassure him. I know 
that the rhyme is incorrect, but you 
will provoke him beyond measure if 
you tell him so. He has tried in vain 
to correct it, without impairing the 
sense of the passage. I have, therefore, 
withheld all criticism, and read to him 
some verses from La Fontaine, where 
the same fault is to be found. I have 
wished to convince him that the poem is 
worthy of praise, although not exactly 
conformed to rule. I beg of you, Vol- 
taire, to follow my example.” 

“ And why should I do that ? ” said 
Voltaire, in his most snarling tone. 

“ Because, with your severe and con- 
tinual criticisms you will disgust the 
king, and turn him aside from his fa- 
vorite pursuit. I think it important to 
poetry and the fine arts that the great 
and powerful sovereign of Prussia 
should love and cherish them ; should 
exalt those who cultivate them, and, 
indeed, rank himself amongst them. 
What difference does it make, Voltaire, 
if a bad rhyme is to be found in the 
poetry of the philosopher of Sans- 
Souci ? ” * 

“ The king wdshes to learn of me how 
to make good poetry, and my love to 
him is not of that treasonable, womanly, 
and cowardly sort which shrinks from 
blaming him because it fears to wound 
his self-love. The king has read his 
poem to you, and it is your province to 
wonder at and praise your friend. He 
will read it to me as ‘ Pedagogo de sua 


* ThI6bault, voL r., p. WT. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


275 


Maestd.^ I will be true and just, where 
you have dared to flatter him.” 

Never was Voltaire more severe in 
his criticism, more cutting in his satire, 
than to-day. His eyes sparkled with 
malicious joy, and a wicked smile 
played still upon his lip as he left the 
king and returned to his own apart- 
ment. 

“ Ah,” said he, seating himself at his 
writing-table, with a loud laugh, “I 
Aall write well to-day, for I have had 
a lesson. Frederick does not know 
how far he is my benefactor. In cor- 
recting him, I correct myself ; and in 
directing his studies, I gain strength 
and judgment for my own works.* I 
will now write a chapter in my History 
of Louis XIV. My style will be good. 
The chapter which I have read this 
morning, in Frederick’s ^ Histoire de 
Mon TempSj'* has taught me what 
faults to avoid. Yes, I will write of 
Louis XrV. Truly I owe him some 
compensation. King Frederick has 
had the naivete to compare his great- 
grandfather, the so-called Prince-Elec- 
tor, to the great Louis. I was amiable 
enough to pardon him for this little 
compliment to his ancestors, and not to 
strike it from his ‘ Histoire.’’ And, in- 
deed, why should I have done that ? 
The world will not be so foolish as to 
charge this amusing weakness to me ! 
After all, the king writes but for him- 
self and a few false, flattering friends ; 
he can, therefore, say what he will. I, 
however, I write for France — for the 
world ! But I fear, alas, that fools will 
condemn me because I have sought to 
write as a wise man.” t 

Voltaire commenced to write, but he 
was soon interrupted by his servant. 
Tripot, who announced that the Jew 
Hirsch, for whom Voltaire had sent, 
was at the door. Voltaire rose hastily, 
and called him to enter. 

♦ Voltaire’s own words.— CEuvres, p. 368. 

+ CEuvres, p. 341. 


“I have business with you, my 
friend,” said he to the Jew. “Close 
the door. Tripot, and see that we are 
not disturbed.” 

Voltaire hastened with youthful agil- 
ity through the saloon, and beckoned 
to the Jew to follow him into his bed- 
room. 

“ First of all, friend, we will make a 
small mercantile operation.” So say- 
ing, he opened the door of a large 
commode. “ See, here are twelve pounds 
of the purest wax-lights. I am a poor 
man, with weak eyes. I have no use 
for these lights; I can never hope to 
profit by them. Here, also, are several 
pounds of sugar and coffee, the savings 
of the last two months. You will buy 
all this of me ; we will agree upon a 
fixed price, and the last day of every 
month you will come for the same pur- 
pose. Name your price, sir.” 

Hirsch named his price ; but it 
seemed that the great poet understood 
how to bargain better than the Jew. 
He knew exactly the worth of the 
sugar and the coffee, he spoke so elo- 
quently of the beauty and purity of the 
thick white wax-lights, that the He- 
brew increased his offer. 

“And now to more important busi- 
ness,” said Voltaire. “ You are going 
to Dresden — you will there execute a 
commission for me. I wish to invest 
eighteen thousand thalers in Saxon 
bonds. They can now be purchased at 
thirty-five, and will be redeemed at a 
hundred.” 

“ But your excellency knows that the 
king has forbidden his subjects to buy 
these bonds. He demanded and ob- 
tained for his subjects a pledge that 
they should be paid at par for the 
bonds they now hold, while the sub- 
jects of the King of Saxony receive 
only their present value. The king 
promised, however, that the Prussians 
should make no further investments in 
these bonds. You see, then, that it 


276 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


impossible for me to fulfil tliis commis- 
sion.” 

“ I see that you are a fool 1 ” cried 
Voltaire, angrily. “ If you were not a 
fool, you would know that Voltaire, the 
chamberlain of the king, would not 
undertake a business transaction which 
would stain his reputation or cast a 
shadow on his name. When Voltaire 
makes this investment, you can un- 
derstand that he is authorized to do 
so.” 

“ That being the case,” said Hirsch, 
humbly, “ I am entirely satisfied, and 
will gladly serve your excellency.” 

“If you will fill this commission 
handsomely and promptly, you may 
feel assured of a reward. Are you 
ambitious ? Would you not like a ti- 
tle ? ” 

“ Certainly I am ambitious. I should 
be truly happy if I could obtain the ti- 
tle of ‘ royal court agent.’ ” 

“Well, buy these bonds for me in 
Dresden clieap^ and you shall have this 
coveted title,” said the noble author of 
the Henriade^'' and other world-re- 
nowned works. 

“ I will buy them at thirty-five tha- 
lers.” 

“ And you will invest eighteen thou- 
sand thalers at this rate. Our contract 
is made ; now we will count the gold. 
I have not the ready money — I will 
give you drafts — come into my study. — 
There are three drafts,” said he, “ one 
on Paris, one on your father, and one 
on the Jew Ephraim. Get them cashed, 
good Hirsch, and bring me my Saxon 
bonds.” 

“Li eight days, your excellency, I 
will return with them, and you will 
have a clear profit of eleven thousand 
thalers.” 

Voltaire’s eyes sparkled with joy. 
“ Eleven thousand thalers I ” said he, 
“ for a poor poet, who lives by his wits 
and his pen, that is a considerable 
sum.” 


“You will realize that sum,” said 
Hirsch, with the solemn earnestness of 
a Jew when he has made a good trade. 

Hirsch was about to withdraw, but 
Voltaire hastened after him, and seizing 
his arm, he cried out threateningly : 
“ You are not going without giving me 
your note ? You do not think that I 
am such a fool as to give you eighteen 
thousand thalers, and have nothing to 
prove it ? ” 

“Your excellency has my word of 
honor,” said the Jew, earnestly. 

Voltaire laughed aloud. “ Your 
word ! the honorable word of a man 
for eighteen thousand thalers ! My 
dear friend, we do not live in paradise, 
but in a so-called Christian city — your 
worthy forefathers obtained for us tliis 
privilege. Do you believe that I will 
trust one of their descendants ? Who 
will go my security that you will not 
nail my innocence and my confiding 
heart upon the cross, and slay them if 
I should be unsuspicious enough to 
trust my money with you in this simple 
way I ” 

“I will give you ample security,” 
said Hirsch, taking a morocco case 
from his pocket. “I did not know 
why your excellency sent for me. I 
thought perhaps you wished to buy 
diamonds, and brought some along 
with me. Look, sir I here are diamonds 
worth twenty-two thousand thalers ! I 
will leave them with you — I, the poor 
Jew, do not fear that the great poet 
Voltaire will deceive and betray me.” 

“These diamonds are beautiful,” said 
Voltaire — “ very beautiful, and perhaps 
if my speculation succeeds, I may buy 
some from you. Until then, I will 
take care of them.” 

Voltaire was about to lock them up, 
but he paused suddenly, and fixed his 
eyes upon the calm countenance of the 
Jew. 

“ How do I know that these are real 
diamonds ? ” he cried ; and as Hirsch 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


exasperated by this base suspicion, 
frowned, and turned pale, he exclaimed 
fiercely : “ The diamonds are false ! I 
know it by your terror. Oh, oh, you 
thought that a poet was a good, credu- 
lous creature who could be easily de- 
ceived. Ah ! you thought I had heard 
nothing of those famous lapidaries in 
St. Germain, who cut diamonds from 
glass, and cook up in their laboratories 
the rarest jewels ! Yes, yes, I know 
all these arts, and all the brewing of St. 
Germain will not suffice to deceive me.” 

“ These diamonds are pure ! ” cried 
Hirsch. 

“We will have them tested by a 
Christian jeweller,” said Voltaire. — 
“ Tripot I Tripot ! run quickly to the 
jeweller Reclam — beg him to come to 
me for a few moments.” 

Tripot soon returned with Reclam, 
The diamonds were pronounced pure 
and of the first water ; and the jeweller 
declared they were fully worth twenty- 
two thousand thalers. Voltaire was 
now fully satisfied, and, when once 
more alone, he looked long and raptur- 
ously upon these glittering stones. 

“ Wliat woman can boast of such daz- 
zling fire in her eyes ? ” said he, laugh- 
ing ; “ what woman can say that their 
color is worth twenty-two thousand 
thalers? It is true they glisten and 
shimmer in all lights and shades — ^that 
is their weakness and their folly. With 
you, beautiful gems ! these changing 
hues are a virtue. Oh, to think that 
with this handful of flashing stones I 
could buy a bag of ducats ! How dull 
and stupid are mankind — how wise is 
God 1 Sinking those diamonds in the 
bowels of the earth was a good spec- 
ulation. They are truffies to tempt the 
snouts of men ; and they root after them 
as zealously as the swine in Perigord 
root after the true trufiles. Gold ! gold ! 
that is the magic word with which the 
world is ruled. I will have gold — I 
will rule the world. I will not give 


211 

place to dukes or princes. I will have 
my seigneuries and my castles; my 
servants in rich livery, and my obedient 
subjects, I will be a grand seigneur. 
Kings and princes shall visit me in my 
castle, and wait in my antechamber, as 
I have been compelled to wait in theirs. 
1 will be rich that I may be every man’s 
master, even master of the fools. I will 
enslave the wise by my intellect — I will 
reduce the foolish to bondage with gold. 
I must be rich ! rich ! rich 1 therefore 
am I here ; therefore do I correct the 
poor rhymes of the king ; therefore do 
I live now as a modest poet, and add 
copper to copper, and save my pension 
of five thousand thalers, and sell my 
wax-lights and my cofiee to the Jew. 
Let the world call me a miser. When 
I become rich, I will be a spendthrift ; 
and men who are now envious and 
angry at my fame shall burst with rage 
at my fortune. Ah, ah, it is not worth 
the cost to be a celebrated writer I 
There are too many humiliations con- 
nected with this doubtful social position. 
It gives no rank — it is a pitiful thing 
in the eyes of those who have actual 
standing, and is only envied by those 
who are unnoticed and unknown. For 
my own part, I am so exhausted by the 
discomforts of my position, I would 
gladly cast it from me, and make for 
myself what the canaille call a good 
thing — an enormous fortune. I will 
scrape together all the gold that is pos- 
sible. I will give for gold all the honor 
and freedom and fame which come to 
me. I am a rich gainer in all these 
things by my residence with King 
Frederick. He has this virtue: he is 
unprejudiced, and cares nothing even 
for his own royal rank. I will therefore 
remain in this haven, whither the storms, 
which have so long driven me from 
shore to shore, have now safely moored 
me. My happiness will last just as long 
as God pleases.” * 


* Voltaire’s owii words.— ffiiivros, p. 110. 


E78 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


He lauglied heartily, and took his 
cash-book, in which he entered receipts 
and expenditures. It was Voltaire’s 
greatest pleasure to add up his accounts 
from time to time, and gloat over the 
growth of his fortune ; to compare, day 
by day, nis receipts and expenses, and 
to find that a handsome sum was almost 
daily placed to his credit. The smallest 
necessary expense angered him. With 
a dark frown he said to himself: “ It is 
unjust and mean to require of me to buy 
provender for my horse, and to have 
my carriage repaired ; if the king fur- 
nishes me with an equipage, he should 
not allow it to be any expense to me. 
The major-domo is an old miser, who 
cheats me every month out of some 
pounds of sugar and coffee, and the wax- 
lights are becoming thinner and poorer. 
I will complain to King Frederick of 
all this; he must see that order prevails 
in his palace.” 

Voltaire closed his account-book, and 
murmured : “ When I have an income 
of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, 
I will cease to economize, God be 
praised, I have almost reached the goal ! 
But,” said he, impatiejatly, “ in order to 
effect this, I must remain here a few 
years, and add my pension to my in- 
come. Nothing must prevent this — I 
must overcome every obstacle. What ! 
who can hinder me ? my so-called friends, 
who naturally are my most bitter ene- 
mies ? Ha, ha ! what a romantic idea 
of this genial king to assemble six 
friends around me at Sans-Souci ; the 
most of them being authors — that is to 
say, natural enemies I I believe if two 
authors, two women, or two pietists, 
were placed alone upon a desert isle, 
they would forget their dependence up- 
on each other, and commence intriguing 
at once. But this, alas ! is humanity, 
and being so, one must withdraw from 
the poor affair advantageously and cun- 
ningly.* No one can live peacefully in 


this world; least of all, in the neighbor- 
hood of a king. It is with kings as 
with coquettes, their glances kindle 
jealousy — and Frederick is a great co- 
quette. I must, therefore, drive my 
rivals from the field, and enjoy in peace 
the tavor oi the king. Now which of 
my rivals are dangerous to me ? All ! 
all! — I must banish them all! I will 
sow such discontent and rage and malice 
and strife amongst them, that they will 
fly in hot haste, and thank God if I do 
not bite off their noses before they es- 
cape. I will turn this, their laughing 
paradise, into a hell, and I will be the 
devil to chase them with glowing pitch- 
forks. Yes, even to Siberia will I drive 
this long-legged peacock, Maiipertius — 
him, first of all; then D’Argens, then 
Algarotti, then this over- wise and good 
Lord Keith, and all others like him ! 
When Voltaire’s sun is in the ascendant, 
not even stars shall glitter. It shall not 
be ! I will prove to them that Vol- 
taire’s fiery rays have burned them to 
ashes ! ” * 

He laughed aloud, and seated himself 
to write a poem. He was invited that 
evening to a soiree by the queen-mother, 
where he wished to shine as an improv 
isator. Above aU other things, he 
wished to win the heart of the Princess 
Amelia. Since she had played the part 
of Aurelia, in “ Rome Sauv6e,” he had 
felt a passion for the princess, who had 
portrayed to the life tlie ardor and the 
pains of love, and whose great flaming 
eyes seemed, from their mysterious 
depths, to rouse the soul of the poet. 
Voltaire had promised the Princess 
Amelia to improvise upon any subject 
she should select, and he relied upon 
his cunning to incline her choice in such 
a direction as to make the poem he was 
now writing appropriate and seem im- 
promptu. 

While thus occupied, his servant en- 
tered and announced a number of dis 


♦ Voltaire’s words.-- -OEuvres, p. 875. 


♦ Voltaire, OEuvres, p. 878 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


279 


tinguislied gentlemen, who were in the 
parlor, and wished to make the great 
author a morning visit. “ Let them all 
wait ! ” said Voltaire, angrily ; declaring 
that this disturbance had cost him a 
piquant rhyme. 

“ But, gracious sir,” stammered the 
servant, “ some of the most distin- 
guished men of the court, and the old- 
est generals, are there ! ” 

“ What do 1 care for their epaulets 
or their excellencies ? Let them wait, 
or go to the devil — ^if they prefer it ! ” 

Well, the eminent gentlemen waited ; 
indeed, they waited patiently, until the 
great Voltaire, the favorite of the king, 
the universal French author, in his 
pride and arrogance was graciously 
pleased to show himself amongst the 
Dutch barbarians, and allow some rays 
of his intellect to fall upon and inspire 
them I 

The saloon was indeed crowded with 
princes, generals, and nobles. Voltaire 
had just returned to Berlin from Pots- 
dam, and all hastened to pay their re- 
spects and commend themselves to his 
grace and favor.* 

Voltaire was very gracious this morn- 
ing. As he was to play the part of im- 
provisator that night, he thought it 
politic to make favor with all those who 
would be present. He hoped that all 
the world would thunder out their en- 
raptured applause, and that Maupertius, 
D’Argens, Algarotti, La Mettrie, and all 
other friends of the king, would be 
filled with envy and rage. He smiled, 
therefore, benign autly, and had kind 


* Forney writes thus in his “ Memoirs : ” “ Dur- 
ag the winter months which Voltaire spent in the 
palace of Berlin, he was the favorite of the court. 
Princes, ambassadors, ministers, generals, nobles 
01 the highest rank, went to his morning receptions, 
and were often received by him with contemptu- 
ou 3 scorn. A great prince was pleased to play chess 
with him, and allowed him every time to win the 
stake of two louis d’ors. It was declared, however, 
that sometimes the gold disappeared before the end 
®f the game, and could not be found.” — “ Souvenirs 
d’un Oitoyon.” 


and flattering words for all. His Ifon- 
mots and piquant witticisms seemed in- 
exhaustible. 

Suddenly his servant drew near, and 
said it was necessary to speak to him - 
on a matter of great importance. Vol- 
taire turned with a winning smile to 
his guests, and, praying them to wait 
for his return, entered his private room. 

“ Well, Tripot, what have you to say 
that is important ? ” 

“ Gracious sir, the court is in mourn- 
ing.” 

Voltaire looked at him enraged. 

“ Fool ! what is tliat to me ? ” 

“ It is of the utmost importance to 
you, sir, if you are going this evening 
to the soiree of the queen-mother.” 

“ Will you run me mad, Tripot ? 
What has court mourning to do with 
the queen’s soiree f ” 

“ Gracious sir, the explanation is very 
simple. When the court is in mourning, 
ho one can appear there in embroid- 
ered clothes ; you must wear a plain 
black coat.” 

“I have no plain black coat,” said 
Voltaire, with a frowning brow. • 

“ It is necessary, then, for you to order 
one, and I have sent Monsieur Pilleneure 
to come and take your measure.” . 

“Are you insane. Tripot?” cried 
Voltaire. “Do you regard me as so 
vile a spendthrift, so brainless a fool, as 
to order a new coat for the sake of one 
evening’s amusement — a coat which 
will cost an immense sum of money, and 
must then hang in the wardrobe to be 
destroyed by moths? In eight days 
this mourning will be bver, and I would 
be several hundred francs poorer, and 
possess a black coat I could never wear ! 

I will not go this evening to the soiree 
of the queen-mother ; this is decided, 

I will announce myself sick. Go and 
countermand the tailor.” 

He turned to - leave the room, but 
paused suddenly. “I cannot decline 
this invitation,” murmured he. “ It is 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


2b0 

widely known that I have promised to 
improvise. The world is looking on 
eagerly. If I do not go, or if I announce 
myself sick, they will say I shrink from 
this ordeal. My enemies will triumph 1 
Tripot, I am obliged to go to the soiree 
of the queen.” 

“ Then the tailor must come to take 
your measure ? ” 

“ Fool ! ” cried Voltaire, stamping 
furiously. “ I have told you I have no 
gold for such follies. Gather up your 
small amount of understanding, and 
think of some other expedient.” 

“Well, your excellency, I know a 
mode of escape from this embarrassment, 
but I scarcely dare propose it.” 

“Speak out — any means are good 
which attain their object.” 

“ Below, in the court, dwells the mer- 
chant Fromery. His servant is my very 
good friend. I have learned from him 
that his master has just purchased a 
beautiful black coat. I think he has 
about the figure of your excellency.” 

“Ah, I understand,” said Voltaire, 
whose countenance became clearer. 
“You wdll borrow for me, from your 
friend, the coat of his master ? ” 

“ Yes, if your excellency is not ofiend- 
ed at my proposal ? ” 

“On the contrary, I find the idea 
capital. Go, Tripot, and borrow the 
coat of Fromery.” 

Voltaire returned once more to his 
distinguished guests, and enraptured 
them again by his witty slanders and 
brilliant conversation. As the last vis- 
itor departed, he rang for his servant. 

“Well, Tripot, have you the coat?” 

“ I have, your excellency.” 

Voltaire rubbed his hands with^ de- 
light. “ It seems this is a happy day 
for me — I make the most advantageous 
business arrangements.” 

“But it will be necessary for your 
grace to try on this coat. I fear it is 
too large ; since I saw Fromery, he has 
grown fat.” 


“The ass I” cried Voltaire. “How 
does he dare to fatten, when all the 
people of intellect and celebrity, like 
myself, grow thinner every day ? ” So 
saying, he put on the coat of the mer- 
chant Fromery. “Yes, truly, it is far 
too large for me. Oh, oh ! to think that 
the coat of a pitiful Dutch tradesman 
is too large for the great French poet ! 
Well, that is because these Dutch bar- 
barians think of nothing but gormandiz- 
ing. They puff up their gross bodies 
with common food, and they daily be- 
come fatter ; but the spirit suffers. Alis- 
erable slaves of their appetites, they are 
of no use themselves, and their coats 
are also useless ! ” 

“ Does your excellency believe that 
it is impossible to wear the coat ? ” 

“Do I believe it is impossible? — 
Look at me ! Do I not look like a 
hungry heir in the testamentary coat 
of his rich cousin the brewer? Would 
it not be thought that I was a scare- 
crow, to drive the birds from the corn- 
fields?” 

At this moment Monsieur Pilleneure 
was announced. 

“ Good Heaven 1 I forget to counter- 
mand the tailor ! ” cried Tripot. 

“That is fortunate! ” said Voltaire, 
calming himself. “ God sends this 
tailor here to put i ^ end to my vexa- 
tion. This coat is good and handsome, 
only a little too large — the tailor will 
alter it immediately.” 

“ That will be splendid ! ” said Tripot, 
“ He will take in the seams, and to-mor- 
row enlarge it again.” 

“Not sol” cried Voltaire. “The 
coat could not possibly look w^ell ; he 
must cut away the seams.” 

“But then,” said Tripot, hesitatingly, 
“Fromery could never wear his coat 
again.” 

“Fromery will learn that Voltaire 
has done him the honor to borrow hn 
coat, and I think that will be a snfficienc 
compensation. Tell the tailor to enter.' 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


2S1 


Thauks to the adroitness of Pille- 
neure, Voltaire appeared at the soiree of 
the queen-mother in a handsome, well- 
fitting black coat. No one guessed that 
the mourning dress of the celebrated 
French writer belonged to the mer- 
chant Fromery, and that the glittering 
diamond agraffes in his bosom, and 
the costly rings on his fingers, were 
the property of the Jew Hirsch. Vol- 
taire’s eyes were more sparkling than 
diamonds, and the glances which he 
fixed upon the Princess Amelia more 
glowing ; lier pale and earnest beauty 
inspired him to finer wit and richer 
hymns of praise. 

No one dared to say that this pas- 
sionate adoration offered to the prin- 
cess was unbecoming and offensive to 
etiquette. Voltaire was the man of his 
age, and therefore justified in offering 
his worship even to a princess. He was 
also the favorite of the king, who al- 
lowed him privileges granted to no 
other man. There was one present, 
however, who found these words of 
passion and rapture too bold, and that 
one was King Frederick. He had en- 
tered noiselessly and unannounced, as 
was his custom, and he saw, with a de- 
risive smile, how every one surrounded 
Voltaire, and all were zealous in ex- 
pressing their raplhre over his impro- 
vised poem, and entreating him to re- 
peat it. 

“ How can I repeat what I no longer 
know?” said he. “An angel floated 
by me in the air, and, by a glance 
alone, she whispered words which my 
enraptured lips uttered as in a wild 
hallucination.” 

“The centuries to come are to be 
pitied if they are to be deprived of this 
enchanting poem,” said the Princess 
Amelia. She had remarked the en- 
trance of the king, knew that his eye 
was fixed upon her, and wished to 
please him by flattering his beloved 
favorite. 


“ If your royal highness thinks thus, 
I will now write out a poem which I 
had designed only to recite,” said Vol- 
taire, seating himself at the card-table ; 
and, taking a card and pencil, he wrote 
with a swift hand and handed the card, 
bowing profoundly. 

The king, who was a silent spectator 
of this scene, looked .at the Princess 
Amelia, and saw that she blushed as 
she read, and her brow was clouded. 

“ Allow me, also, to read the poem 
of the great Voltaire, my sister,” said 
the king, drawing near. 

The princess handed him the card; 
while Frederick read, all stood around 
him in respectful silence. 

“This poem is sublime,” said the 
king, smiling. He saw that the prin 
cess was no longer grave, and that Vol 
taire breathed freely, as if relieved from 
a great apprehension. “ This little 
poem is so enchanting, that you must 
allow me to copy it, my sister. Go on 
with your conversation, messieurs, it 
does not disturb me.” 

A request from the lips of the king 
is a command ; all exerted themselves 
therefore to keep up a gay and animat- 
ed conversation, and to seem thought- 
less and unoccupied. Frederick seated 
himself at the table, and read once more 
the poem of Voltaire, which was as fol- 
lows: 

“ Soavent an peu de v6rit6 
Se mfile iiu plus grossier mensonge. 

Cette nuit dans I’erreur d’nn songe, 

An rang des rois j’6tais raont6, 

Je vcraa aimais alors, et j’osais vons le dire, 

Les dienx a mon revell ne m’ont pas tout 6t6, 
Je n’al perdu que mon empire.” 

“ Insolent ! ” cried the king, and his 
scornful glance wandered away to Vol- 
taire, who was seated near the queen, 
engaged in lively conversation. “ We 
will damp his ardor,” said he, smiling ; 
and, taking a card, he commenced wri- 
ting hastily. 

Truly at this moment the stern mas- 
ter Voltaire might have been content 


282 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR. 


with liis ro3^al pupil ; the rhymes were 
good and flowed freely. When Fred- 
erick had flnished his poem, he put 
Voltaire’s card in his bosom and drew 
near to the princess. 

“ The poem is piquant,” said he ; 
“ read it yourself, and then ask Voltaire 
to read it aloud.” 

Amelia looked^ strangely at the king, 
but as she read, a soft smile lighted up 
her lovely, melancholy face. Bowing 
to her brother, she said in low tones, “ I 
thank your highness.” 

“ Now give the card to Voltaire, and 
ask him to read it,” said the king. 

Voltaire took the card, but as he read 
he did not smile as the princess had 
done — ^he turned pale and pressed his 
lips tightly together. 

“ Read it,” said the king. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Voltaire, 
who had immediately recovered his 
self-possession ; “ this little poem, so 
hastily composed, was not worthy of 
the exalted princess to whom I dared 
address it. Your majesty will be gra- 
ciously pleased to remember that it 
was born in a moment, and the next in- 
stant lost its value. As I now read it, 
I find it dull and trivial. You will not 
be so cruel as to force me to read aloud 
to your majesty that which I condemn 
utterly.” 

“ Oh, le coquin ! ” murmured Fred- 
erick, while Voltaire, with a profound 
bow, placed the card in his pocket. 

When the soiree was over, and Vol- 
taire returned to his rooms, the gay 
and genial expression which he had so 
carefully maintained during the even- 
ing disappeared ; and his lips, which 
had smiled so kindly, muttered words 
of cursing and bitterness. He ordered 
Ti'ipot to arrange his writing-table and 
leave the room. Being now alone, he 
drew the card from his bosom, and, as 
if to convince himself that what he 
saw was truth and no cruel dream, he 
read aloud, but with a trembling ^roice : 


“ On remarquo, ponr I’ordlnaire, 

Qu’un songe esfc analogue k notre caraetdr®, 

Un h6ros pent rfiver, qu’il a pass6 le Khin, 

Un cbien qu’il aboie a la lune ; 

Un joueur, qu’il a fait fortune, 

Un voleur, qu’il a fait butin. 

Mais que Voltaire, k I’aide d’un mensonge, 

Ose Be croire roi lui que n’est qu’un faquin, 
Ma fois 1 e’est abuser du songe.” 

“ So I am already a scoundrel ? ” said 
Voltaire, grhming. “ My enemies tri- 
umph, and he who a short time since 
was called the wise man of the age, the 
Virgil of France, is nothing but a 
scoundrel ! This time, I confess, I 
merited my humiliation, and the con- 
sciousness of this increases my rage. I 
am a good-humored, credulous fool. 
Why was I so silly as to credit the sol- 
emn protestations of the king that 1 
should never feel his superior rank; 
that he would never show himself the 
master ? If I dare to claim an equal- 
ity with him for an instant, he swings 
his rod of correction, and I am bowed 
in the dust ! Voltaire is not the man 
to bow patiently. The day shall come 
in which I wdll revenge with rich in- 
terest the degradation of this evening. 
But enough of anger and excitement. 
I mil sleep ; perhaps in happy dreams 
I shall wander from the chilly borders 
of the Spree to my own beautiful 
Paris.” 

He called Tripot, and commanded 
him to announce to Fredersdorf that 
he was ill, and could not accom^Dany 
the king to Potsdam in the morning. 

He then retired, and the gods, per- 
haps, heard his prayer, and allowed 
him in dreams to look upon Paris, 
where the Marquise de Pompadour 
reigned suj^reme, and the pious priests 
preached against the Atheist Voltaire, 
to whom the great-hearted King of 
Prussia had given an asylum. Perhaps 
he saw in his dreams the seigneurie of 
his glittering future, and his beautiful 
house at Ferney, where he built a tem- 
ple, with the proud inscription, “ Vol 
taire Deo erexit I ” 


FREDERICK TUE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


283 


At all events, liis dreams must have 
Deen very pleasant and refreshing. He 
.aughed in his sleep; and his counte- 
nance, which was so often clouded by 
base and wicked passions, was bright 
and clear; it was the face of a poet, 
who, with closed eyes, looked up into 
the heaven of heavens. 

The morning came, and Voltaire still 
slept — even the rolling of the carriages 
aroused him but for a moment; he 
wrapped himself up in his warm bed, 
the soft eider down of his pillow closed 
over his head and made him invisible. 
Tripot came lightly upon tiptoe and 
removed the black coat of the mer- 
chant Fromery. V oltaire hear nothing ; 
he slept on. And now the door was 
noisily opened, and a young woman, 
with fresh, rosy cheeks and sparkling 
eyes, entered the room ; she was dressed 
as a chambermaid, a little white co- 
quettish cap covered her hair, and a 
white apron with a little bodice was 
laced over her striped woollen robe. 
Upon her white, naked arm she carried 
linen which she threw carelessly upon 
the floor, and drew with rash steps 
near the bed. Voltaire still slept, and 
was still invisible. 

The young chambermaid, believing 
that he had gone with the King to 
Potsdam, had come to arrange the 
room; with a quick movement she 
seized the bed with her sinewy hands 
and threw it off. A wild cry was 
heard! a white skeleton figure rose 
from the bed, now lying in the middle 
of the chamber, and danced about the 
floor with doubled fists and wild curses. 
The girl uttered a shriek of terror and 
rushed from the room ; and, if the form 
and the nightcap had not been purely 
white, she would have sworn she had 
seen the devil in person, and that she 
had cast him out from the bed of the 
great French poet.* 


CHAPTER X 

THE LOVERS. 

The day of grace was at an end. 
The four weeks which the king had 
granted to his sister, in order that she 
might take counsel with herself, were 
passed, and the heart of the princess 
was unmoved — only her face was 
changed. Amelia hid her pallor with 
rouge, and the convulsive trembling of 
her lips with forced smiles ; but it was 
evident that her cheeks became daily 
more hollow, and her eyes more in- 
flamed. Even the king remarked this, 
and sent his physician to examine her 
eyes. The princess received this mes- 
senger of the king with a bitter, icy 
smile. 

“ The king is very good ; but I am 
not ill — I do not suffer.” 

“ But, your royal highness, your eyes 
suffer. They are weak and inflamed: 
allow me to examine them.” 

“ Yes, as my brother has commanded 
it ; but I warn you, you cannot heal 
them.” 

Meckel, the physician, examined her 
eyes with the closest attention, then 
shook his head thoughtfully. 

“ Princess,” said he, at last, in low, 
respectful tones, “if you grant your 
eyes no rest; if, instead of sleeping 
quietly, you pass the night pacing your 
room ; if you continue to exhaust your 
eyes by constant weeping, the most 
fatal consequences may result.” 

“ Do you mean I will become blind ? ” 
said Amelia, quietly. 

“I mean your eyes are suffering; 
that, however, is no acute disease ; but 
your whole nervous system is in a 
dangerous conditif)n, and all this must 
be rectified before your eyes can be 
healed.” 

“Prescribe something, then, as his 
majesty has commanded it,” said Ame- 
lia, coldly. 


• Thiebault, t., 881, 


284 


BERLIN AND SAXS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ I will give jour royal highness a 
remedy : but it is of so strong and dan- 
gerous a nature, that it must be used 
only with the utmost caution. It is a 
liquid : must be heated, and you must 
allow the steam to pass into your eyes. 
Your highness must be very, very care- 
ful. The substances in this mixture are 
so strong, so corrosive, that if you ap- 
proach too near the steam, it will not 
only endanger your eyes, but your face 
and your voice. You must keep your 
mouth firmly closed, and your eyes at 
least ten inches above the vessel from 
which the steam is rising. Will your 
highness remember all this, and act as 
I have directed ? ” 

“ I will repi ember it,” said Amelia, 
replying only to the first part of his 
question. 

Meckel did not remark this. He 
wrote his prescription and withdrew, 
once more reminding Amelia of the 
caution necessary. 

As has been said, this w^as the last 
day* of grace. The princess seemed 
calm and resigned. Even to her con- 
fidential maid she uttered no com- 
plaints. The steaming mixture was 
prepared, and while Amelia held her- 
self some distance above it, as the phy- 
sician had commanded, she said laugh- 
ingly to Ernestine : “ I must strive to 
make my eyes bright, that my brother 
may be pleased, or at least that he may 
not be excited against me.” 

The prescriiDtion seemed to work 
wonders. The eyes of the princess were 
clear and bright, and upon her cheeks 
burned that dark, glowing carnation, 
which an energetic will and a strong 
and bold resolve sometimes call into 
life. 

“ Now, Ernestine, come ! make me a 
careful and tasteful toilet. It seems to 
me that this is my wedding-day ; that I 
am about to consecrate myself forever to 
a beloved friend.” 

“ Oh, princess, let it be thus I ” cried 


Fraulein von Haak, imploringly. “ Con- 
strain your noble heart to follow the 
wishes of the king, and wed the King 
of Denmark.” 

Amelia looked at her, amazed and 
angry. “You know that Trenck has 
received my w’^arning, and has replied 
to me. He will listen to no sugges- 
tions ; under no pretext, will he be in 
fluenced to cross the borders of Prussia, 
not even if full jDardon and royal grace 
are offered him. I need not, therefore, 
be anxious on his account.” 

“That being the case, your royal 
highness should now think a little of 
your own happiness. You should seek 
to be reconciled to your fate — to yield 
to that which is unalterable. The king, 
the royal family, yes, the whole land 
will rejoice if this marriage with the 
King of Denmark takes place. Oh, 
princess, be wise I do willingly, peace- 
fully, what you will otherwise be forced 
to do 1 Consent to be Queen of Den- 
mark.” 

“You have never loved, Ernestine, 
and you do not know that it is a crime 
to break a holy oath sworn unto God. 
But let us be silent. I know what is 
before me — I am prepared 1 ” 

With calm indifference, Amelia com- 
pleted her toilet ; then stepped to the 
large Pysche, which stood in her bou- 
doir, and examined herself with a 
searching eye. 

“ I think there is nothing in my ap- 
pearance to enrage the king. I have 
laid rouge heavily upon my cheeks, and, 
thanks to Meckle’s prescription, my 
eyes are as brilliant as if thej had shed 
no tears. If I meet my brother with 
this friendly, happy smile, he will not 
remark that my cheeks are sunken. He 
will be content with me, and perhaps 
listen to my prayers.” 

Ernestine regarded her with a sad 
and troubled glance. “ You look pale, 
princess, in spite of your rouge, and 
your laugh lacerates the heart. There 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


285 


..8 a tone, a ring in it, like a broken 
harp-string.” 

“Still,” said Amelia, “still, Ernes- 
tine ! my hour has come ! I go to the 
king. Look, the hand of the clock 
points to twelve, and I asked an audi- 
ence of the king at this hour. Farewell, 
Ernestine ! — ^Ernestine, pray for me.” 

She wrapped herself in her mantle, 
and then stepped slowly and proudly 
through the corridors to the wing of 
the castle occupied by the king. Fred- 
erick received her in his library. He 
advanced to the door to meet her, and 
with a kindly smile extended both his 
hands. 

“Welcome, Amelia, a thousand times 
welcome I Your coming proves to me 
that your heart has found the strength 
which I expected ; that my sweet sister 
has recovered herself, her maidenly 
pride, fully. 

“ The proud daughter of the Hohen- 
zollerns is here fo say to the king — ‘ The 
King of Denmark demands my hand. 
I will bestow it upon him. My father’s 
daughter dare not wed beneath her. 
She must look onward and upward. 
There is no myrtle-wreath for me, but a 
crown is glittering, and I accept it. 
God has made both heart and brain 
strong enough to bear its weight. I 
shall be no hapi^y shepherdess, but I 
shall be a great and good queen ; I will 
make others happy.’ 

“You have come, Amelia, to say this 
to the king ; but you have also come 
to say to your brother — ‘I am ready 
to fulfil your wishes. I know that 
no selfish views, no ambitious plans 
influence you. I know that you think 
only of my prosperity and my happi- 
ness; that you would save me from 
misfortune, humiliation, and shame; 
that you would guard me from the 
mistakes and weaknesses of my own 
heart. I accede to your wish, my 
brother — I will be Queen of Den- 
mark ! ’ How, Amelia,” said Freder- 


ick, with an agitated voice, “ have I 
not rightly divined ? Have you not 
sought me for this purpose ? ” 

“ Ho, my brother, no, not” cried 
Amelia, with wild, gushing tears. 
“Ho; I have come to implore your 
pity, your mercy.” Completely beside 
herself, mad with passion and pain, she 
fell upon her ^ knees and raised her 
arms entreatingly to the king. “ Mercy, 
my brother, mercy ! Oh, spare my 
poor, martyred heart? Leave me at 
least the liberty to complain and to be 
wretched ! Do not condemn me to 
marry Denmark ! ” 

Frederick stepped backward, and 
his brow darkened ; but he controlled 
his impatience, and drew near his sis- 
ter with a kindly smile, and, gently 
raising her from her knees, he led her 
to the divan. 

“ Come, Amelia, it does not become 
you to kneel to a man — to God only 
should a princess kneel. Let us be 
seated, and speak to each other as 
brother and sister should speak who love 
and wish to understand each other.” 

“ I am ready for all else, I will ac- 
commodate myself to all else — only be 
merciful I Do not compel me to wed 
Denmark ! ” 

“Ah, see, my sister, although you 
are struggling against me, how justly 
you comprehend your position ! ” said 
the king, mildly. “You speak of 
wedding Denmark. Your exalted and 
great destiny sleeps in these words. A 
princess wdien she marries does not 
wed a .man, but a whole people; she 
does not only make a man but a nation 
happy. There are the weeping, whose 
tears she will dry; the poor, whose 
hunger she will assuage ; the unhappy 
to wdiom she will bring consolation 
the sick and dymg, with whom she will 
pray. There is a whole people advan- 
cing to meet her with shouts of glad- 
ness, stretching out their hands, and 
asking for love. God has blessed the 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


i»86 

aearts of queens with the power to love 
their subjects, because they are women. 
Oh, my sister, this is a great, a noble 
destiny which Providence otfers you — 
to be the beneficent, mediating, smiling 
angel, standing ever by the side of a 
king — a bond of love between a king 
and his subjects I Truly one might well 
offer up their poor, pitiful wishes, their 
own personal happiness, for such a noble 
destiny.” 

“ I have no more happiness to offer 
up,” sighed Amelia. “ I have no hap- 
piness ; I do not ask so much. I plead 
for the poor right of living for my 
great sorrow — of being faithful to my- 
self.” 

“ He only is faithful to himself who 
lives to discharge his duties,” said the 
king. “ He only is true to himself who 
governs himself, and if he cannot be 
happy, at least endeavors to make 
others so; and this vocation of mak- 
ing others happy is the noblest calling 
for a woman; by this shall she over- 
come her selfishness and find comfort, 
strength, and peace. And who, my 
sister, can say that he is happy ? Our 
life consists in unfulfilled wishes, vain 
hopes destroyed, ideals, and lost illu- 
sions. Look at me, Amelia. Have I 
ever been happy ? Do you believe that 
there is a day of my life I would live 
over? Have I not, from my earliest 
youth, been acquainted with grief, self- 
denial, and pain? Are not all the 
blossoms of my life broken ? Am I 
not, have I not ever been, the slave of 
my rank? — a man ‘cabined, cribbed, 
confined,’ though I appear to be a great 
king? Oh, I will not relate what I 
have suffered — how my heart has been 
macerated and trampled upon! I will 
only say to you that, notwithstanding 
this, I have never wished to be other 
than I am; that I have been always 
thankful for my fate ; glad to be born 
to a throne, and not in a miserable hut. 
Believe me, Amelia, a sublime misfor- 


tune is better, more glorious, than a 
petty happiness. To have the brow 
wounded, because the crown presses too 
heavily upon the temples, is more de- 
sirable than to breathe out your sor- 
rows in the midst of poverty and vul- 
garity, then sink into a dark and un- 
known grave. God, v^ho has, perhaps, 
denied us the blessing of love, gives 
fame as a comjDensation. If we are 
not happy, we are powerful I ” 

“ Ah, my brother these are the views 
of a man and a king,” said Amelia. “I 
am a poor, weak woman. For me 
there is no fame, no power ! ” 

“Isabella of Spain and Elizabeth of 
England were also women, and their 
fame has extended through centuries.” 

“They, however, were independent 
queens. I can be nothing more than 
the wife of a king. Oh, my brother, 
let me remain only the sister of a king I 
Let there be no change in my fate — let 
all remain as it is I This is my only hope 
— my only prayer 1 My heart is dead, 
and every wish is buried — let it suffice, 
my brother! Do not ask the impos- 
sible ! ” 

The king sprang from his seat, and 
his eyes glowed wdth scorn. “It is, 
then, all in vain ! ” said he, fiercely. 
“ You will listen neither to reason nor 
entreaty ! ” 

“ Oh, sire, have mercy — I cannot wed 
the King of Denmark ! ” 

“You cannot!” cried the king; 
“ what does that mean ? ” 

“ That means that I have sworn never 
to become the wife of another than of 
him whom I love ; that means that I 
have sworn to die unmarried, unless I 
go to the altar with my beloved I ” 

“ This wild, mad wish can never be 
fulfilled ! ” said the king, threateningly. 
“You will marry — I, the king, com- 
mand it ! ” 

“ Command me not, my brother ! ” 
cried Amelia, proudly, command me 
not! You stand now upon the ex 


FREDERICK THE GREAT- AND HIS FRIENDS. 


treme&t boundary of your power; it 
will be easy now to teach you that a 
king is powerless against a firm, bold 
will ! ” 

“ Ah ! you threaten me ! ” 

“ No, I pray to you — I pray wildly to 
your hard heart for pity I I clasp your 
knees — I pray to you, as the wretched, 
the hopeless pray to God — have mercy 
upon my torment, pity my unspeakable 
anguish ! I am a poor, weak woman — 
oh, have mercy ! My heart bleeds from 
a thousand wounds — comfort, heal it ! I 
am alone, and oh, how lonely ! — be with 
me, my brother, and protect and shield 
me ! Oh, my brother ! my brother ! it 
is my life, my youth, my future which 
cries out to you ! Mercy ! grace ! 
Drive me not to extremity ! Be merci- 
ful, as God is merciful ! Force me not 
into rebellion against God, against Na- 
ture, against myself I Make me not an 
unnatural daughter, an unthanlvful sis- 
ter, a disobedient subject ! My God ! 
my God ! Oh, let your heart be touch- 
ed ! I cannot wed the King of Den- 
mark — say not that I shall 1 ” 

“ And if I still say it ? If, by the 
power of my authority, as your brother 
and your king, I command you to 
obey ? ” 

“ I may perhaps die, but your com- 
mand will have no other result,” said 
she, rising slowly, and meeting the 
raging glance of the king with a proud 
and calm aspect. “ You have not lis- 
tened to my prayers ; well, then, I pray 
no more. But I swear to you, and God 
in heaven hears my oath, I will never 
marry 1 Now, my king, try how far 
your power reaches ; what you may do 
and dare; how far you may prevail 
with a woman who struggles against 
the tyranny of her destiny ! You can 
lead an army into desperate battle; 
you can conquer provinces, and make 
thrones totter to their base, but you 
cannot force a woman to do what she 
is resolved against 1 You cannot break 


287 

my will I I repeat my oath — I swear I 
will never marry I ” 

A cry of rage burst from the lips of 
the king ; with a hasty movement he 
advanced and seized the arm of the 
princess; then, however, as if ashamed 
of his impetuosity, he released her and 
stepped backward. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ you will wed 
the King of Denmark. This is my un- 
changeable purpose, my inexorable com- 
mand ! The time of mourning for his 
dead wife is passed ; and he has, through 
a special ambassador, renewed his suit 
for your hand. I will receive the am- 
bassador to-morrow morning in solemn 
audience. I will say to him that I am 
ready to bestow the hand of my sister 
upon the King of Denmark. To-mor- 
row you will be the bride and in four 
weeks you will be the wife of the King 
of Denmark ! ” 

“ And if I repeat to you, that I will 
never be his wife ? ” 

“ Madame, when the king commands, 
no one in his realm dare say ‘I will 
not ! ’ Farewell — to-morrow morning, 
then ! ” He bowed, left the room, and 
closed the door behind him. 

Amelia sighed heavily, then slowly 
and quietly, even as she had come, she 
walked through the corridors, and as 
she passed by her maids she greeted 
them with a soft smile. Ernestine 
wished to follow her to her boudoir, 
but she nodded to her to remain out- 
side ; she entered and closed the door. 
She was alone ; a wild shriek burst 
from her lips ; with a despaiiing move- 
ment she raised her arms to heaven, 
then sank powerless, motionless to the 
floor. 

How long she lay there ; what mar- 
tyrdom, what tortures her heart en- 
dured in those hours of solitude, whc 
can know ? It was twilight when 
Princess Amelia opened the door and 
bade her friend, Fraulein von Haak, 
enter. 


288 


BERLIN AND,SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


“ Oh, princess, dearly-beloved prin- 
cess,” she said, weeping bitterly, press- 
ing Amelia’s hand to her lips, ‘‘ God be 
thanked that I see you again ! ” 

“ Poor child 1 ” said Amelia, gently, 
“ poor child ! You thought I would de- 
stroy myself! is it not so, Ernestine ? 
No, no, I must live 1 A dark and sad 
foreboding tells me that a day will 
come when Trenck will need me ; when 
ray life, my strength, my assistance will 
be necessary to him. I will be strong I 
I will live and await that day I ” 

With calm indifference she now be- 
gan to speak of trifling things, and lis- 
tened kindly to all Ernestine related. 
There was, however, a certain solem- 
nity in her movements, in her smile, in 
every word she uttered ; her eyes 
turned from time to time with an in- 
describable expression to heaven, and 
anxious, alarmed sighs fell trembling 
from her lips. 

At last the long and dreary hours of 
the evening were over. It was night. 
Amelia could dismiss her maids and be 
once more alone. They brought the 
spirit-lamp, upon which stood the ves- 
sel containing the steaming mixture 
for her eyes ; she directed them to place 
it near, and go quietly to sleep. She 
would undress herself and read awhile 
before she went to bed. She embraced 
Fraulein von Haak, and charged her to 
sleep peacefully. 

“You have promised,” whispered 
Ernestine, lightly, “ you will live 1 ” 

“ I will live, for Trenck will one day 
need me. Good-night I ” 

She kissed Ernestine upon the brow, 
and smiled upon her till the door 
closed — then pressed the bolt forward 
hastily, and rushed forward to the large 
miiTor, which reflected her image clear- 
ly and distinctly. With a curious ex- 
pression she contemplated her still 
lovely, youthful, and charming image, 
and her lips lightly whispered, “ Fare- 
well, thou whom Trenck loved 1 Fare- 


well, farewell I ” She greeted her im- 
age with a w’eary smile, then stejiped 
firmly to the table, where the mixture 
hissed and bubbled, and the dangerous 
steam ascended. 

The next morning loud shrieks and 
groans were heard in the bedroom of 
the princess. Amelia’s maids had come 
to arrange her toilet, and found her 
stretched upon her couch, with dis- 
figured face, with bloody eyes, which, 
swollen, and rigid, appeared almost 
torn from their sockets ! They ran for 
the physician, for the queen, for the 
king; all was confusion, excitement, 
anguish. 

Ernestine knelt weeping by the bed 
of the princess, and implored her to 
say what frightful accident had so dis- 
figured her. Princess Amelia was in- 
capable of reply ! Her Iq^s w^ere con- 
vulsively pressed together; she could 
only stammer out a few inarticulate 
sounds. 

At last Meckel arrived, and when he 
saw the inflamed, swollen face, the eye- 
balls starting from their sockets, and 
then the vessel containing the powerful 
mixture upon the table, he was filled 
with horror. 

“Ah, the unhappy ! ” murmured he ; 
“ she did not regard my warning. She 
drew too near the noxious vapor, and it 
has entered not only her eyes but her 
windpipe; she will suffer much, and 
never be wholly restored 1 ” 

Amelia understood these words, which 
were addressed to Fraulein von Haak, 
and a horrible wild laugh burst from 
her bloody, skinless lips. 

“ Will she recover ? ” asked Fraulein 
von Haak. 

“ She will recover, but her eyes will 
be always deformed and her voice is 
destroyed. I will hasten to the apothe- 
cary’s and prepare soothing ointments.” 

He withdrew', and now another door 
opened, and the king entered. With 
hasty steps, and greatly excited, he 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


28S 


3rew near tlie bed of the princess. As 
he looked upon her deformed counte- 
nance, her bleeding, rigid eyes, he uttered 
a cry of horror, and bowed down over 
his sister. 

She gazed up at him steadily ; tried 
to open her lips ; tried to speak, but 
only a dull, hollow sound was heard. 
Now she slightly raised herself up with 
a powerful elfort of strength, and moved 
her hand slowly over the white wall 
near her bed. 

“ She wishes to write,” said the king ; 
“perhaps she will tell the cause of her 
sufferings. Give her something quick- 
ly ! there — a coal from the chimney ! ” 

Fraulein von Haak brought the coal, 
and Amelia wrote, with trembling hand, 
in great, irregular letters, these words 
upon the wall : 

“ Now I will not wed the King of 
Denmark ! — now I shall never marry I ” 
then fell back on her pillow with a hol- 
low laugh, which deformed her swollen 
and convulsed features in a frightful 
manner. 

The king sank on a chair near the 
bed, and, clasping his hands over his 
face, he abandoned himself to despair. 
He saw, he comprehended all I He 
knew that she had intentionally dis- 
figured herself; that she had offered up 
her beauty to her love I For this reason 
she had so piteously pleaded with him ! 
— ^for this reason had she clamored for 
pity ! — pity for her youth, her future, 
her life’s happiness I Love and faith 
she had offered up 1 Greater, braver 
than Juliet, she had not given herself 
up to death, but to deformity ! She 
had destroyed her body, in order to 
treasure love and constancy in her heart 
for her beloved I All this the king 
knew, and a profound and boundless 
sorrow for this young woman, so strong 
in her love, came over him. He bowed 
his head and wept bitterly.* 

♦ La par tie de I’liistoire de la Princesee Am611e 
qai a etd la moins connue, et sur laquelle le public 
19 


CHAPTER XI. 

BAKBAKENA. 

The visit which the proud wife of 
the High-Chancellor Cocceji had made 
to the still prouder dancer, had brought 
the trembling and irresolute heart of 
Barbarina to a conclusion. Tliis heart, 
which had not been influenced by her 
own wishes or the eloquent prayers of 
her young lover, was -wounded by the 

a flotte entre des opinions plus diverses et moins 
admissibles, c’est la cause de ses infirmit6s. Heu- 
reusement constitute sans ttre grande, elle n’au- 
rait pas d(i savoir il les craindre, intme dans unag« 
trts-avanc6 ; et elle en a 6t6 atteinte bien avant 
I’age, qui pent les faire craindre. Encore, ne les 
a-t-elle pas eues partiellement, elle en a tte spon- 
tantment accablee. II n’est pas douteux qu’elle 
ne les ait cherchees. J’en donnerai pour preuve 
an fait qui est certain. A une tpoque ou elle avait 
les ycux inflamraes, M. Meckel, qui ttait son 
mtdecin, ini ordonna une composition liqiiide, 
qu’il fallait faire chauffer, pour en faire parvenir la 
vapeur jusqu’aux yeux, mais en tenant ce liquide 
aux moins A sept ou huit pouces de distance ; et lui 
recommanda bien de nepas I’approcher davantage : 
et, cependant dts qu’elle eut cette composition, elle 
s’empressa de s’en frotter les yeux, ce qui produisit 
un si funeste effet, qu’elle courut le plus grand 
danger de devenir aveugle ; et que depuis elle a 
toujours de les yeux h moitit sortis de leurs orbites, 
et aussi hideux qu'ils avaient ttt beaux jusque Ih. 
Frtdtric ^ qui on n’osa pas dire combien la prin- 
cesse avait de part ^ cette accident, n’a jamais eu 
depuis qu’une aversion, trts-marqute et un vral 
mtprls pour M. Meckel, que la princesse fut obligee 
de quitter, et qui n’en tlait pas moins un des meil- 
leurs mtdecins de Berlin, et un des plus ctltbres 
anatomistes de I’Europe. 

Une autre inflrmite plus ttonnante, encore, c’est 
que cette princesse perdit presque totalement la 
voix; aussi de sa faute ^ce qui Ton a pr6tendu il 
lui 6tait difficile de parler, et tr6s-p6nible aux 
autres de I’entendre. Sa voix n’<Stait plus qu’un 
Sun vague, sourd et s6pulcral, semblable k celui que 
forme une personne qui fait effort pour dire comme 
^ voix basse qu’elle 6trangle. 

Je ne parlerai pas de sa tSte chancelante et se 
soutenant k peine de ses jambes, pour lesquelles son 
corps appauvri 6tait un poids si lourd de ses bras ; 
et de ses mains plus d’a moitid paralyse ; mais 
quels puissants motifs ont pu amener cette belle et 
aimable ])rincosse k se faire elle-m6me un sort el 
triste? Quelle philosophie a pu lui donner assez 
de force pour le supporter, et ne [jas s’en plaindre f 
quelle dnergle tons ces faits ne prouvent-ils pas ?— 
Thidbault, II., 28T-289. 


290 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI ; OR, 


insane pride of Madame Cocceji, and 
forced to a final resolve. The visit was 
unfortunate, and its results exactly the 
opposite of her hopes. 

She had come to prove to Barbarina 
that she should not even dare to think 
of becoming the wife of her son. By 
her wild passion and abusive words she 
had so exasperated her, that she deter- 
mined to do that for revenge which she 
had firmly refused to love. In flashing 
scorn she had sworn this to the proud 
wife of the high chancellor ; and her 
honor and her pride demanded the ful- 
filment of her oath. 

And now a fierce contest commenced 
between them — carried on by both 
parties with bitterness and energy. The 
high chancellor threatened his son with 
his curse. He solemnly declared he 
would disinherit him. Cocceji only 
loved the Barbarina the more glowing- 
ly ; and, as his mother spoke to him of 
the dancer, and uttered passionate and 
abusive words, he replied respectfully 
but decisively that he would not listen 
to such accusations against the woman 
who was to be his wife, and must forbid 
them positively. Madame Cocceji was 
beside herself with rage ; by her prayers 
and persuasions, she induced her hus- 
band to take refuge in the last and most 
violent resource that remained — in the 
power of arrest which the king had 
granted him. He resolved to confine 
his son in the castle of Mt. Landsberg, 
and thus break the magical bands of 
Ariadne. 

One day, the Councillor Cocceji did 
not appear in the halls of justice, and 
no one knew what had become of him. 
The servants stated that a carriage 
stopped at his dwelling, in the middle 
of the night ; that General Haak with 
two soldiers entered Cocceji’s room, and 
remained with him some time. They 
had then all entered the general’s car- 
riage, and driven away. 

Cocceji had, however, found a secret 


opportunity to slip a piece of paper into 
the servant’s hand, and to whisper, 
“ Quick, to the signora ! ” 

The faithful servant obeyed this or- 
der. The paper contained only these 
words : “I am arrested ; make all ne- 
cessary preparations ; expect me daily. 
As soon as I am free, our marriage will 
take place.” 

Barbarina made her preparations. 
She undertook frequently little journeys, 
and sometimes remained away from 
Berlin several days. She bought a 
costly and beautiful house, to prove to 
the wife of the chancellor that she had 
no thought of leaving Berlin and re 
turning to Italy. 

Some months went by. The king, 
who had yielded to the prayers of the 
Coccejis, and allowed them to arrest 
their son, would not consent to his 
longer confinement. He had no trial ; 
had committed no offence against the 
laws or the king ; was guilty of no other 
crime than wishing to marry the woman 
he loved. 

So the young councillor was released 
from the castle of Landsberg. He re- 
turned to Berlin ; and his first visit was 
not to his parents, but to Barbarina, 
who received him in her new house in 
Behren Street. 

A few hours later, a carriage stood 
before the door, which Barbarina, ac- 
companied by her sister and Cocceji, 
entered, and drove rapidly away. No 
one knew where they went. Even the 
spies of the Coccejis, who continually 
watched the house of the dancer, could 
learn nothing from the servants who 
were left behind. A few days after, 
they brought the intelligence that Bar- 
barina had returned ; that the councillor 
dwelt with her in her new house ; and 
the servants were commanded to call 
the signora Madame Cocceji^ as she was 
his well-beloved and trusted wife. 

The wife of the high chancellor laugh- 
ed contemptuously at this narrative.. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


291 


and declared it to be only a cowp de 
theatre. Suddenly an equipage drove 
to the door. Somewhat curious, Ma- 
dame Cocceji stepped to the window ; 
she saw that the coachman and footmen 
were dressed in liveries glittering with 
gold, and that the panels of the carriage 
were ornamented with the Cocceji coat- 
of-arms. 

The Signora Barbarina was to be 
seen at the window. Horrified, the 
wife of the chancellor stepped back ; 
a servant entered with a card, which he 
handed her respectfully. 

“ I am not at home ; I receive no 
visits I ” cried she, after looking at the 
card. The servant retired, and the car- 
riage rolled away. 

“ Yes, it is true. She has triumphed I ” 
groaned the countess, still gazing at the 
card, which had these words, “Mon- 
sieur de Cocceji and Madame de Cocceji, 
nee Barbarina.” — “But she shall not 
succeed ; the Barbarina shall never be 
called my daughter ; this marriage shall 
be set aside, the ceremony was not law- 
ful, it is contrary to the laws of the 
land. Barbarina is a bourgeaise^ and 
cannot wed a noble without the ex- 
press consent of the king. I will 
throw myself at the feet of his ma- 
jesty and implore him to annul this 
marriage I ” 

Frederick was much exasperated, and 
inclined to yield to the entreaties of his 
high-chancellor. A short time before, 
he had commanded the Catholic clergy 
not to perform any marriage ceremony 
without special permission and legiti- 
mation ; and his anger was aroused at 
their daring to disobey him, and in se- 
crecy and silence to marry Barbarina 
and Cocceji. 

He commanded his cabinet minister 
Uhden to ascertain by what right the 
dancer Barbarina dared to call herself 
Madame Cocceji, and, if she could estab- 
dsh her claim, he wished to be informed 
what priest had dared to bless the holy 


banns. He was resolved to punish him 
severely. 

The minister Uhden was a warm per- 
sonal friend of the high-chancellor, and 
more than willing, therefore, to carry 
out sternly the king’s commands. The 
next day he ordered Barbarina to ap- 
pear before him, stating that he had 
the king’s commission to pronounce 
judgment upon her. 

When Barbarina read this order, she 
was lost in painful silence, and a pro- 
found melancholy was written upon her 
pale face. 

“ What will you do, sister ? ” said 
Marietta. 

“ I will go to the king ! ” replied Bar- 
barina, rousing herself. 

“ But the king is at Potsdam.” 

“Well, then, I will go to Potsdam. 
Order my carriage; I must go in a 
quarter of an hour.” 

“ What shall I say to your husband 
when he returns home ? ” 

Barbarina looked at her steadily. 
“ Tell him that Madame Cocceji has 
gone to Potsdam, to announce her mar- 
riage to the king, and ask him to ac- 
knowledge it.” 

“ Barbarina,” whispered her sister, 
“ hear me ! Your husband is troubled 
and sorrowful ; he has confided in me. 
He says he fears you did not marry him 
from love, but for revenge, and that you 
love him not.” 

“ 1 am resolved to love him I I will 
learn how,” said she, sadly. “ I have 
a strong will, and my heart shall obey 
me I ” 

She smiled, but her lovely face was 
overcast with-grief, and Marietta’s eyes 
were filled with tears. 

Frederick was alone in his study in 
the castle of Potsdam ; he was busily 
engaged in writing. The door was 
lightly opened, and the Marquis d’Ar- 
gens looked in. When he saw that the 
king had heard nothing, he beckoned to 
a lady who stood behind him to draw 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


IQ2 

near. Slie entered the room silently 
and noiselessly ; the marquis bowed to 
her, and, smiling kindly, he stepped 
back and closed the door. 

The lady, who up to this time had 
closely concealed her features, no^ 
threw back her veil, and exposed the 
pale but lovely countenance and flash- 
ing eyes of Barbarina. She gazed at 
the king with a mingled expression of 
happiness and pain. 

The king still heard nothing. Sud- 
denly he was aroused by a iow sigh ; it 
seemed to him that a soft, sweet, long- 
silent voice whispered his name. He 
rose hastily and turned ; Barbarina was 
kneeling at the door ; it was that door 
before which, five years ago, she had 
kneeled bathed m tears and wild with 
despair. She was now, as then, upon 
her knees, weeping bitterly, and raising 
her hands importunately to the king, 
pleading for grace and pity. 

Frederick was at first pallid from sur- 
prise, and a frown was on his brow ; 
but, as he looked upon her, and saw 
once more those great, dark, unfathom- 
able eyes, a j^ainful but sweet emotion 
overcame him ; the cloud was lifted up, 
his countenance was illuminated, and 
his eyes were soft and misty. 

With a kindly smile he drew near to 
Barbarina. “Kise,” said he, and the 
tones of his voice made her heart beat 
wildly, and brought fresh tears to her 
eyes. “ You come strangely and unex- 
pectedly, Barbarina, but you come with 
a beautiful retinue, with a crowd of 
sweet, fond remembrances — and I — of 
whom men say, ‘ He has no religion ’ — 
I have at least the religion of memory. 
I cannot be angry with you, Barba- 
rina; rise, and tell me why you are 
here.” 

He bowed, and took her by the hands 
and raised her; and now, as she stood 
near him, lovely as ever, her great eyes 
glowing with warmth and passion, in- 
toxicating the senses with her odorous 


beauty, the king felt anguish in his 
heart which he had no words to ex- 
press. , , 

They stood silently, side by side, theii 
eyes fixed upon each other, Frederick 
holding Barbarina's hand in his; they 
seemed to be w^hispering mysterious 
fairy tales to each other’s hearts. 

“I see you, surrounded by smiling, 
sacred genii,” at last said Frederick. 
“ These are the genii of the rosy hours 
which have been. Ah, Barbarina, thus 
attended, your face seems to me as the 
face of an angel. Why were you not an 
angel, Barbarina ? Why were you only 
a woman — a passionate woman, who, 
not satisfied with loving and being 
loved, wish also to govern ; who was 
not content to be worshipped by the 
man, but wished to subject the king, 
whom you thus forced to forget his 
humanity, to trample upon and torture 
his own heart in order to remain king ? 
Oh, Barbarina, why were you this proud, 
exacting woman, rather than the angel 
which you now truly are ? ” 

She raised her hands, as if implor- 
ing him to be silent. “I understand 
all that now, I have thought of it, 
night, and day ; I know and I confess 
that you acted right, sire. And now 
I am no longer an imperious woman, 
but a humiliated oue ! In my helpless- 
ness, with my pride subdued, I come to 
you ! I come to you, sire, as one goes 
to God, weary and heavy laden. I 
come to you, as a poor sinner goes into 
God’s holy temple, to confess his sins ; 
to have his burden lightened ; to pray 
for help that he may subdue his own 
heart 1 Oh, sire, this is a sacred, con- 
secrated hour lor me, and what I now 
say to you, only God and yourself may 
hear ! ” 

“ Speak, Barbarina, and may God 
hear and answer ! ” 

“ Sire, I come for help ! ” 

“ Ah, for help ! ” exclaimed the king, 
and a mocldng expression played upon 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


293 


ais lips. “ I had forgotten. You wish 
tc be called Madame Cocceji ? ” 

“ I am called thus, sire,” said she, 
softly ; “ but they are about to declare 
my marriage illegal, and by the power 
ot the law to set it aside.” 

“ And for this reason you come to 
me?” said the king. “You fear for 
your beautiful title ? ” 

“ Ah, sire, you do not think so piti- 
fully of me as to suppose I care for a 
title ! ” 

“ You married the Councillor Cocce- 
ji, then, from love ? ” said the king. 

Barbarina looked at the king stead- 
ily. “ No, sire, I did not marry him 
for love.” 

‘‘ Why, then, did you marry him ? ” 

“ To save myself, sire — to save my- 
self, and because I could not learn to 
forget. Your majesty has just said 
that you have the religion of memory. 
Sire, I am the anguish-stricken, tor- 
tured, fanatical priestess of the same 
faith. I have lain daily before her 
altar, I have scourged my heart with 
remembrances, and blinded my eyes 
with weeping. At last a day came in 
which I roused myself. I resolved to 
abandon my altar, to flee from the past, 
and teach my heart to forget. I went 
to England, accepted Lord Stuart’s pro- 
posals, and resolved to be his wife. It 
was in vain, wholly in vain. Wliatso- 
ever my trembling lips might say, my 
heart lay ever bleeding before the altar 
of my memory. The Past followed me 
over the wide seas, she beckoned and 
greeted me with mysterious sighs and 
pleadings; she called out to me, with 
two great, wondrous eyes, clear and 
blue as the heavens, unfathomable' as 
the sea! These eyes, sire, called me 
back, and I could not resist them. I 
felt that I would rather die by them 
than relinquish them forever. So, on 
my wedding-day, I fled from England, 
and returned to Berlin. The old magic 
came over me ; also, alas I the old 


grief. I felt that I must do something 
to save myself, if I would not go mad. 
I resolved to bind my wayward heart in 
chains, to make my love a prisoner to 
duty, and silence the outcries of my 
soul ! But I still wavered. Then came 
Madame Cocceji. By her insolent 
bearing she roused my iDride, until it 
overshadowed even my despair, and I 
heard no other voice. So, sire, I mar- 
ried Cocceji ! I have taken refuge in 
this marriage, as in a safe haven, where 
I shall rest peacefully and fear no 
storm. 

“ But, my king, struggle as I may to 
begin a new life, the religion of mem- 
ory will not relinquish her priestess ; 
she extends her mystical hands over me, 
and my poor heart shouts back to her 
against my will. Sire, save me 1 I 
have fled to this marriage as one flies 
to a cloister-cell, to escape the sweet 
love of this world. Oh, sire, do not al- 
low them to drive me from this refuge ; 
leave me in peace to God and my duty ! 
Alas! my soul has repented, she lies 
wearied and ill at your feet. Help her, 
heal her, I implore you ! ” 

She was silent. She extended her 
hands toward the king. He looked at 
her sadly, kindly took her hands in 
his, and pressed his lips upon them. 

“ Barbarina,” said he, in a rich, mel- 
low voice — “ Barbarina, I thank you. 
God and the king have heard you. 
You say that you are the priestess of 
the religion of remembrance ; well, 
then, I am her priest, and I confess to 
you that I, also, have passed many 
nights in anguish before her altar. 
Life demands heavy sacrifices, and 
more from kings than from other men. 
Once in my life I made so rich an offer- 
ing to my royalty that it seemed life 
could have no more of bitterness in 
store. The thoughtless and fools con- 
sider life a pleasure. But I, Barbarina, 
I say, that life is a duty. Let us fulfil 
our duties,” 


294 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUOI ; OR, 


“ Yes, we will go and fulfil tliem,” 
said she, with flashing eyes. “ Sire, I 
will go to fulfil mine ; but I am weak, 
and have yet one more favor to ask. 
There is no cup of Lethe from which 
men drink forgetfulness, and yet I must 
forget. I must cast a veil over the 
past. Help me, sire — I must leave Ber- 
lin ! Banish my husband to another 
city. It will be an open grave for me ; 
but I will struggle to plant that grave 
with flowers, whose beauty and per- 
fume shall rejoice and make glad the 
heart of my husband ! 

“ I grant your request,” said the 
king, sadly. 

“ I thank you, sire ; and now, fare- 
well ! ” 

“ Farewell, Barbarina ! ” 

He took again her hands in his, and 
looked long into her fair, enchanting 
face, now glowing with enthusiasm. 
Neither spoke one word; they took 
leave of each other with soft glances 
and melancholy sighs. 

“ Farewell, sire ! ” said Barbarina, 
after a long pause, withdrawing her 
hands from the king’s, and stepping 
toward the door. The king followed 
her. 

“ Give me your hand,” said he, “ I 
will go with you I ” 

Frederick led her into the adjoining 
room, in which there were two doors. 
One led to a small stairway, which 
opened upon a side-door of the castle ; 
to the other great saloon in which the 
cavaliers and followers of the king 
were wont to assemble. 

Barbarina had entered by the small 
stairway, and now turned her steps in 
that direction. “No, not that way,” 
said Frederick. “ My staft' await me in 
the saloon. It is the hour for parade, 
I will show you my court.” 

Barbarina thanked him, and follow'ed 
silently to the other door. The gener- 
als, in their glittering uniforms; and 
the cavaliers, with their embroidered 


vests and brilliant orders, bowed pra 
foundly, and no one dared to manifest 
the surprise he felt as the king and 
Barbarina entered. 

Frederick led Barbarina into the 
middle of the saloon, and, letting go her 
hand, he said aloud : “ Madame, I have 
the honor to commend myself to you. 
Your wish shall be fulfilled. Your hus- 
band shall be President of Glogau ! it 
shall be arranged to-day.” The king 
cast a proud and searching glance 
arohnd the circle of his cavaliers, until 
they rested upon the master of cere- 
monies. “ Baron Pollnitz, conduct Ma- 
dame Presidentess Cocceji to her car- 
riage.” 

Pollnitz stumbled forward and placed 
himself with a profound salutation at 
Barbarina’s side. 

Frederick bowed once more to Bar- 
barina ; she took the arm of Baron Poll- 
nitz. Silence reigned in the saloon as 
Barbarina withdrew. 

The king gazed after her till she had 
entirely disappeared ; then breathing 
heavily, he turned to his generals and 
said: “Messieurs, it is time for pa- 
rade.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

INTEiaUES. 

Voltaire was faithful to his purpose : 
he made use of his residence in Prussia 
and the favor of the king to increase 
his fortune, and to injure and degrade, 
as far as possible, all those for whom 
the king manifested the slightest par- 
tiality. He not only added to his rich- 
es by the most abject niggardliness in 
his mode of life, thereby adding his 
pension to his capital, but by specula- 
tion in Saxon bonds, for which, in the 
beginning, he employed the aid of the 
Jew Hirsch. We have seen that he 
sent him to Dresden to purchase eigh- 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


295 


teen thousand thalers’ worth of bonds, 
and gave him three drafts for that pur- 
pose. 

One of these was drawn upon the 
banker Ephraim. He thus learned of 
Voltaire’s speculation, and, as a cunning 
trafficker, he resolved to turn this knowl- 
edge to his own advantage. He went 
to Voltaire, and proposed to give him 
twenty thousand thalers’ worth of Sax- 
on bonds, and demanded no payment 
for them till Voltaire should receive 
their full value from Dresden. The 
only profit he desired was Voltaire’s 
good word and influence for him with 
the king. 

This was a most profitable invest- 
ment, and the great French writer could 
not resist it. He took the bonds ; prom- 
ised his protection and favor, and im- 
mediately sent to Paris to protest the 
draft he had given the Jew Hirsch. 

Poor Hirsch had already bought the 
bonds in Dresden, and he was now 
placed in the most extreme embarrass- 
ment, not only by the protested drafts, 
but by Voltaire’s refusing to receive the 
bonds and to pay for them. 

Voltaire tried to appease him ; prom- 
ised to repair his loss, and yet further 
to indemnify him. He declared he 
would purchase some of the diamonds 
left in his care by Hirsch, and he really 
did this; he bought three thousand 
thalers’ worth of diamonds and returned 
the rest to Hirsch. A few days after he 
sent to him for a diamond cross and a 
few rings which he proposed to buy. 
Hirsch sent them, and, not hearing fi’om 
either the diamonds or the money, he 
went to Voltaire to get either the one 
or the other. 

Voltaire received him furiously ; de- 
clared that the diamonds which he had 
purchased were false, and in order to 
reimburse himself he had retained the 
others and would never return them ! 
In wild rage he continued to raise his 
doubled fist to heaven in confirmation, I 


or held it under the nose of the poor 
terrified Jew ; and, to crown all, he tore 
from his finger another diamond ring, 
and pushed him from the door. 

And now the Jew indeed was to be 
pitied. He demanded of the courts the 
restoration of his diamonds, and pay- 
ment for the Saxon bonds. 

A wearisome and vexatious process 
was the result. Voltaire’s plots and in- 
trigues involved the case more and 
more, and he brought the judges them- 
selves almost to despair. Voltaire de- 
clared that the Jew had sold him false 
diamonds. The Jew asserted that the 
false diamonds exhibited by Voltaire, 
were not those Voltaire had purchased 
of him, and which the jeweller Keclam 
had valued. No one was present at 
this trade, so there were no witnesses. 
The judges were, therefore, obliged to 
confine themselves to administering the 
oath to Voltaire, as he wmuld not con- 
sent to any compromise. But he re- 
sisted the taking of the oath also. 

“ What ! ” said he, “ I must swear 
upon the Bible ; upon this book written 
in such wretched Latin ! If it were 
Homer or Virgil, I wmuld have nothing 
against it.” 

When the judge assured him, that if 
he refused the oath, they would admin- 
ister it to the Jew, he exclaimed, 
“ ^Vliat ! you will allow the oath of this 
miserable creature, w'ho crucified the 
Saviour, to decide this question?” 

He took the oath at last, and as the 
Jew Ephraim swore at the same time 
that Voltaire had shown him the dia- 
monds, and he had at once declared 
them to be false, the Jew Hirsch lost 
his case, and Voltaire triumphed. He 
wrote the following letter to Algarotti : 

“ If one had listened to my envious 
enemies, they would have heard that I 
was about to lose a great process, and 
that I had defrauded an honest Jewish 
banker. The king, who naturally takes 
the part of the Old Testament, would 


296 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


have looked upon me with disfavor. 
I should have been lost, and Frgron 
would have derisively declared that I 
sickened and died of rage. Instead of 
this, I still live ; and during my last ill- 
ness the king manifested such warm 
and affectionate interest in me, that I 
should be the most ungrateful of 
men, if I do not remain a few months 
longer with him ! I am the only animal 
of my race whom he has ever lodged 
in his castle in Berlin; and when he 
left for Potsdam, and I could not 
follow him, his equipage, cooks, etc., 
etc., remained for my use. He had my 
furniture and other effects removed to a 
beautiful country-seat near Sans-Souci, 
which was, for the time being, mine. 
Besides this, a lodging was reserved 
for me at Potsdam, where I slept a part 
of every week. In short, if I were not 
three hundred leagues away from you, 
whom I love so tenderly, and if I were 
in good health, I would be the happi- 
est of men ! I ask pardon, therefore, 
of my enemies ; these men of small wit ; 
these sly foxes, who cry out because I 
have a pension of twenty thousand 
francs, and they have nothing 1 I wear 
a golden cross on my breast, while they 
have not even a handkerchief in their 
pockets. I wear a great blue cross, set 
round with diamonds, around my neck : 
for this they would strangle me. These 
miserable creatures ought to know that 
t would cheerfully give up the cross, 
the key, the pension; these things 
would cost me no regret, but I am 
bound and attached to this great man, 
who in all things strives to promote my 
welfare.” * 

But this paradise of bliss, so extrav- 
agantly praised by Voltaire, was not 
entirely without clouds, and some fierce 
storms had been necessary to clear the 
atmosphere. 

The king was very angry with Vol- 


taire, and wrote the followmg letter to 
him from Potsdam : 

“ I knew how to maintain peace in 
my house till your arrival ; and I must 
confess to you that, if you continue to 
intrigue and cabal, you will be no long- 
er w^elcome. I prefer kind and gentle 
people, who are not passionate and 
tragic in their daily life. In case you 
should resolve to live as a philosopher, 
I will rejoice to see you I Butif you give 
full sway to your passion and are hot- 
brained with everybody, you will do bet- 
ter to remain in Berlin. Your arrival in 
Potsdam will give me no pleasure.” * 

Only after Voltaire had solemnly 
sworn to preserve the peace, was he 
allowed to return to Potsdam. Keep- 
ing the peace was not, however, in har- 
mony with Voltaire’s character; plot- 
ting was a necessity with him ; he 
could not resist it. 

After he had succeeded in setting 
Arnaud aside and compelling him to 
leave Berlin, he turned his rage and 
sarcasm against the other friends of the 
king. One of them was removed by 
death. This was La Mettrie ; he par- 
took immoderately of a trufile-pie at the 
house of the French ambassador, Lord 
Tyrconnel, and died in consequence of a 
blood-letting which he ordered him- 
self, in opposition to the opinion of his 
physician. He laughingly said, ‘‘ I will 
accustom my indigestion to blood-let- 
ting.” He died at the first experiment. 
His death was in harmony with his 
life and his principles. He dismissed 
the priest rudely who came to him un- 
called, and entreated him to be recon- 
ciled to God. Convulsed by his last 
agonies, he called out, “ O my God ! 
O Jesus Maria ! ” 

“ He repents ! ” cried the delighted 
priest; “he calls upon God and His 
blessed Son.” 

“ No, no, no, father ! ” stammered La 


* Voltaire, CEuvres, p. 422. 


* (Euvrea Posthumes, p. 838. 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


297 


Mattrie, with dying lips; “that was 
only a form of speech.” * 

Voltaire’s envy and jealousy were 
now turned against the Marquis d’Ar- 
gens, who was indeed the dearest Mend 
of the king. At first he tried to preju- 
dice the king against him ; he betrayed 
to him that the marquis had privately 
married the actress Barbe Cochois. 

The king was at the moment very 
angry, but the prayers of Algarotti, 
and the regret of the poor marquis, 
reconciled him at last ; he not only for- 
gave, but he allowed the marquise to 
dwell at Sans-Souci with her husband. 

When Voltaire found that he could 
not deprive the marquise of the king’s 
favor, he resolved to occasion him some 
trouble, and to wound his vanity and 
sensibility. He knew that the marquis 
was an ardent admirer of the French 
writer Jean Baptiste Rousseau. One day 
Voltaire entered the room of the mar- 
quis, and said, in a sad, sympathetic 
tone, that he felt it his duty to unde- 
ceive him as to Jean Baptiste Rousseau, 
to prove to him that his love and re- 
spect for the great writer were returned 
with the blackest ingratitude. He 
had just received from his correspond- 
ent at Paris an epigram which Rous- 
seau had made upon the marquis. It 
was true the epigram was only hand- 
ed about in manuscript, and Rousseau 
swore every one who read it not to be- 
tray him ; he was showing it, howev- 
er, and it was thought it would be 
published. He, Voltaire, had commis- 
sioned his correspondent to do every 
thing in his power to prevent the pub- 
lication of this epigram ; or, if this took 
place, to use every means to excite the 
public, as well as the friends of the 
marquis, against Rousseau, because of 
nis shameful treachery. 

At all events, this epigram, which 
V'cltaire now read aloud to the mar- 


quis, and which described him as the 
Wandering Jew, was as malicious as 
it was mischievous and slanderous. — 
The good marquis was deeply wounded, 
and swore to take a great revenge on 
Rousseau. Voltaire triumphed. 

But, after a few days, he suspected 
that the whole was an artifice of Vol- 
taire. In accordance with his open, 
noble character, he wrote immediately 
to Rousseau, made his complaint, and 
asked if he had written the epigram. 

Rousseau swore that he w^as not the 
author, but he was persuaded that Vol- 
taire had written it ; he had sent some 
copies to Paris, and his friends were 
seeking to spread it abroad.* 

The marquis was on his guard, and 
did not communicate this news to Vol- 
taire. He resolved to escape from these 
assaults and intrigues quietly ; with his 
young wife lie made a journey to 
Paris, and did not return till Voltahe 
had left Berlin forever. 

The most powerful and therefore the 
most abhorred of the enemies against 
whom Voltaire now turned his rage, 
was the president of the Berlin Acad- 
emy, Maupertius. Voltaire could nev- 
er forgive him for daring to shine in 
his presence; for being the president 
of an academy of which he, Voltaire, 
was only a simple member. Above all 
this, the king loved him, and praised 
his extraordinary talent and scholar- 
ship. Voltaire only watched for an op- 
portunity to clutch this dangerous ene- 
my, and the occasion soon presented 
itself. 

Maupertius had just published his 
“ Lettres Philoso'pMques^'' in which it 
must be confessed there were passages 
which justified Voltaire’s assertion that 
Maupertius was at one time insane, and 
was confined for some years in a mi\d- 
hoMse at Montpellier. Maupertius pro- 
posed in these letters that a Latin citj 


♦ Nicolai, p. 20. 


♦ Thl^baolt. 


298 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


should be built, and this majestic and 
beautiful tongue brought to life again. 
He proposed, also, that a hole should 
be dug to the centre of the earth, in 
order to discover its condition and 
quality; also that the brain of Py- 
thagoras should be searched for and 
opened, in order to ascertain the na- 
ture of the soul. 

These ridiculous and fabulous propo- 
sitions Voltaire replied to under the 
name of Dr. Akakia ; he asserted that 
he was only anxious to heal the unhap- 
py Maupertius. This publication was 
written in Voltaire’s sharpest wit and 
his most biting, glittering irony, and 
was calculated to make Maupertius ab- 
surd in the eyes of the whole world. 

The king, to whom Voltaire had 
shown his manuscript, felt this; and 
although he had listened to the “ Aka- 
kia ” with the most lively pleasure, and 
often interrupted the reading by loud 
laughter and applause, he asked Vol- 
taire to destroy the manuscript. He 
was not willing that the man who stood 
at the head of his academy, and whom 
he had once called “the light of sci- 
ence,” should be held up to the laugh- 
ter and mockery of the world. 

“ I ask this sacrifice from you as a 
proof of your friendship for me, and 
your self-control,” said the king, ear- 
nestly. “ I am tired of this everlasting 
disputing and wrangling ; I will have 
peace in my house ; I do not know how 
long we will have peace in the world. 
It seems to me that on the horizon of 
politics heavy clouds are beginning to 
tower up; let us therefore take care 
that our literary horizon is clear and 
peaceable.” 

“ Ah, sire ! ” cried Voltaire, “ when 
you look at me with your great, lumi- 
nous eyes, I feel capable of plucking 
my heart from my breast and casting 
it into the fire for you. How gladly, 
then, will I ofier up these stinging lines 
to a wish of my Solomon 1 ” 


“Will you indeed sacrifice ‘Aka* 
kia ? ’ ” said the king, joyfully. 

“ Look here ! this is my manuscript, 
you know my handwriting, you see 
that the ink is scarcely dry, the work 
just completed. Well, then, see nowr, 
sire, what I make of the ‘ Akakia. ’ ” 
He took the manuscript and cast it into 
the fire before which they were both 
sitting. 

“ What are you doing ? ” cried the 
king, hastily; and, without regarding 
the flames, he stretched out his hand to 
seize the manuscript. 

Voltaire laughed heartily, seized the 
tongs, and pushed it farther into the 
flames. “ Sire, sire, I am the devil, 
and I will not allow my victim to be 
torn from me. My ‘ Akakia ’ was only 
worthy of the low'er regions ; you con- 
demned it, and therefore it must sufier. 
I, the devil, command it to burn.” 

“ But I, the angel of mercy, will re- 
deem the poor ‘Akakia,’ ” cried the 
king, trying to obtain possession of the 
tongs. “ Truly, this ‘ Akakia ’ is too 
lusty and witty a boy to be laid, like 
the Emperor Guatimozin, upon the 
gridiron. It was enough to deny him 
a public exhibition — it was not neces- 
sary to destroy him.” 

“ Sire, I am a poor, weak man ! If I 
kept the living ‘ Akakia ' by my side, 
it would be a poisonous weapon, which 
I would hurl one day surely at the 
head of Maupertius. It is, therefort^, 
better it should live only in my remem- 
brance, and be only an imaginary dag- 
ger, with which I will sometimes tickle 
the haughty lord-president.” 

“ And you have really no copy ? ” in- 
quired the king, whose distrust was 
awakened by Voltaire’s too ready com- 
pliance. “Was this the only manu- 
script of the ‘ Akakia ? 

“ Sire, if you do not believe my word, 
send your servants and let them search 
my room. Here are my keys ; they shall 
bring you every scrap of written paper ; 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


299 


your majesty will then be convinced. I 
entreat you to do this, as you will not 
believe my simple word.” 

The king fixed his eyes steadfastly 
upon Voltaire. “ I believe you. It 
would be unworthy of you to deceive 
me, and unworthy of me to mistrust 
you. I believe you; but I will make 
assurance doubly sure. The ‘ Akakia ’ 
is no longer upon paper, but it is in 
your head, and I fear your head more 
than I do all the paper in the world. 
Promise me, Voltaire, that as long as 
you live with me you will engage in no 
written strifes or controversies — that 
you will not employ your bitter irony 
against the government, or against the 
authors.” 

“ I promise that cheerfully ! ” 

“ Will you do so in writing ? ” 

Voltaire stepped to the table and 
took the pen. “Will your majesty 
dictate ? ” 

The king dictated, while Voltaire 
wrote with a rapid but firm hand : “ I 
promise your majesty that so long as 
you allow me to lodge in your castle, I 
will write against no one, neither 
against the French government nor 
any of the foreign ambassadors, nor the 
celebrated authors. I will constantly 
manifest a proper resj^ect and regard to 
them. I will make no improper use of 
the letters of the king. I will in all 
things bear myself as becomes an histo- 
rian and a scholar, who has the honor 
to be gentleman in waiting to the King 
of Prussia, and to associate with dis- 
tinguished persons.”* 

“ Will you sign this ? ” said the 
king. 

“I will not only sign it,” said Vol- 
taire, “ but I will add something to its 
force. Listen, your majesty. — I will 
strictly obey all your majesty’s com- 
mands, and to do so gives me no 
trouble. I entreat your majesty to be- 


♦ Preua, “ Friedrich der Grosse.” 


lieve that I have never written any 
thing against any government — least 
of all against that under which I was 
born, and which I only left because 
I wished to close my life at the feet 
of your majesty. I am historian of 
Franee. In the discharge of this 
duty, I have written the history of 
Louis the Fourteenth, and the cam- 
paigns of Louis the Fifteenth. My 
voice and my pen were ever consecrated 
to my fatherland, as they are now sub- 
ject to your command. I entreat you to 
look into my literary contest with Mau- 
pertius, and to believe that I give it up 
cheerfully to please you, sire ; and be- 
cause I will in all things submit to your 
will. I will also be obedient to your 
majesty in this. I will enter into no 
literary contest, and I beg you, sire, to 
believe that, in the hour of death, I 
will feel the same reverence and at- 
tachment for you whieh filled my heart 
the day I first appeared at your court. 

“ Voltaire.” 

The king took the paper, and read 
it over, then fixed his eyes steadily 
upon Voltaire’s lowering faee. “ It is 
well ! I thank you,” said Frederick, 
nodding a friendly dismissal to Vol- 
taire. He left the room, and the king 
looked after him long and thought- 
fully. 

“I do not trust him; he was too 
ready to burn the manuscript. He is 
treacherous. And yet, he gave me his 
word of honor.” 

Voltaire returned to his room, and, 
now alone and unobserved, a malicious, 
demoniac exultation was written on his 
face. “ I judged rightly,” said he, with 
agrimace; “the king wished to sacri* 
fice me to Maupertius. I think this 
was a master-stroke. I have truly « 
burned the original manuscript, but a 
copy of it was sent to Leyden eight 
days since. While the king thinks I 
am. such a good humor'^d fool as to 


300 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI; OR, 


yield the contest to the proud beggar 
Maupertius, my ‘ Akakia ’ will be pub- 
lished in Leyden. Soon it will resound 
through the world,* and show how ge- 
nius binds puffed-up folly, which calls 
itself geniality, to the pillory.” 


CHAPTER XIII, 

THE LAST STRUGGLE. 

It was Christmas eve ! The streets 
were white with snow ; crowds of 
people were rushing through the castle 
square, seeking for Christmas trees, 
and little presents for their children. 
There were, however, fewer purchasers 
than usual. The small traders stood 
idle at the doors of the booths, and 
looked discontentedly at the swarms 
of laughing men, who passed by them, 
and rushed onward to the Gens d’Ar- 
men Market. 

A rare spectacle, exhibited for the 
first time during the reign of Freder- 
ick, was to be seen at the market to- 
day. A funeral pyre was erected, and 
the executioner stood near in his red 
livery. What ! — shall the holy evening 
be solemnized by an execution ? Was it 
for this that thousands of curious men 
were rushing onward to the scaffold ? 
that groups of elegant ladies and cava- 
liers were crowded to the open win- 
dows? 

Yes, there was to an execution — a 
bloodless one, which would occasion 
no bodily suffering to the delinquent. 
The eyes of this great mass of people 
were not directed to the scaflbld, but to 
the window of a large house on Tauben 
Street. 

At this open window stood a pale 
old man, with hollow cheeks, and bent, 
infirm form ; but you saw by the proud 
bearing of his head, and his ironical, 


contemptuous smile, that his spirit was 
unconquered. His whole face glowed 
with flaming scorn ; and his great, 
fiery eyes flashed amongst the crowd, 
greeting here and there an acquaint- 
ance. 

This man was Voltaire — Voltaire 
who had come to witness the execution 
of his “Akakia,” which had been pub- 
lished in Leyden, and scattered abroad 
throughout Berlin. Voltaire had bro- 
ken his written and verbal promise, 
his word of honor ; and the king, ex- 
asperated to the utmost by this dishon- 
orable conduct, had determined to pun- 
ish him openly. And now, amidst the 
breathless silence of the crowd, a func- 
tionary of the king read the sentence — 
that sentence w^hich condemned the 
“ Akakia,” that malicious and slander- 
ous publication holding up the noble, 
virtuous, and renowned scholar Mau- 
pertius to the general mockery of 
Paris. 

Voltaire stood calm and smiling at 
the open’ window. He saw the exe- 
cutioner throw great piles of his “ Aka- 
kia ” into the fire. He saw the mad 
flames whbiing up into the heavens, 
and his countenance was clear, and his 
eyes did not lose their lustre. Higher 
and higher flashed the flames ! broader 
and blacker the pillars of smoke ; but 
Voltaire smiled peacefully. Conversa- 
tion and laughter were silenced — the 
crowd looked on breathlessly. 

Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh 
was heard, and a powerful voice cried 
out : “Look at the spirit of Maupertius, 
which is dissolving into smoke ! Oh, 
the thick, black smoke I How much 
wood consumed in vain 1 The ‘ Aka- 
kia ’ is immortal — you burn him here, 
but he still lives, and the whole world 
will know and appreciate him. That 
which is born for immortality can never 
be burned.” * 


• ThUbault, p. 265 


FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. 


301 


So said Voltaire, as he dashed the 
window down, and stepped back in 
the room. ^ 

‘‘Farewell, Herr von Francheville,” 
said he, quietly. “ I thank you for 
having allowed me to be present at my 
execution. You see I have borne it 
well; all do not die who are burnt. 
Farewell, I must go to the castle. I 
have important business there.” 

With youthful agility he entered his 
carriage. The people, who recog- 
nized him, shouted after him joyfully. 
He passed through the crowd with an 
air of triumph, and they greeted him 
with kindly interest. 

The smile disappeared from his face 
when he entered his room at the castle, 
and the scorn and tumult of his heart 
were plainly written on his countenance. 
He seized his portfolio, and drew from 
it the pension patent signed by the 
king ; tore from his neck the blue rib- 
bon, with the great badge surrounded 
with brilliants, and cut the little gold 
key from his court dress, which his 
valet had laid out ready for his toilet. 
Of these things he made a little packet, 
which he sealed up, and wrote upon it 
these lines 

•* Je les ref as avec tendresse. 

Je voxis les rends avec douleur ; 

C’est ainsl qu’un amant, dans son extreme fureur, 
Eend le portrait de sa maitresse.” 

He called his servant and com- 
manded him to take this packet to the 
king. 

Voltaire did not hesitate a moment. 
He felt not the least regret for the 
great pension which he was relinquish- 
ing. He felt that there was no other 
course open to him ; that his honor 
and his pride demanded it. At this 
moment, his expression was noble. He 
was the proud, independent, free man. 
The might of genius reigned supreme, 
and subdued the calculating and the 
pitiful for a brief space. This exalted 


moment soon passed away, and the 
cunning, miserly, calculating old man 
again asserted his rights. Voltaire 're- 
membered that he had not only given 
up orders and titles, but gold^ and meas- 
ureless anguish and raging pain took 
possession of him. He hastened to his 
writing-desk, and, with a trembling 
hand, he wrote a pleading letter to 
the king, in which he begged for 
pardon and grace — for pity in his un- 
happy circumstances and his great 
sorrow. 

The king was merciful. He took 
pity on the old friendship which lay 
in ruins at his feet. He felt for it that 
sort of reverence which a man enter- 
tains for the grave of a lost friend. He 
returned the “ bagatelles ” with a few 
friendly lines to Voltaire, and invited 
him to accompany him to Potsdam. 
Voltaire accepted the invitation, and 
the journals announced that the cele- 
brated French writer had again re- 
ceived his orders, titles, and pen- 
sion, and gone to Potsdam with the 
king. 

But this seeming peace was of short 
duration. Friendship was dead, and 
anger and bitterness had taken the 
place of consideration and love. Vol- 
taire felt the impossibility of remaining 
longer. Impelled by the cold glance, 
the ironical and contemptuous laughter 
of the king, he begged at last for his 
dismissal, which the king did not re- 
fuse him. 

One day, when Frederick was upon 
the parade-ground, surrounded by his 
generals, he was told that Voltaire 
asked permission to be allowed to take 
leave. 

The king turned quietly toward him, 
and observed without visible emotion, 
“Ah, Monsieur Voltaire, you are re- 
solved then to leave us ? ” 

“ Sire, indispensable business and my 
state of health compel me to do so,’ 
said Voltaire. 


302 


BERLIN AND SANS-SOUC. 


The king bowed slightly. “ Mon- 
sieur, I wish you a happy journey.” * 
Then turning to the old Field-Marshal 
Ziethen, he recommenced his conversa- 
tion with him. Voltaire made a pro- 


* Thi6bault, p. 271. 


found bow, and entered the post-chaise 
which was waiting for him. 

So they parted, s^nd their friendship 
was in ashes; and no after-protesta- 
tions could bring it to life. The great 
king and the great poet parted, nevef 
to meet again. 



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